Ned Cook sighed. Ever since the events of a few weeks ago, his bosses at NTBS had been treating him, and his cameraman Joe, with kid gloves. His frequent requests to be allowed to work on top news stories had been repeatedly denied.
"Take it easy, Ned," they'd say. "You had a nasty experience and we want to be sure that you are fully recovered. We don't want to risk losing our top news team again."
That's what Ned found so galling. He and Joe WERE a top news team. They had the ability to sniff out stories where other journalists would have said there was nothing. Sure sometimes it meant taking risks… the odd gamble or two… but more often enough it had paid off.
For some reason Ned was reminded of one time when his gamble hadn't paid off. Originally he'd been lucky and had been filming a totally unrelated story, when a nearby oil field had caught fire. This was big news. His luck appeared to have been magnified when they'd learnt that International Rescue had been called in to extinguish the fire and avert an even greater disaster.
Ned remembered looking at the two Thunderbird craft and wishing that he could get an interview with one of their pilots. That would have been the scoop of the century, and would have earned him international fame, journalistic notoriety, and numerous free drinks at the press club.
Ned realised now that he should have known better, that he should have respected International Rescue's requests for secrecy, but at the time he'd found that he couldn't take it any longer. He was close to the biggest story of his career and he wasn't about to let it fly away into the unknown.
With Joe filming on top of the van, he'd positioned the vehicle so that they had a clear tracking shot of Thunderbird One taking off. Ned remembered how he'd just been congratulating himself when Thunderbird One had landed again and the pilot had asked them, quite politely, to destroy the newly exposed film.
This demand, even one put so nicely, had made Ned's blood boil. What right had these people to impinge their demands on journalistic freedom? The world wanted to know about International Rescue and if Ned Cook had his way the world would find out!
He'd denied the man from International Rescue's request.
Ned remembered the thrill of the chase as he'd taken off, cross-country with Joe clinging to the roof of the van, pleading with him to stop. Many times since, Ned had felt guilty about the way he endangered Joe's life that day, but at the time he'd only felt the adrenaline rush of someone who'd done something a little naughty and got away with it.
But he hadn't got away with it. Thunderbird One had tracked him down and somehow, Joe still didn't understand how, had destroyed all the film they had, even the legitimate footage of the oil fire.
The events of that day could have soured International Rescue's attitude towards him and Joe, but they hadn't. A few days later Ned and Joe had been assigned to cover the moving of the Empire State Building from the site it had occupied for over 130 years, to a new one to make way for urban development.
The press releases the NTBS crew had been issued with had stated that every eventuality had been covered, that nothing could go wrong, and that they were going to witness one of the greatest news stories ever.
Well, not every eventuality had been covered, something went wrong – very wrong – and rather than reporting on one of the greatest news stories ever, Ned and Joe became the news story.
Being drowned in a formerly unknown underground river, beneath the ruins of the Empire State Building was not the way Ned Cook had envisaged his life ending. He was still amazed that despite the earlier events, International Rescue had been willing to try to save them both from certain death.
For a while there though, he did wonder if they ever would come to his rescue. For some reason it had taken 24 hours for Thunderbird Four to reach New York and then effect a rescue, succeeding just before their oxygen had run out. Ned wondered briefly why it had taken so long for International Rescue to reach them... He'd heard rumours that could have explained it, but nothing concrete…
Ned looked at Joe and Jasmine, the researcher assigned to their current project, bent over the computer keyboard, punching in the names of various sports-people and trying to find footage that the pubic would find interesting.
"It's Olympic Year," the producer had said. "People like to see what their heroes, and the villains, of past Olympics are doing now."
"Sports?" Ned had said. "You want ME to do a sports story?"
"Not just any sports story," the producer had enthused. "A whole series on the greatest sports event of all! The Olympics!"
"But… But… I don't do sports stories! I never have!" Ned had spluttered.
"Don't think of it as a sports story. Think of it as a researching challenge. It's right up your street. You're just the man to track down these athletes. Some of them appear to have vanished into thin air."
"But why me? Why not some sports journalist who has the contacts? I'm a newshound, not a sports buff."
"And you're also this news office's biggest asset. We don't want to over-stretch you and Joe. We need to know that when the big news story comes along you both are fit and ready to tackle it."
"But we are ready. We're fine! We…!"
