CHAPTER FIVE
One year earlier...
A man with ginger-colored hair and a moustache to match looked up from checking his chronometer for the hundredth time in the last half-hour to see a short Peruvian man making his way through the crowd. As the man passed him, he nodded his head almost imperceptibly.
"Arrgh, he's late," the ginger-haired man growled to himself. He took one last look 'round Pennsylvania Station in New York City. The station had formerly been one of the largest hubs for railroad trains in North America. But over the years, monorails had become the ground transportation of choice, and trains that ran on regular rails phased out until only a scant few remained, mostly for tourists and those who were nostalgic for the old days.
Today's Penn Station looked precisely as it had when the last ground train chugged out more than ten years before. Oh, it was a bit more modern, but it still drew throngs of travelers taking the Long Island Express Monorail out to the landmass east of New York City, or the Amtrak Monorails that departed at all hours for nearly every city in North America.
The ginger-haired man followed the elderly South American native through the station's large center, carefully keeping enough distance so as to thwart anyone who might be watching. They reached a door that looked as though it hadn't been opened in over twenty years. The Peruvian man struggled a bit, but finally pushed it open enough to squeeze through. The ginger-haired man soon followed.
He found himself on a large staircase cut from natural limestone, leading below ground, down many hundreds of feet into the deserted tunnels that used to be home to New York's famous subway trains. Those, too, had phased out in favor of monorails. Now the tunnels stood eerily still, lined with aged and dirty posters that had once advertised the latest movies and Broadway shows.
Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he kept his counterpart in view as they lowered themselves onto the subway track and walked for what seemed like miles and miles. Just when the ginger-haired man thought he was being had, the man in front of him leapt up to a small side ledge with surprising dexterity and disappeared behind a metal door.
Grasping his holstered machine pistol's handle just in case, he climbed up to the ledge and approached the door. He was surprised as he peeked into the room. For it was spacious, larger than he would have expected to find down among these tunnels. And it was filled to the brim with metal tables, upon which sat all manner of rather old scientific equipment for use in experiments: everything from Bunsen burners to Erlenmeyer flasks, from beakers and vials to microscopes and Petrie dishes.
The Peruvian man waited patiently on the other side of the room next to yet another metal table that held two bottles...one full of an almost neon-yellow liquid and its companion equally as full of an amber-colored liquid. The ginger-haired man curled his upper lip in appreciation...but strangely enough, to the Peruvian man, it didn't look like his mouth had moved at all.
"As promised," the elderly man said softly, bowing low.
"And you are certain the outcome will be as discussed."
"Yes. The yellow mixture carries a variation of the virus of the Corginus Machinis plant, a rare species found in only one place in the world. The virus will remain dormant until it enters the bloodstream."
"And once there, it attacks the neurons," the ginger-haired man continued, "slowly driving its victim to insanity."
"Indeed. All who have been given this virus have dishonored themselves by ending their own lives."
A low, evil laughed echoed off the room's concrete walls. "That is so perfect! It is, as they say, poetic justice. And what of the second liquid?"
"Our people have guarded this secret for thousands of years," the Peruvian man replied. "In the days of our ancestors, it was used only after portions of memory had been damaged accidentally, or, in cases of torture, by electro-shock and chemical therapy. The patients who suffered temporary amnesia prior to receiving this potion were affected most brutally."
"Tell me once more how it works. I must envision my triumph in my own mind."
The man bowed again before continuing. "If short-term memory has been damaged or lost, the organisms living within this mixture attach themselves to those portions of the brain which are no longer operating properly. They feed upon memory cells...but only memory. No other functions are impaired. It takes less than one week for the patient to move from short-term amnesia into long-term permanent memory loss. By the sixth day, their condition is irreversible. Their memories are lost to them forever. My ancestors used this potion to enslave their enemies and traitors to the dynasty. It was...most effective."
The menacing laugh rang out again. Even the elderly man got chills. It sounded like pure evil, and he was glad he would not have to see this man again after the completion of this transaction.
