SIXTEEN

He'd been running forever.

Heart pounding, the sound of his own breathing harsh in his ears, anxiety trying to hack its way out hard and painful past his ribs. Panic blooming, fighting to hold on to it – deaf to the shouts, blind to the grabbing hands and the sea of staring faces. Identical white corridors like wormholes all around him, spiraling into the distance toward other places that were maybe different, maybe the same. He would never know, because the dream never changed, and there was only one place he was headed for.

The door.

He turned the last corner and he saw it then, as he always did. He knew it intimately by now, knew its clean, cold lines, the way the harsh lights reflected off the thick glass window set into its high-gloss surface. And as soon as it was there in front of him his whole body tried to throw itself into reverse, desperate to escape. Shirt sticking to his back, clammy with sweat, icy fingers clawing at his spine – fighting with everything he had to slow down, to stop, to turn away.

He knew, even as he gave it everything he had, that it was useless. Useless to resist the deep, dark undertow that had him in its grip. But he didn't want to go in there. Oh, God, please don't make me go in there…

Cruelty itself, inexorable, dragging him toward that door like a wave taking him under. Everything around him slowing down - adrenaline spiking in his veins, trapping every moment in amber, an insanely clear snapshot in time. The old, faded stains on the floor, the fine cracks in the paint on the walls, the smooth, cool metal of the door as his bloodsoaked hands finally reached up and touched it.

He pushed.

Distorted, garbled shouts behind him, the pounding of running footsteps. He heard someone calling out to him, urgently…but the door was already swinging open with a great rush of displaced air, the lights beyond striking hard and bright at his eyes. Then he was staring, and the pain seized him like a hot wire wrapping round his chest and he couldn't get enough breath into his lungs for the scream that rose up and tore out his throat.

He was already bolt upright by the time his eyes snapped open. Soaked with sweat, fighting for breath, chest feeling like his ribs had caved in…Jesus, is this what a heart attack feels like?

Deep breaths. In, out. Jumbled images from the dream were still overlaid on his retinas like photographic negatives, burning with a cold blue fire. Shuddering, Scott closed his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate on getting his body back under control. It took a long time, but at last the sick wrenching feeling in his stomach began to fade, and he leaned slowly back against the pillow, letting the island's quiet peace wrap around him like a blanket.

He'd never seen so much before, it had never gone on that long. He lay there, fascinated and terrified…knowing without having to be told that whatever was in that room beyond the door was the answer. The psychology was idiot-print – face it, find out what it was, and the nightmares would go away.

But was he really, truly sure he wanted to know…?

The sound of a boat engine penetrated the upper layers of his consciousness briefly, shortly after dawn. But for once, Scott was too exhausted to do much more than stir, roll over, and slip back under.

If I have to shake one more hand, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward said to herself, I'm never going to be able to use my fingers again.

She kept moving through the crowds in the ornate ballroom, the smile locked into place with the grit of long practice. There really wasn't any choice in the matter, after all. Interminable as they could often be, these charity events were vitally necessary in raising money for some very good causes, and it always made Penelope feel better when she could use the position she had been born into to do something that actually meant something. And besides, as in any other walk of life, it really was who you knew that mattered…functions like this were what greased the wheels of the society she moved in, and more than once she'd found the friendships she'd forged in the process to be invaluable in her line of work. Her other line of work, as an agent of International Rescue.

"Having fun, my dear?" Sir Jeremy Hodge appeared at her elbow, as she paused for a moment under a particularly overblown example of pre-Raphaelite portraiture. He was brandishing two glasses of champagne.

She took one of them gratefully, rolling her eyes. "That depends on your definition of fun, Sir Jeremy. Do you enjoy having your eyes poked out with hot coals?"

He laughed. "Oh, come now. It's not that bad."

Penelope fixed him with a look. Sir Jeremy grimaced. "Oh, all right, it is."

"And remember, I have to do everything you do, but in a skirt and high heels."

Sir Jeremy grinned. "And absolutely fetching you are, too," he said.

"Jeremy, you are a brave man."

He chuckled, taking a sip of the champagne.

Penelope turned slightly, sweeping the crowd from under her lashes. "Is he here yet?"