"Ned!" The producer had said. And the expression on his face had told Ned that the subject was closed.
He was going to be researching and fronting a series on the athletes of past Olympic Games.
Oh, goodie.
"Who have we got now?" he asked Jasmine, with evident lack of interest.
"Let's see…" Jasmine ran her eyes down the list of notes and then keyed a code into the computer. "Gordon Tracy…"
"And what did he do that was so fantastic?"
"He was one of the youngest Americans to win a breaststroke gold medal," Joe read.
"Fascinating," Ned said in a flat tone.
"He came from Kansas originally."
"Well known for its swimmers," Ned couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
The video screen showed a shot of a teenager with a shock of wet, red hair, standing proudly on the top of the dais, gold medal around his neck and American Flag in his hand.
"So what's he doing now?" Ned asked.
Joe consulted his notes again. "Says here he works for his father."
"Helps run the general store does he? Or does he drive the tractor on the farm?"
Joe looked at his colleague and friend. "You haven't read any of this, have you?"
"A bunch of jocks all trying to see who can pump the most drugs into their bodies so they can beat other jocks and the drugs squads. What is there to read?"
"So you don't know who this Gordon Tracy is?"
"No. Should I?"
Joe chuckled, as Jasmine laughed outright. "He's Jeff Tracy's son."
Ned stared at Joe. "Jeff Tracy?"
"Yep."
"Multi-billionaire Jeff Tracy?"
"Yep."
"Mr 'I've got more money than most small nations' Jeff Tracy?"
"So you've heard of him," Joe chuckled again. "It's another reason why young Tracy captured the public's imagination. Jeff Tracy was a hero in his own right, in his time…"
"Tracy senior was an astronaut wasn't he?" Ned asked.
"That's right. If I remember rightly he requested that his name not be linked with his son's, so that any achievement young Gordon made would not be overshadowed by his old man's. It didn't work, of course. The public were fascinated by the son of the astronaut even before he'd won his medal."
"Knowing Tracy's desire for privacy now, that must have been annoying for him."
"I believe so," Joe agreed.
Ned suddenly got that old feeling that told him when he was on the verge of breaking a big news story. He didn't know what it was that would give him that feeling, but he'd had it often enough to not ignore it. "So this guy was one of youngest to get gold?"
"That's right," Jasmine confirmed, bringing up more data on the computer.
"What's the betting his Dad used his business contacts to get him some drugs that, at the time, were unable to be detected by the drug testers? Just that little something extra to buy sonny boy the gold."
Joe looked at his partner and laughed. "You've got your 'I'm onto something' expression, Ned. But you're barking up the wrong tree. There's no way Tracy would allow any of his sons to be involved with drugs. He sponsors numerous drug-fighting campaigns. Heck! It's rumoured that it's one of his foundations that are supplying the funds to stamp out the drug cheats at this Olympics!"
But Ned wasn't about to have his idea totally rejected. "Maybe it's guilt!"
"Guilt?" Jasmine asked.
"We all know what a goody two shoes Tracy is. Maybe Gordon getting his gold is the one indiscretion he's had in his lifetime, and he's trying to buy off his feelings of guilt!"
Joe shook his head. "I don't buy it."
"Well mark my words, there's something fishy about the Tracys. I can feel it. How old would Gordon be now?"
"Early twenties?"
"Right, let's find a more recent photo of him. I'm betting he'll look older than that because of the drugs."
But Jasmine was shaking her head. "I've been looking for a more up-to-date photo, but there's nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," Jasmine said again. "Gordon Tracy was involved in a hydrofoil speedboat accident a few years later – he was a member of WASP – and although it was widely reported, there's no photos of him. I don't care where you look, and believe me I've been trying since we got this assignment, you'll not find a single recent photo of any of Jeff Tracy's sons."
"How many sons does he have?"
"Five."
"Five sons? And you can't find any photos? Come on, Jasmine. There must be something somewhere. There must be one of one of them coming drunk out of a night club, at some soiree pashing the host's daughter… or the host's son… a mug shot for speeding…"
"Sorry to disappoint you, Ned, but there's nothing. Those guys are so clean I think Tracy must have coated them in Teflon at birth. There even seems to have been some kind of embargo on photos of the youngest…"
"Huh?" Ned stared at the researcher.