"Very well. You have given me the means to destroy my greatest enemies. Here is your payment."
But the Peruvian man saw no briefcase or container of any kind. He looked confusedly at the ginger-haired man. "Where? Where is the payment?"
"Right..." the man replied, digging his fingers into his neck, "...here!"
Before the elderly man knew what was happening, the ginger-haired man had quite literally ripped his face off and flung it across the room. He could only stare as the pleasant face of the buyer gave way to a smooth pate, large black beetle eyebrows and dark, slanted eyes. His appearance gave new meaning to the word sinister.
"What? What is going on? Who are you?"
His voice now thick with an unidentifiable accent, he growled, "You do not need to worry about who I am. You will never have to worry about anything ever again, my friend."
The man stumbled backwards into the corner of the room, where he cowered, trembling like a child. Suddenly the bald man's eyes began to glow. The Peruvian man could not look away from them. They were mesmerizing. He stared and stared, slowly feeling a dark cloud form over his mind, bringing coherent thought to a standstill. He felt his legs and arms grow weak until they no longer supported his body. Sinking to the floor, he swayed for a moment or two before tumbling into darkness.
Smiling most unbecomingly, the man with the glowing eyes pulled his machine pistol from its holster. He leveled the gun at the prone figure in front of him, and without hesitation, fired once, killing the elderly man with a single bullet to the brain.
The dirty work finished, he looked 'round the room until his eyes rested upon an old brown leather satchel. "Perfect," he said, retrieving it quickly. He returned to the metal table and the two bottles of deadly liquid sitting atop it. The evil one began to laugh once more, a low rumble beginning at the base of his torso and bubbling up through his chest like putrid tar until it spewed from his mouth, resulting in a most distasteful sound.
"At last," he spoke with barely contained glee, "at last I will put a stop to you once and for all. You haven't got a prayer, International Rescue!"
Eleven months, three weeks and six days later...
"There you are," he said quietly, peering out the windows of the cockpit. "Right where the ancient maps said you would be."
A small two-person sea plane overflew a lush, tropical island two hundred miles west of the country of Peru. Its pilot, a forty-something man with dark blonde hair and bushy blonde eyebrows grunted as he made a U-turn and flew back over the island once more. Its beaches were pristine white, the water surrounding it clear and blue. Not thirty feet back from where the ocean touched the sand, a dense jungle began. This jungle covered four-fifths of the island, but the man could see small paths that had been cut through the undergrowth.
He could also see clearings here and there throughout the tropical forest. In each of these clearings was a cluster of huts, sometimes as few as three stood together, sometimes as many as eight or nine. He saw dark people running out of them as he zoomed overhead. From his height, they were no larger than ants. He knew they were watching him, but he also knew it did not matter. These were primitive people. They didn't have a communications system to speak of. It was only through diligent research and traveling to the ends of the Earth that the blonde man had even been able to discover its location.
"It is perfect," he grunted. "It has been almost a year to the day, but my tireless efforts shall soon bear fruit. And if what that cripple told me was true, there should be, somewhere on this island, those creatures who will become the vessel for a plague to end all plagues. A plague to end International Rescue!"
The man steered his plane away from the island, heading due east toward the coast of Peru. As he flew, he recalled how 'willing' the man had been to pass along the secrets of Cumbaquay, secrets that had been kept for almost six years. The pilot's eidetic memory recalled every word of what had been relayed in dramatic story-telling style. Even now he could picture the man with coffee-colored skin as he sat in his wheelchair, staring helplessly into mesmerizing golden eyes he could not ignore. Finally, he'd told the blonde man something he claimed he'd never told another living soul.
"Shining like a jewel among the azure waves of the Southern Pacific lies an island untouched by time, untouched by human technology and advancement. It is a small island with a small population of indigenous peoples. This tribe has lived and flourished on the island of Cumbaquay for over a thousand years, since the time of Separation, when the island broke apart from the mainland of South America and slowly drifted away until at last it came to settle in its present location."