"Due to arrive any moment, from what I understand." Sir Jeremy smiled and nodded to a passing dowager. "Good evening, Duchess. Thank you for your generous gift."

"Oh, you know me, Sir Jeremy, anything for a good cause," the woman replied, her high pitched giggle completely at odds with the stateliness of her proportions. Penelope had a sudden vision of Queen Victoria in a school uniform with a plaid skirt and long gray socks, and she had to turn away to suppress the laughter that bubbled up inside her.

"Oh, quite, Duchess, quite," Sir Jeremy called after the departing woman. He shook his head. "Anything for a little slap and tickle in the rose arbor, she means."

"Jeremy!" Penelope's blue eyes went wide in pretended shock.

"Oh, everyone knows she only comes to these things to have an excuse to meet Lord Sinclair's chauffeur," he sighed. "It's not like anyone really cares. To tell you the truth, I think the men are grateful her attention is…elsewhere, for now. She's a very persuasive woman."

"Well, bully for Lord Sinclair's chauffeur," Penelope grinned, raising her glass in a toast.

They clinked glasses and drank. Then Sir Jeremy stiffened slightly. "Bandit at high noon, my dear."

"You've been up past your bedtime watching those World War II films," Penelope smiled, turning casually in the direction he indicated. "Arthritis medicine not working again?"

"I'll have you know I was quite the Gregory Peck in my youth," he said in mock protest.

"More like quite the David Niven, I think," she grinned. She glanced back at their target, a tall, wide-shouldered man who had just entered the ballroom, flanked by men he would probably introduce as his associates, although everything about them screamed bodyguard to her trained eyes. "All right. Time to go to work."

"F.A.B.," he said, very softly.

She nodded, and moved away.

The first thing he saw when he awoke again was the satellite phone on his bedside table.

Just sitting there, an innocent piece of molded plastic. Mocking him with its closeness, its availability, its convenience. It would be so easy just to pick it up and…

Scott forced his eyes away from the phone, rolling over and staring at the ceiling. He missed her. God, how he missed her. The scent of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the way she felt in his arms. Her laugh.

He sat up slowly, shoving fingers through his tangled hair. Fighting the despair that pooled in the pit of his stomach at the thought that he could never see Tally again. God, he'd really screwed up this time, letting it go as far as it had. Now he had it bad, really bad, and there was absolutely nothing he could see that could be done about it.

Anger washed through him in a hot wave. It had been doing that more and more lately. But there was no time for it, no point. Shoving it down with an effort, he threw aside the covers and headed for the shower. He had to find Virgil and talk to him about the rescue the day before…there were reports to write and his father to placate.

The privileges of rank, he thought to himself, and almost laughed.

By the time he got to the kitchen, the first shift had already been, eaten and gone. Grandma Ruth sat at the table drinking coffee and reading Jeff's "newspaper," an electronically delivered service that he, like some other diehards from a bygone age, still insisted on printing out so that he could see and feel the paper in his hands. Of course, he could afford it. For a large portion of the populace, paper had become far too expensive now for things like newspapers, and every year the book industry made noises about cutting back their first runs even further. Scott was sorry to see that happen…he loved books, and as a kid he had spent many happy rainy and snowy afternoons curled up in one of the big leather chairs in his grandfather's study, reading. Extensive library collections like his father's were slowly becoming a thing of the past, a hobby that took more and more money to pursue and maintain.

"Morning, Grandma." Scott bent to deliver an affectionate peck on the cheek before grabbing a mug and heading for the coffee pot.

"Morning, Scott," she smiled.

He leaned over her shoulder, glancing at the paper. "Anything interesting?"

"It's all wars and scandal and bad news," she pursed her lips disapprovingly. "I don't know why I bother."

He shrugged. "Hey, just so long as we stay out of it, I'm happy."

"International Rescue not make the papers? That'll be the day." She flipped the "newspaper" back to the front page to show him the bold black headline, "International Rescue Saves Day at Akashi Kaikyo Bridge." As usual, the headline was accompanied by a digitally created artist's impression of the scene…the press had long since become accustomed to finding ways to get around their inability to record the men and machines of International Rescue on film.

