If I may insert myself for a moment, I will probably go with Clarie's suggested "short and regular" chapters for a time, rather than monsters like the last one. To Tikatu, Darkhelmet, et al., thanks for the comments and inspirations. The feedback provides guidance.

20

WNN: The studio Green Room-

Jake Hall had been multi-tasking, supervising the 'miking' of a local terrorism expert for her appearance on the 'WorldGov: Under Attack!' broadcast, as well as approving a series of economic impact graphics and preparing to divorce his latest wife (a 22-year old, high maintenance, mistake).

Then an intern came pounding through the door, clutching a data board, her corn-rowedmane flying. She was out of breath, having run two floors to reach him, and Jake (in whom hope sprang eternal) was once more in love.

"Mr. Hall..., Sir..., Ray... thought you might... want to see... this. He'll put... it on... if you... okay it, Sir."

Jake gave her his best 'Great White Shark' smile, and sucked in his paunch.

"Call me Jake...," (reading her hang tag) "... Elise."

Taking the data board, he glanced at a video being streamed to their web server from parts unknown. Taylor, with an exclusive, God love her. She was once more, officially, un-fired.

"Yep. Put her on. Have Ride introduce the segment, then put Dr. Kramer on directly after, for commentary... You'll do fine, Doctor. Just make with the scholarly confidence. Nobody understands half of what you people say, anyway. Check the Teleprompters if you run out of material." This last bit over one shoulder, as he headed back to the studio.

"So...," Jake continued casually, glancing at the young intern, "...got plans for dinner?"

Peter Ride was the station's head anchorman. He introduced Cindy, then listened closely to her report, nodding his blond head in all the appropriate places and leaning forward with just the right note of near-authentic interest. Not that she needed much prompting.

"... now been given unprecedented access to International Rescue headquarters," she was saying, evidently from some highly-secret hangar complex. "In an effort to prove themselves innocent of the charges leveled against them, the high brass at International Rescue have agreed to allow a broadcast, and a number of interviews."

Leaning across a tech console, Jake tapped the screen over the cameraman's shoulder, muttering,

"Run a crawl across the bottom of the panel: 'WNN-San Francisco exclusive report: Live from Thunderbirds HQ', with updates on the situation in Spain, sports scores and stock quotes. Don't want anyone switching channels."

Before the camera-tech finished nodding, Jake was upright again, hissing,

"Charles!"

Melinda appeared straightaway, stuffing sound and camera equipment into a big, roomy shoulder bag.

"You rang, Boss?"

The angular tornado of a woman paused in her perpetual rushing to receive instruction.

"Man-on-the-street interviews," he announced. "Think variety and pathos. And take Elise with you. Good experience."

"Gotcha, Jake," Melinda replied, nodding vigorously. And then, in a knowing, friendly manner, "C' mon, Girl. I'll show you how it's done."

Tracy Island:

Brains manned the cameras while Cindy carried on talking (as she'd taken no time to put on the proper make-up, she looked rather washed out against the background of hissing pipes and thudding machinery, but most viewers agreed that the pallor gave her a look of gravity and depth).

"...Looking closely at the digital video, although it was shot from a distance, you can clearly see that the outline of the attacking plane doesn't match Thunderbird 2's," she said.

Someone (John, probably) had provided a split screen animated graphic of each Thunderbird in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 order. Top, side and front views of all the 'Birds were included. Seen against the diagram, the fraud was obvious.

"The motives and identity of these terrorists can only be guessed at, Peter," She went on, quietly blessing John Tracy's matchless skill with computers, "...but their crude methods and publically broadcast threats have left little doubt that what they are not... is International Rescue."

Alan was there. Seemingly oblivious to his recent acute nap, he longed desperately to be interviewed. Cindy was rather dubious, but Brains indicated that he could mask the boy's voice and features, and Alan promised...

"For real! I'll be, like, Joe Square-jaw, the top-gunning-est Thunderbird pilot there is! C' mon, please! Just let me be on TV!"

The station identification break was almost over. Hoping that she wasn't making a giant mistake, Cindy introduced Alan as one of the pilots of Thunderbird 3, and kept her questions basic.

He must have been channeling Scott, because Alan's So-Cal surfer dude accent all but vanished, and he morphed all at once into the sort of clean-cut boy scout/ fighter pilot that mothers everywhere dreamt of. His sheer, 'Aw, shucks, Ma'am,' earnestness had unattached females calling the station for months afterward.