"Yes, a beautiful tropical island. The virus is native to this place, so I will never be suspected. It will be known as a world tragedy, but a naturally occurring one...and at last I will be rid of you!"
"Almost forty years ago, a sojourner happened upon this island. But she was met with a most deadly fate. It would be thirty-four years before another soul would lay eyes upon this enchanted place. A small party of four adventurers had set sail from Peru on an old schooner that they had restored themselves. They chanced upon a storm, which tossed their ship hopelessly in the water until at last it crashed upon the shores of Cumbaquay. Two of the men were washed overboard during the storm. The third did not survive the impact. The fourth man survived, but was rendered crippled and sightless in one eye. That survivor was me."
"Ah, yes...and the other passengers," the blonde man chuckled. "They are the ones I seek now."
"I spent six months with these natives, who were most hospitable and friendly. We developed a rudimentary understanding of one another, enough so they were able to convey their remarkable history to me. As time passed, I grew restless for my own people. Even my dog Sascha could not lift my spirits after so long without my family. The dogs of my companions - two Dalmatians, a Labrador Retriever and an Irish Wolfhound - had all survived the storm with me, and they kept Sascha and I company, but it was not enough. I longed for home. In their infinite generosity, several Cumbaquayans were able to create a modest dinghy using palm leaves and other flora that flourished on the island. At my insistence, they launched me into the vast ocean. Three days later, nearly dead, I was plucked from the sea by a passing World Navy ship. I had to leave my beloved Sascha behind with those who had been the companions of my friends...my friends who were long dead. The Cumbaquayans promised they would see our dogs were fed. To this very day, I wonder if they are still alive."
"As do I," he replied to his thoughts as he approached land. "As do I."
One hour later...
The blonde man could barely contain himself as he neared the island of Cumbaquay with his precious, but deadly, cargo. Sophisticated monitoring equipment located within his hideout seven miles inland from the beaches of Peru had picked up five distinctly canine life forms on Cumbaquay. His plan was coming together quite nicely.
He made a perfect landing on the surface of the calm ocean about five miles west of the unsuspecting island. Releasing a small boat from where it had been tied to the bottom of the sea-going plane, the man then hauled two large plastic bags, weighing nearly fifteen pounds each, out of the small cargo hold, dumping them into the boat. He then hopped in himself, started the small motor and sped toward the island.
Once ashore, he carried the bags about ten feet up the beach before ripping them open with a switchblade knife. He arranged the contents into a two-foot long straight line before balling up the used bags and backing away.
Suddenly the man lifted a small silver object to his lips. Taking a deep breath, he blew into the object. It didn't make a sound...at least not one he himself could hear. He stood there for ten full minutes, continually blowing into the object until at last he heard rustling noises. They were coming closer and closer, and finally he heard the sound he'd been hoping to hear.
Barking.
He scurried back to his boat and started the engine, gaining a safe distance between himself and the beach. He watched as five domestic...yet alarmingly thin...dogs came bounding along the beach barking and howling. One who seemed to be the leader, the one the blonde man knew was Sascha, approached what the man had left behind. He sniffed carefully and recognized a scent he had not smelled in a very, very long time.
Raw beef. Pounds and pounds of it. With a delighted yelp, Sascha began ripping into the meat, devouring all he could get his chops around. His four companions broke into a run and were soon joining him in this all-too-rare feast.
The blonde man laughed quietly as headed his small craft for the airplane that floated nearby. "Yes, my canine friends, eat up. Eat well. Enjoy your meal. Enjoy every...last...bite."
Sascha and the other dogs had not been this ecstatic since long before they'd come to be on this island six years ago. There was no beef to be had here...very little meat of any kind, actually. The carnivore in them did not notice that the beef had a slightly odd flavor to it. Even if they had been able to comprehend such things, they would have had no idea that what they were eating had been marinated by the man who had left it there for them. Marinated for two weeks in a liquid the color of neon yellow.