Normally, he wouldn't be able to help feeling a little pumped at the public acknowledgement of a job well done, a job they did because no one else could. But this morning all it stirred inside him was a vague feeling of melancholy. This morning, all the personal sacrifices he had made along the way were weighing heavily on his heart.

"Well, I don't know, I still think all this secrecy stuff is a downright shame," Ruth was saying with a teasing smile. "I think the world deserves to know how handsome my grandsons are, don't you think, Kyrano?"

"You know, if there are any more like you two back at the base, you should consider doing a calendar."

Scott heard the words as clearly as if Tally had spoken them again right there in the room. He sucked in a quick, painful breath, blinking back the sudden stinging at the back of his eyes. Forced himself to keep moving toward the refrigerator, grimly attempting to banish the vision of her that had appeared in his mind, vivid as a photograph.

"I think perhaps some things are better kept close to home, Mrs. Tracy," Kyrano smiled as he emerged from the walk-in freezer. "Good morning, Mr. Scott. Shall I prepare breakfast for you?"

"Ah…no, thanks, Kyrano...I'm just gonna grab toast and coffee." Scott was surprised at how normal his voice sounded. He kept his back turned as he grabbed bread and dropped it into the toaster, mechanically going through the motions even though the thought of food right now was like the taste of ashes in his mouth.

"Now, Scott, that's not enough breakfast for someone who flew all the way here from New York and then turned right around and did a ten hour rescue," Ruth protested.

"I'll eat later, Grandma, I promise. I'm just not…real hungry right now, that's all."

"Later you could be gone again," Ruth pointed out, shaking her head.

Scott poured coffee into a mug. "I'm not gonna waste away, honest."

Ruth clucked disapprovingly. "You're just as bad as Virgil lately. Can't get that boy to finish a plate, and he always had hollow legs."

Virgil. Scott's mind latched on to the reminder, grateful for something practical to distract his traitorous mind from the memory of Tally's perfume. "Speaking of… I have to talk to him. Has he had breakfast already?"

"We have not seen Mr. Virgil this morning," Kyrano said. "Perhaps he is still in his room."

The toast popped. Scott flipped it on to a plate, scraped on butter, grabbed his coffee and headed out. "Thanks. I'll go check."

He went straight to Virgil's quarters. There was no answer to his knock, so he waited a minute, then balanced the coffee cup on his toast plate and punched in the code with his freed hand.

The door swished obediently aside and he stepped into the rich chocolate, cream and gold textures of his brother's rooms. It was an inviting suite, masculine without being heavy, elegant without being pretentious, and not surprisingly boasting the best sound system on the island. It also had one other fixture found nowhere else in the area.

Back when the villa was in the design stages, Virgil was the only one of the family to put in a request for the living room of his suite to include a visually authentic, if not actually functional fireplace. When Scott laughed and asked him why he wanted, of all things, a fireplace on a tropical island, Virgil answered that he thought it would help him be less homesick for the places he was leaving behind. He turned out to be right, of course…somehow that one room could be the most emotionally soothing of any place on the island, when Scott was troubled and needed just to sit and talk. There was just something about the hypnotic flickering depths of that fireplace that always reached him, even though his mind knew full well that the flames weren't real.

But the fireplace was still and dark this morning, and Scott could tell the minute he came into the suite that the rooms were empty. The only sound was the distant murmur of the waves on the shore, wafting in through the slightly open balcony doors. Scott paused in the entrance to the bedroom, disturbed to see that his brother's bed didn't look like he'd slept there last night.

Oh, Virgil… Scott glanced at the bathroom door, flinching as he remembered what he'd heard while standing there just a few hours ago. He'd made a judgment call…although it had killed him to walk away when he could hear how broken up his brother was, he'd thought it best to leave Virgil alone with at least some of his dignity intact after the double fiasco out there at the Akashi Straits. Let him get a good night's sleep, and it would be easier for them to hash things out between them, like they'd always been able to do.