Then TinTin and Gennine went on, the one as a mechanic, the other as a communications officer. They did just as well. Even through all the electronic distortion, the two managed to convey a sincere sense of IR's mission.

...And that was when the calls started coming in, the first one a complete shock.

"One moment, Cindy," Peter Ride interrupted, looking confused, "we have a caller... this isn't a hoax? Okay; Cindy Taylor..., ladies and gentlemen of the viewing audience, it looks like we've got His Royal (what is it...? Majesty? Highness?) His Majestic Highness, King Denys of, um... England. Your Highness, go ahead."

Though just an audio call, the warm, firm voice was instantly recognizable.

"Good afternoon, Peter, or late evening, as I suppose it must be, over there."

"Yes, Sir. It's dark already," Ride enlightened him, adding helpfully, "Time zones."

"Indeed. Dodgy business, altogether. But, the purpose of my call is very simply to reiterate what was stated in the letter I placed some weeks ago in the London Post; that Our land and people owe a debt of the greatest magnitude to the gallant men of International Rescue, two of whom I was privileged to meet and work with. And I mustsay, Peter, that nothing could persuade me that the two young gentlemen who provided such invaluable service to Our kingdom would ever be associated with violence against the World Government. Such contemptible cowardice and masked treason seems rather more the purview of anarchists such as 'Red Path' and the CTA. International Rescue exists to save lives, not destroy them, and seems to have no political agenda whatever. I, for one, firmly believe that this deplorable incident is nothing more than a craven attempt to stir up chaos, by those who fatten on blood, and violence, and fear."

The anchorman blinked. Then, prompted off-camera, he said hurriedly,

"Powerful words, Sir. Thank you for your call. And now... Another one? Boy, howdy; look at that! And this one's from the moon, 20,000 miles away. 24,000? Right. From the International Moon Station, viewers, over 24,000 miles from Earth. Go ahead, caller."

Off screen, Cindy heard a crashing sound. Macy, or one of the other research clerks flinging her data board, no doubt.

It was the Moon Station commander, Phillip Riley, on full video. A little belatedly, text graphics with his name and position appeared on screen.

"Good day to you, Mr. Ride, and to your audience on Earth, as well. Having had abit of bother, here at IMS, I felt compelled to call with a personal insight on the nature of International Rescue." He hesitated, his dark brows lifting slightly.

"May I proceed?"

The WNN news anchor looked off to one side, no doubt saw Jake smiling and rubbing his hands together in ratings-fueled glee, and nodded his head.

"Go on, Captain."

Riley didn't bother correcting his error.

"Thank you, Peter. Approximately one year ago, the last of the Martian supply missions set off from Kennedy Space Center, and almost immediately experienced a dangerous malfunction during orbital reconfiguration. The command module failed to accept guidance data from Houston, or IMS. She couldn't lock on and, in fact, began spinning off into space, with two astronauts aboard. The commander and pilot would most certainly have perished, had not International Rescue intervened to establish an uplink, re-input guidance commands, and tow the craft back to safety. The mission and men were saved, due to the courage and commitment of the Thunderbirds. I must echo His Majesty, Peter, that it is not in the nature of a terrorist organization to preserve life, nor to successfully hide its true purpose for as long as IR has been in operation. What's happened is clear. They've been, as the Yanks would say, 'framed', to cover for something far deeper."

With a final nod, and a polite smile, he added,

"I thank you for the opportunity to speak my piece, Mr. Ride, and bid you, once more, good day."

More calls came in; from a Mexican bus driver, a retired Navy captain, a Senegalese missionary, a former shop clerkat the Starlight Tower, even the chief nuclear engineer at a Persian power plant, and the director of operations at Paris' De Gaulle Airport. The many nations and walks of life touched gave evidence of the Thunderbirds' complete disregard for race, creed, and politics.

As Cindy put it at the end of her segment,

"Without pay, or recognition.., often at terrifying risk to themselves, the Thunderbirds save people like us, when everyone else has given up hope. And folks... Maybe it's time we returned the favor, by extending a little trust, and a helping hand. Thanks, Peter: This is Cindy Taylor, reporting."

Hackenbacker cut off the cameras, and Cindy allowed herself to relax; for a moment, at least. She hadn't noticed Jeff standing in the shadows, and so was utterly unprepared for the sudden, brisk hug.