Before the blonde man had even started the engines of his plane, the dogs had finished their surprise meal. Beneath their fur, beneath their skin, beneath sinewy muscle...something slowly stirred to life. Rushing through capillaries, veins and arteries, something awoke from a long, long slumber. Something that hungered for one thing and one thing only. In each dog's mind, a slow transformation had begun.
As they ambled lazily away from the beach into the jungle behind them, the friendly dogs could not have known that merely ten hours later, they would eat again...only this time, their feast would be on human flesh.
Present day...
It took just over a week, but Brains, John and Alan had successfully returned Thunderbird 5 to normal. Her plasma-cored localized field meteor deflector was functioning perfectly, as were the artificial gravity and life support systems. The double walls surrounding the space station had been refilled with coagulant compound that would seal micrometeorite punctures to prevent air leaks. Thunderbird 5 was, once more, fully operational. Alan remained on board for his tour of duty, while John and Brains returned to Earth in Thunderbird 3.
While they had been toiling far out in space, the rest of International Rescue had spent long hours trying desperately to remember the events of the week before. It took Scott several days to come to terms with the fact that he'd attempted to hang himself in the roundhouse.
"I just don't understand, Father," Scott had said as the two relaxed on the patio one evening. "Committing suicide - it's unthinkable! It's so out-of-character for me. For any of us!"
"You're right, Scott. But from what little we know, it seems all of us were acting somewhat out-of-character. Virgil and Gordon said Brains was mad as a hornet, yelling something about me rejecting one of his designs."
"Well, you know, Father, he is a genius. Rejecting his work must feel to Brains like you're rejecting him."
Jeff sighed. "I suppose so. But when it just doesn't fit my vision, I can't see spending millions of dollars to build it."
"I'm sure Brains understands that. And what of that bruise on Gordon's stomach?"
"We still don't know how that happened, but it sure is a nasty one."
"Tin-Tin told me you were tossing and turning in your sleep after they'd given you the sedative. She said you looked very angry."
"Yes, well, it seems anger was one of the effects of this virus. I sure wish Brains were here now investigating the whole thing. It's disconcerting to have no idea what happened."
"I know, Father. We could've compromised International Rescue and not even know it!"
"Now, don't worry, son. Tin-Tin remained unaffected, and she's certain we didn't do anything like that. I'm sure if we had done something to jeopardize our security, it'd be all over the television by now. I would hope that no matter how insane we might have become, that we never would've betrayed our first and foremost loyalty."
"Then again," Scott replied, staring out at the moonlight sparkling upon the ocean, "who would've thought I'd betray my own life?"
Upon their return from Thunderbird 5, Brains immediately sequestered himself in his laboratory, allowing only Tin-Tin to enter when he required assistance, or to bring him meals and coffee. Jeff knew better than to bother his engineer. He knew Brains was desperate to recover the lost hours, recover their memories and determine what had happened, what had almost destroyed them. Hell, they all wanted to know that, but Jeff knew that for a mind like Brains', it was unacceptable not to have all the answers.
Deep within the bowels of Tracy Island, Brains worked non-stop. Occasionally he'd catnap, but for the most part he stayed awake for hours on end. After two days, he'd discovered something alarming...something that made goose bumps break out all over his body and his hair stand on end.
Up in the Lounge, every member of the household was present save Kyrano and Grandma. Tin-Tin and Gordon talked quietly, mostly about news reports surrounding the events on Cumbaquay. She still hadn't told him of his confession, but to her own mind it was moot to do so. It would only embarrass Gordon and make them all uncomfortable.
Scott leaned against the piano listening as Virgil toyed with a new composition. When Virgil wanted to think, he would write music. It always served to bring order and clarity to his thoughts. Equally therapeutic for Scott was listening as his brother's musical aptitude gave birth to sweet new melodies and harmonies. He'd been known to stand at the piano for hours as Virgil brought forth a new creation.