But from the looks of it, it hadn't been the best call to make. He cursed softly, realizing that Virgil had spent most of the night raking over what had happened, all by himself. Damn, why did I wait? I should have made him listen to me. I should have…

Scott stopped that train of thought, knowing full well how unproductive it was. What was done was done, and he could fix this…problem solving was his forte, after all. He knew three or four places on the island where his brother might have gone to ground, but it would save a lot of time to find him the high-tech way if he could. He raised his left wrist and keyed in the secret code he and Virgil used to signal each other privately.

He jumped in surprise when an answering beeping immediately sounded from behind him. He turned quickly…and frowned.

Virgil's wristcom was sitting on his bedside table.

Damn. Now he was worried. This wasn't like Virgil at all – not wearing his wristcom at all times was a flagrant violation of IR's rules, and for very good reason. Scott scooped up the communicator, slipping it into his pocket. Their father mustn't find out about this at all costs. He was already gunning for Virgil as it was.

Virgil, where are you? He put down the coffee and toast untouched, and left his brother's suite, heading for the elevator that would take him down to the monorail.

The hiss and crackle of arc welders snapped at his ears as he emerged from the monorail onto the concourse above the main hangar. He took the service elevator across from Brains' lab, and was met by the acrid smell of burning mingling with the scents of oil, grease and gasoline as the doors opened to let him out on the hangar floor. Wearing coveralls and protective masks, Brains and Gordon were working on the right rear quarter panel of a red-painted recovery vehicle in the long shadow of Thunderbird Two. "Hey, guys," Scott called. "Seen Virg anywhere?"

Gordon looked around, pushing his mask back to reveal his oil-smudged face. "Not since we got back yesterday," he said.

"Uh, ah, no, Scott," Brains said.

Scott winced a little as he saw the dark bruise on Gordon's cheekbone, blending into the oil stains so well that he could only distinguish it when he got within a couple of feet. "John do that?"

"Uh huh." Gordon grinned. "Not that I blame him. He's got a lot worse than a couple of bruises. Even if one of mine is making me want to do a damn sight more standing than sitting this morning."

"Speaking of pains in the ass, Johnny told me last night that Virg was riding everyone pretty hard the whole time I was gone," Scott said carefully.

Brains cleared his throat, suddenly very busy checking the gauges on his acetylene torch. Gordon opened his mouth to answer, and paused, studying Scott's expression. "No way," he said after a moment. "You're out of the loop, too?"

"Gordo, what are you talking about?"

"Well, excuse me for pointing out the obvious, big bro, but you and Virg are practically hyphenated. Batman and Robin. Captain America and Bucky Barnes. Although now I think about it, Iron Man's a better fit for our Virgil, really."

Off Scott's stare, he continued. "You not knowing what's wrong with him is kind of like one of the signs of the apocalypse."

Ah, but he did know…now. Gordon had called it right, although he didn't realize it. Scott kept the revelation out of his expression, just shaking his head. "Do me a favor, keep an eye out for him, okay? I really need to get to him before Father does, if you know what I mean."

He saw Gordon's eyes light on his wristcom for a moment, saw the faint puckering of skin between his eyes…but his younger brother didn't ask the obvious question. "F.A.B."

"Ah, Scott, since you a-are, here, Mr. Tracy wanted me to, uh, go over the problem with Thunderbird One's i-ignition," Brains said. "He wants a report a-as soon as, uh, possible."

"He's not the only one," Scott said. He hesitated for a moment, torn between needing to troubleshoot this dangerous problem and going to try to find Virgil. But he knew it wasn't really a choice that he could make freely…for one thing, it wasn't worth risking adding another thing to his father's list of potential irritations. Not if he was going to find a way to get Virgil back on to Jeff's good side. "I guess we should get to it," he said to Brains at last, shoulders sagging a little in defeat.

Brains nodded and turned to head toward the monorail. After a moment Scott moved reluctantly to follow him.

"He took one of the boats out."

Scott paused, turning back to look at his younger brother in surprise. He couldn't see the expression in Gordon's eyes past the welding mask that he'd lowered back into place. "What?"

"Early this morning. Just in case you were thinking about looking for him." Without waiting for a response, he fired up the torch and turned back to his task. Scott watched him for a moment, but Gordon didn't volunteer anything else.