Jeff toiled through paperwork related to one of the many businesses under the Tracy Enterprises umbrella. He found it difficult to concentrate, wishing he were able to do something more than nothing where the virus was concerned. John was seated at his desk with him, helping him review the latest financial indicators. When his eye wasn't glued to a telescope, John enjoyed immersing himself in the business world. Of all the Tracy brothers, he had the best head for following in the public footsteps of his father.
A thunderous sound shook everyone from their quiet pursuits as Brains blasted into the Lounge nearly as fast as Thunderbird 1. He panted from the exertion of having sprinted from his lab and was waving a paper around in the air as he landed in front of Jeff's desk.
"Good heavens, Brains, what's got into you?" Jeff asked.
"I--pant--found--pant--something--pant--you--pant--must--pant--see."
"Well, what is it?"
Brains thrust the paper right down in front of Jeff, jabbing his finger at the diagnostic readout it contained. "There!"
"What am I looking at?"
His breathing finally slowed, allowing Brains to speak with only the usual amount of stammering. His voice still rang with the excitement of discovery and something else...fear, perhaps? "The virus, Mr., uh, Tracy. The virus - it's different. It's different!"
"In what way, Brains?"
By now, everyone had gathered in a semicircle to listen.
"I was working on a sample of the virus from the plant Tin-Tin and I picked up on Cumbaquay. I remembered the sample I had taken from Virgil after he'd already been infected."
"You saw me infected?" Virgil asked.
Brains turned to look at him and blushed. "Y-Yes, I did, Virgil."
"Why didn't you tell me? What did I do? What did I say?"
"I-It's really unimportant now. W-We can, uh, talk about it later." Virgil nodded as Brains turned back to Jeff. "I extracted two active viral cells from the blood sample and, just for curiosity's sake, compared them with viral cells from the Corginus Machinis."
"And?" Jeff barked impatiently.
"They're different!"
"What?" Scott gasped. "Brains, are you sure?"
"Quite, Scott. Quite. The difference is so infinitesimally small that I almost missed it altogether."
"What does that mean, Brains?"
"It means, uh, Tin-Tin, that the virus which infected Virgil is not exactly the same as the virus from the plant."
"Could it have mutated?" Gordon asked.
"I don't believe so. I've had the virus from the plant incubating in a sample of Virgil's blood that Tin-Tin took after we all woke up with no symptoms. Thus far, the virus has not mutated in any way...just multiplied. But I can only keep them alive for a few hours. For some reason, they die after that."
"But it stayed alive in these guys for more than just a few hours," John noted.
"Perhaps it has something to do with what you discovered earlier, Brains," Tin-Tin said thoughtfully. "It seems this virus attacks the neurons. Without whatever nourishment it gains from them, it cannot survive after being activated, even if it is within the bloodstream."
"Exactly," Brains nodded.
"But what about these discrepancies?" Jeff asked, studying the diagnostic. "You're not suggesting Virgil was infected differently than the rest of us?"
"I can't be certain, Mr., uh, Tracy, without having samples of your blood when the virus was in your system. But I can say with certainty that Virgil's virus did not come from Corginus Machinis."
"Then where did it come from?" Virgil asked.
"I must run a few more tests to be certain, but I think it was altered."
"Brains, do you realize what you're saying?" Scott asked incredulously.
The engineer nodded. "Indeed I do, Scott. The virus that infected Virgil was, somehow, genetically altered."
Jeff stared at his reflection in Brains' glasses. "Then you mean those dogs got the virus because..."
Brains removed his horn-rimmed glasses, looking his employer right in the eye. "...because someone gave it to them," he finished.
As if he had not been so before, Brains stepped up his efforts trying to determine the source of the altered virus. Tin-Tin and Scott were by his side constantly, doing everything they could to increase the pace and help him reach his goal.
Their goal.
Jeff most definitely could not concentrate on work now. If everything Brains had said was true, and he had no reason to doubt it was, that meant someone had deliberately made those dogs sick. Eighteen innocent people had died. Four of his five sons, his engineer and he himself had nearly met the same fate. Could it have been a terrible accident? Or was it some madman who had designs on Cumbaquay for some reason?
Or...and this thought made Jeff shudder...was it someone who was trying to kill International Rescue?
A second thought followed this so quickly that Jeff almost didn't catch it. There was one man he knew wanted them gone more than anything. One man who'd been trying to steal their secrets since they'd begun operating. One man who seemed both evil and clever enough to try something of this magnitude.
"The Hood," he breathed.
"What'd you say, Father?"
The sound of John's voice brought Jeff out of his abstraction. "It's the only explanation that makes sense," he said, turning to his fair-haired son.
"What explanation is that?"
"The Hood."
John frowned, trying to fit the pieces together. An altered virus. Sick dogs. Dead people. International Rescue. His brothers become infected. They go insane. Scott tries to kill himself.
Recognition dawned, and John rose to his feet. "You mean he meant for us to die? Every last one of us?"
"It all makes sense. He wouldn't have any way of knowing one of you is always far above the Earth in Thunderbird 5. At least, I don't think he could possibly know that. He would assume we're all in one place together, and that if even one of us contracted the virus, the rest would soon follow."
"And we'd all be driven to madness, finally ending our own lives."
Jeff nodded. "This is serious, son. Deathly serious. I want you to gather everyone here. We need to have a talk."
"Okay, Father." John left in search of the rest of his family.
"Dammit!" Jeff cursed, pounding his fist upon his desk. "This one hit way too close to the mark. And all those people dead. The Hood must be stopped once and for all!"
Later that night...
A nondescript sedan pulled into the parking lot of a factory in Binger, Oklahoma. A large peanut-shaped sign covered with lights rested atop the factory roof, proclaiming it to be the home of Oklahoma Peanuts. At 5,075 square feet, the building was not as large as some factories of the day, but it had stood the test of time. Oklahoma Peanuts had been in operation for well over one hundred years, and though the times had changed, the building housing the successful company had not.
The motor was turned off and for a moment nothing moved. Then the car door opened and a blonde man with bushy blonde eyebrows exited. He looked around and, satisfied he was alone at ten minutes to midnight, pressed a button that popped the car trunk open. He fished around for a few moments before producing a knapsack, which he held carefully with one hand. Closing the trunk lid, he made his way up the front walk to the Main Entrance.
Pete Grayson, the guard on duty at Oklahoma Peanuts that night, had seen the headlights of the car as it entered the parking lot. He didn't think a lot of it, as teenagers were frequent nighttime visitors to this rather remote area. There wasn't much to do in Binger but drink and make out, and Pete figured this car was carrying a load of kids bent on doing just that. He would do what he always did: give them about twenty minutes, then go out and embarrass the hell out of them before asking them to leave the property.
The guard was surprised, then, when he saw a man approaching the large glass double doors at the front of the factory. He was certainly no teenager, but why would anyone be here at this hour? The stranger knocked on the glass, and Pete hefted his considerable body up from his chair, and then ambled over to the door.
"What kin I do ya for, Mister?" Pete asked, keeping the safety of the locked door between them.
"I've had car trouble!" the man explained, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder. "Might I use your vidphone to call for help?"
Pete nodded. The guy looked harmless enough. He certainly didn't look like someone who'd be in on spying for one of Oklahoma Peanuts' competitors. The guard pulled a ring of keys out from his pocket and unlocked the front door, then held it open for his uninvited guest.
"Car just shut down on ya?" he asked as he led the man to the guard station.
"Yes, er, it just shut down, as you say."
"Well, here's the vidphone, go ahead and give it a whirl."
"Thank you very kindly."
"No problem, Mister."
The stranger seated himself in a second chair behind the semicircular guard desk as Pete lowered himself into his own chair.