"Scott," Brains called. "A-are you, uh, coming?"

"Yeah, be right there," Scott said absently. That settled it…Virgil could be anywhere in this tiny chain of islands by now. It would be impossible to find him without taking to the air. Whatever needed to be said would have to wait until his brother decided to come back home.

He glanced up once at the great green bulk of Thunderbird Two, towering one hundred twenty feet above them on her gleaming silver struts. Then he turned away again and headed toward the monorail to join Brains.

"Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, I presume," her quarry said, raising the back of her proffered hand to his lips. "Qasim al Kahdir, at your service."

"Welcome to England, Mr. Kahdir. I trust you are enjoying your visit so far."

"Indeed, yes, Lady Penelope. Everyone has been most attentive. But then, that is to be expected, wouldn't you say…considering that your aristocracy has a great deal more breeding than financial resources these days."

Startled, Penelope raised her eyes to meet a dark, hooded gaze that reminded her of a bird of prey targeting its next meal. She let the steel show in her voice, just a little. "You're right, of course, . It would seem that we each have something to offer the other, wouldn't it?"

She saw his eyes glitter momentarily as the meaning of her words sank home. Then, unexpectedly, Kahdir smiled – the expression softening the cruel angularity of his features. "Quite so, Lady Penelope, quite so. Ambassador el Ahmadi warned me that you are as formidable as you are beautiful. I see he was not mistaken."

"Ah, dear Abdul," Penelope murmured. "He exaggerates, of course. But he's so charming when he does it that one can't really mind."

Khadir chuckled. "And now, Lady Penelope, I presume that there are some people you would like me to meet?"

Penelope raised her eyebrows. "Why, Mr. Kahdir, I do believe you're a ringer. You've done this before."

"I will not tell if you will not," Kahdir smiled. He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

As Penelope slipped her arm through his and they began to cross the room, her gaze fell briefly on Sir Jeremy, still where she had left him under the pre-Raphaelite painting. He nodded almost imperceptibly and moved away.

'Strewth, Parker thought to himself as his pager vibrated silently in the depths of his pocket. That bloke 'as worse timin' than h'a tap dancer with two left plates o' meat!

He stared gloomily at his cards, the best he'd held all afternoon, and sighed. "Deal me out for a couple of 'ands, gents."

The other chauffeurs sitting around the big square kitchen table looked up as he rose to his feet. "Where're you off to, Nosy?" asked one of them, a youngish man with a blunt, square build and the broken nose of a boxer. "The game's just gettin' good, mate."

"Keep your 'air on, Pete. Just got to take h'a little trip to the khazi." Parker patted his stomach, leaning over conspiratorially to the occupants of the table. "'er Ladyship's 'ad those visitors from the' imalayas, you know,'an Lil h'ain't quite got the 'ang of that goat's meat curry yet."

A chorus of mock-disgusted sounds chased him through the door into the hallway. "Hey, Nosy, light a match this time, will yer?" one of the older men called after him.

"I'll light a match h'under you, you ol' coot," Parker promised with a grin, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was safely out of sight, he turned the other way from the bathroom, heading for the door that led out of the kitchen wing of the stately home. Bearing right in the direction of the stables, he crunched over the gravel driveway and past the valet stand, glancing a little disdainfully down his nose at the two fresh-faced kids in uniform who manned it. Valet parking, he thought. You'd 'ave to shoot me first.

Round the corner behind the stables was the wide paved sweep where the guests' cars were parked. Parker crossed behind the Mercedes, BMWs and Aston Martins to the area reserved for chauffeured vehicles. FAB1, Lady Penelope's six-wheeled, custom built pink Rolls Royce, was parked near the end of the line, right next to a sleek black Mercedes S Class limousine with discreetly tinted windows. Parker sized up the driver, a dark-suited young man of Middle Eastern parentage, smoking an acrid-smelling Turkish cigarette a few feet past the back of the limousine. Part driver, part bodyguard, trained to do whatever it took to get his passenger out of trouble in case of attack on the road. Probably a crack shot, too.