"You know, I'm not certain I remember the number I need to call," the stranger said, turning to look at the hapless guard.
Pete turned to face him. "Oh, that's no problem. I can get Gary out here with the tow truck for-" He was cut off in mid-sentence as the stranger's eyes began to glow yellow. He'd never seen anything like it. "What the--?"
The man didn't speak. His eyes just kept glowing as Pete's head wobbled, his mind becoming clouded as though a fog were descending over it. He tried to shake it off, but felt his body grow weaker and weaker until at last he slumped forward onto the desk.
"Good," the blonde man said as his fingers dug into his neck. "I will take care of you later. Now, I must find that well of yours."
He turned to a computer monitor as his hand pulled his face right off his head, blonde hair and all. The man revealed beneath was none other than The Hood. He punched a few commands into the computer console before finally finding the factory blueprints. Scanning them, he soon found what he was looking for.
"Ah, there it is. Now to put Plan B into motion."
The Hood rose from his chair, picked up his knapsack and headed for a hall leading to the south side of the building. As his footfalls echoed around him, he laughed maniacally, the sound slowly fading as he entered an elevator at the end of the hall.
The elevator descended one floor to the basement of the old factory. When the doors opened, The Hood stepped out and looked around to get his bearings. "According to the blueprints, the well head should be just over there," he said, pointing to the left.
He made his way west along the wall until he came to a large metal structure that housed the pumping unit for water the factory pulled up from Rush Springs reservoir, a vast underground lake fed by fresh mountain springs at the head of Rush Creek, for which the town itself had been named back in 1889.
The Hood placed his knapsack on the floor, unbuckled it, and opened the flap. He removed a large round object that had a large magnet on one side and several buttons and light indicators on the other. Securing the object to the side of the wellhead, he pressed a few of the buttons, grabbed his bag and fled across the way to hide behind a large water tank.
In twenty seconds, a large explosion blew the wellhead to pieces. The Hood emerged from behind the tank and drew closer, surveying his handiwork. He walked right up to the edge of what was now a deep hole into the Earth, measuring five feet in diameter. "Perfect. Just as I anticipated."
He headed for a Control Panel about ten feet from the wellhead and removed a second object from his bag. This object was flat and rectangular, and he pressed it up against the Control Panel. Depressing a red button, he watched as the object began to click and whir, the panel behind it lighting up like a Christmas tree. At last a green button glowed, and The Hood hit it. With that one small touch, he gained access to all of Oklahoma Peanuts' systems.
It took him no more than ten minutes to shut down the water intake far below the ground. This meant that no water was being pulled into the well from the reservoir. From information he had gathered earlier in the week, The Hood knew the well tank beneath his feet held at least four hundred gallons of water. Just the right amount to suit his purpose.
Removing the last item from his knapsack, he slithered to the open wellhead and stood staring at the amber liquid contained within the bottle he held in his hands.
"Now, my little microscopic friends, you will be unleashed. I have kept you safe for over a year in anticipation of this very moment. Do well by me."
A wicked grin crept onto his face as he unscrewed the lid from the bottle. As he tipped the bottle over the edge of the hole, the grin widened. "Go well, my friends. For in a few hours, you will have the hosts you so desperately crave."
The amber liquid slowly began its journey out of the bottle's mouth. Gravity pulled it down, down, down over eighty feet until The Hood heard it splash into the water below. He began to laugh as he watched the bottle become emptier and emptier until the very last dropped was shaken from its tip.
"Now," he said, putting the bottle back into his bag, "we shall go and get our friend the guard."
Alan listened from his vantage point on the wall as Jeff Tracy explained to a room full of people his theory as to the origination of the entire ordeal that began on Cumbaquay.
When Jeff finished, Scott was the first to speak. "It makes a lot of sense, Father. We know The Hood's been out to get at our secrets from Day One."
"Yeah," Gordon piped up. "But who knew he would actually go so far as to murder us? I mean, if we're all dead, he'd never find our base anyway."