Like swipin' sweets from a nipper. Parker strolled toward the driver's door of FAB 1. "Son, you're in serious danger h'of missin' your dinner, standin' around h'out 'ere. H'if I was you, h'I'd get meself inside and take a load h'off. The gentry'll be a while yet, an' Lord Braithwaite's Annie makes a mean Salisbury steak."

The young man stared at him in total incomprehension. "Excuse me?" he said at last, in heavily accented English.

"You, h'inside, eat," Parker said, gesturing in the general direction of the main house.

The young man's expression cleared as he understood, but he immediately shook his head. "I am sorry…but I must not leave car."

Parker shrugged. "Suit yourself. Take h'it from me, though…you're missin' h'out."

He fished the remote out of his pocket and triggered the door release. As he bent to reach inside the Rolls, he heard a slight snorting sound from behind him. He straightened up slowly and turned, on his dignity. "H'excuse me, do you 'ave a problem, young man?"

The limousine driver was struggling to keep the smile off his face. "Your car…is very…pink…"

"H'it's not my car, h'it's 'er Ladyship's car, and you don't 'ave h'any idea what you're talkin' h'about," Parker responded haughtily. He studied the other man for a moment, then: "Come 'ere, sonny. 'Ave a gander h'at this."

He lifted the remote again and pressed the hood release. He saw interest immediately cross the young man's face. There was only a moment's hesitation before he joined Parker at the front of the Rolls. "Now you tell me h'if that 'ain't a thing h'of beauty," Parker said proudly, inviting him to take a closer look at FAB 1's impressive engine.

The young man leaned forward. By the time he smelled the fine mist that Parker sprayed swiftly into his face, he was already slumping unconscious over the open hood.

Parker caught him as his legs gave out. Shouldering the younger, slighter man's weight easily, he dragged him around to the open driver's door of the Rolls and set him down inside. He rummaged in the driver's pockets and retrieved the keys to the limousine, then grabbed a small black bag from under an access panel behind the Rolls' seat. He checked his watch briefly…five minutes until the knockout spray began to wear off. Piece h'of cake.

Five minutes later, the job done and the bag stowed back in its hiding place, he was back standing by FAB 1's open hood – holding the young man's sleeping form upright beside him. He checked his watch again. Any moment now.

The limousine driver groaned and stirred, mumbling in Arabic. "Whoa, steady h'on there, are you h'okay?" Parker said immediately.

The young man blinked at him, confused and disoriented. "What…is happening…?"

"You almost fainted there, son! Good thing h'I caught you, or you'd 'ave ruined your good Sunday suit."

Weaving, the driver pulled away from him and straightened up. "I do not know…what is wrong with me," he mumbled.

"H'are you sure you can't come h'inside an' sit a spell?" Parker asked solicitously.

The young man shook his head. "Well, tell you what," Parker said, "You go sit in your car for a little bit, and h'I'll 'ave Annie send you h'out a spot of supper."

The driver nodded. "Thank you. I am…most grateful."

Parker smiled as he turned away. "Don't mention it, son. Don't mention it."

"O-okay, uh, Scott, a-again, please."

Scott glanced down toward the island, just a tiny patch of emerald green from this height, surrounded by the endless turquoise of the South Seas. "F.A.B., Brains…here I come."

He killed the main engines, took a deep breath and terminated the VTOL jets. Thunderbird One dropped like a one hundred forty ton stone, wallowing slightly in the air as the heavier weight of her boosters dragged her tail down faster than her nose. Scott kept his eyes on his instruments, counting it off, breathing through the discomfort of the climbing g-forces as his ship plummeted like an ungainly duck toward the water.

At ten he hit the ignition. The silver rocket plane's boosters roared back to life, delivering a reassuringly powerful kick to the small of his back. Leaping forward under full power, she was instantly transformed once more into the swan he knew and loved. Scott let out his breath again. "Right on the money, Brains," he said, ignoring the pinpricks of sweat that had broken out across his forehead. "That's nine in a row."

"Ah, yes, uh, Scott, it would seem that we, ah, have solved the problem."

Scott smiled – he knew that tone of voice. "But you want one more just in case, right?"

Brains had the good grace to sound sheepish. "Uh, yes, please. I-if you would."

"F.A.B." What the hell, it was a beautiful day for it, and he'd much rather be out here doing this than cooped up in his office slogging through mission reports and maintenance records. And flying had the added benefit of keeping his mind off…other things…things that were eating at him, things he really didn't want to think about right now – things he still didn't have the slightest idea how to even begin dealing with.

She even loved the sky like he did. He stared out unseeingly at the horizon, his mind suddenly filled with the sight of her laughing and shrieking with delight as he made the Dragonfly dance just for her…

No.

Harshly, he forced his mind away from those thoughts and back to the matter at hand. The late afternoon sun flashed off his left wing as his Thunderbird wheeled to the west. He was about to take her up again to the preset drop altitude, when an alarm began to sound. He glanced down at the warning light spattering at his eyes, and checked the display. There was a telltale blip on his radar scope. "Base from Thunderbird One, do you read sea traffic in the area, over?"

"Affirmative, Scott." John's voice came back from launch control, where he and Brains were supervising the ignition experiments. "Don't sweat it…she's one of ours."

Relief washed over Scott. "One of ours" meant the boat's transponder was broadcasting their encoded "safe" signal, and with only one vehicle unaccounted for, that meant it had to be Virgil. "F.A.B., John.," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "I'm going to check it out anyway – be back in a flash.""

Before anyone could say anything, he flipped his 'bird over in a loop and took her in a long shallow dive toward the water.

It only took him thirty seconds to spot the frothy wake of the boat, just clearing the leading edge of one of the tiny outcroppings of rock beyond the nearby island of Moyla. Virgil hadn't gone to Mateo, then, as Scott had thought was most likely. Mateo, a much smaller, but closer-by island shaped like a crescent moon, also belonged to the Tracy family, and basically functioned as International Rescue's storehouse and emergency shelter in case anything happened to Tracy Island itself. All supplies were delivered there, to minimize traffic to Tracy Island, and then brought over to the main island as needed. Mateo had a safe harbor and a lovely sweep of sandy beach on the eastern side, and was a favorite getaway for those inevitable times when Tracy Island just seemed like it was suffering from an overabundance of family.

Judging by the trajectory of the speedboat's wake, Virgil had probably gone quite a distance that day, further even than the small necklace of islands beyond Moyla, a bigger, populated island further to the south east. Scott realized suddenly that this really wasn't so different from what Virgil had done a handful of times as a teenager when the pressure got too much and he needed time alone to sort out his feelings…only back then it was his truck he had taken off in. Around here, of course, that wasn't a viable option…what roads there were, went nowhere very fast.

Scott glanced at the radio, tempted for a minute to signal his brother, but he decided against it. The channel wasn't secure, and in any case he wanted to have their talk face to face – no matter how painful that might turn out to be. He contemplated the situation for a moment…then a tight smile spread across his face. There was one thing he could do that would mean volumes to Virgil, and show him without a single word spoken that he needn't worry, he would always have his elder brother's support.

He banked Thunderbird One wide to the left, bringing her around in a lazy arc until he was directly behind the speedboat. Then he aimed her at the drink and opened up the throttles.

He took her in low and fast, keeping her barely high enough above the waves to avoid swamping the open back of the boat. The sun flashed blindingly off the rocket plane's silver fuselage, the booming roar of her insanely powerful engines scattering the sea birds on Moyla's volcanic cliffs. As the boat shot by below him in a blur of blue and white paint and creamy wake, Scott flipped his Thunderbird into a fast right aileron roll, leveled her out and immediately flipped her into an identical roll to the left. It had been his old signal to Virgil when he was first learning to fly and he knew his younger brother was down on the ground watching. A message specifically for him that said, having a great time, wish you were here… Today it simply meant, don't sweat it, we're cool – and he knew without having to hear the words that Virgil would understand perfectly.

Feeling a little better that at least he'd done something to alleviate the tension, Scott left the speedboat far behind and pointed Thunderbird One's red nose cone toward open sky. Time to play elevator again. "Base from Thunderbird One…climbing to test altitude."

"F.A.B., Thunderbird One. Waiting for your mark."

"F.A.B."

To Be Continued...