"Well, it is just a theory. But for some reason it's a theory that rings true to me," Jeff replied.
"If that's the case, Father, how do we know that any rescue we go on hasn't been created by this madman in hopes of killing us once we arrive?" Virgil asked.
"We don't," was Jeff's simple reply. "But we can't allow people to die for the sake of our own skins."
"It seems like the only way out of this predicament is to catch that bastard once and for all."
"My thoughts exactly, Scott. We've got to do something, or more people may die, and us right along with them."
"What'd you have in mind, Jeff?" Grandma asked.
"Nothing yet. But we're going to have to take extra precautions on every rescue from here on out." He stopped and frowned, looking around the room. "I was hoping Brains would join us so we could find out if he's come up with anything more on the virus."
"I-I have, in fact," came a voice from the hall. Everyone turned as Brains entered the room, looking decidedly bedraggled and unkempt.
"What have you found out, Brains?" John asked.
"I've been testing, uh, Tin-Tin's theory about why you all showed no symptoms of the virus after having been put to sleep with the sedative we gave you."
"And?" Jeff asked.
"Well, uh, Sir, it seems that Tin-Tin was correct."
"How so?" Alan asked from the wall.
"Since the, uh, since the virus must feed on firing neurons, when the conscious mind ceases to operate, such as happens during our normal sleep cycle, it, uh, it seems to lose its hold on the neurons and, with no food source, dies within minutes."
"But we still have neurons firing even when we're asleep," Tin-Tin challenged. "Why wouldn't the virus just attach itself to those?"
"I, uh, I'm not sure, uh, Tin-Tin. I haven't any viable neurons to use in my experiments. But my computer model suggests that this virus feeds only upon neurons in those parts of the brain which house emotion and rational thought. When you are asleep, you can still feel emotion, say, if you dream, but rational thought processes close down until you wake up."
"So you putting us to sleep was just the antidote we needed to shake this thing."
"It, uh, it would seem so, Scott."
"That still doesn't help us figure out how to find The Hood," Alan said.
"The Hood?" Brains exclaimed.
Jeff quickly filled him in on his theory, and then frowned as Brains retreated down the hall. "Where are you going?"
"T-To do some more research," Brains threw over his shoulder.
"To heck with The Hood, Brains is gonna kill himself without any help at all if he keeps this up."
"You may be right, Virgil, but you know as well as I do that he won't stop. Not until he gives us something that can help us," Jeff replied.
Alan turned away from the monitor and frowned. John noticed.
"What's up, Alan?"
"Hang on, there's an emergency call coming through."
Alan disappeared from view for a few moments. They could hear him speaking, but couldn't discern his words. When at last he reappeared, he looked pale.
"What is it, son?"
"A call for help, Father."
They all exchanged looks with one another. This was the first rescue call they'd received since Cumbaquay. The same thought settled into everyone's minds: could this be the Hood?
"What's the emergency?" Jeff asked.
"Oklahoma Peanuts, a factory located in Binger, Oklahoma, Father. The night guard has gotten stuck down a well. They've tried getting him out with conventional equipment, but apparently he's wedged in pretty tight. They don't have an underwater vehicle small enough to get at him from the reservoir below. They've asked for our assistance."
"Thunderbird 4 could do it," Gordon offered.
Jeff locked eyes with Scott. Although they were both worried, there was no question International Rescue would go.
"Okay, Alan, give Scott the details once he's airborne."
Alan hesitated a moment before replying, "F-A-B."
"All right, then, Virgil, Gordon, get Thunderbirds 2 and 4 up. John, go with 'em."
"F.A.B.!" they replied.
Jeff turned to watch as Scott leaned against the wall and Virgil backed into the rocket picture. He then looked at Gordon and John as they entered Thunderbird 2's passenger elevator.
"And boys?"
"Yes, Father?" they asked in unison.
"For God's sake, be careful."
All nodded solemnly before disappearing from sight.