"He was a race car driver of some sort. Formula One? Stock Car? I don't know, but I do know that he was good. And I also know that you'll find photos of his car, you'll find photos of him racing in his car, you'll find photos of him wearing a full face helmet, but I'll give you 1000 dollars if you can find a photo of Alan Tracy's face. There's none to be found. I've asked about and apparently a few years ago Tracy senior pulled some strings and got every photo of his sons out of the public domain."
"Every photo?" Ned asked, aghast.
Jasmine nodded. "Every photo."
"I can't believe that. It's impossible…" Ned frowned at the frozen frame of Gordon on the dais. "You know, I'd swear I've seen that guy somewhere…"
"Probably on TV when he got his medal," Joe suggested.
"No… More recently than that," Ned said thoughtfully. "I'm talking within the last few months, not the last few years…" his frown deepened. "I'm sick of looking at that still. There must be an interview with him we can watch."
"There is," Joe said, "but it's still in the old 'Gratin' format. None of our machines can read it. We're going to have to get it copied over to 'Machin' format before we'll be able to view it."
"Ah, the joys of modern technology. Arrange it will you, Jasmine?"
"Sure," the researcher made a note.
Ned was still puzzling over the photo of the triumphant Gordon Tracy. "This is starting to annoy me. I know I've met him… I just wish I could remember where! I've got a feeling that if I knew where it would lead to a story a lot more interesting than the one we've been told to do."
"It might be," Joe said, "but the bosses won't go for it. You and I are supposed to be on 'light duties.' Making a cute and fluffy series about some people who had their 15 minutes of fame and now have been forgotten by all and sundry."
Ned looked at Joe. "You sound as excited by this assignment as I feel."
"Probably less so," Joe admitted. "It's not very challenging filming you interviewing someone. But it's our job, and I figure once we've got through this assignment, they'll feel they've done their bit to mollycoddle us and get us back where we belong."
"So you think we should make this a good show?"
"I think we should make this a very good show, and make the powers that be realise that you and I aren't ready for the scrap heap yet." Joe gave a sly smile. "And if we happen to find something newsworthy on the way…"
Ned chuckled, his spirits revived somewhat. "So… Young Gordon works for his old man, does he? Doing what I wonder? You know, Joe, there may be something to discover in this dead end series yet…"
"Dad." Gordon Tracy stood in front of his father's desk. "We need your help."
Jeff laid down his pen. "Is the tail section giving you problems?"
"No. We can handle Thunderbird Two okay. It's Virgil. He's wearing himself out. I've given up on trying to talk sense into him. Scott's talking to him now, but I think we need to call out the big guns."
Jeff sighed. "He's a menace to himself. I knew I should have confined him to the house for a few days longer."
"Yeah, well, you know Virgil. Where Thunderbird Two's concerned…"
"I know, Gordon. Thanks for telling me…"
Jeff, closely followed by Gordon, stepped into Thunderbird Two's hangar and stopped for a moment to appreciate the work that had been done on the mighty plane. Apart from the tail section, the parts for which had arrived only two days ago, she was almost back to her former glory. "You boys have done well," he complimented.
"Aided by a Fairy Godfather," Gordon grinned.
Jeff refrained from commenting. As they entered Thunderbird Two he reflected that it wasn't only Virgil who'd been overdoing it lately. While his middle son had been recovering from the crash that had almost destroyed his beloved plane, the other boys had worked like demons to bring her back to a useable condition. Over the last couple of weeks, each night at least one of them had skipped his evening meal and had headed straight for bed. Jeff knew that this dedication was the result of not only a desire to get International Rescue fully operational again, but to spare their brother the pain of seeing his 'bird as a wreck.
Jeff had to admit that he'd been just as bad. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd returned to the hangar after everyone else had gone to bed to finish that 'one little job that will only take five minutes'. Several hours later he'd retire himself and next morning there'd be invariably some comment from one of his sons about the fairies that would sneak out at night. He knew that they knew precisely who that fairy was. 'I'm not sure I like that association,' he thought ruefully as they took the lift up to the flight deck.
While Virgil had been recuperating he'd taken the opportunity to redesign the pilot's cabin, filling notebooks with sketches, improvements and ideas. Because of this his brothers, apart from stripping the cabin of its damaged fittings had barely touched it. They'd left Virgil and Brains with almost a clean slate to work with. Now that he was nearly fully recovered Virgil had been pestering his father to let him get started transforming his ideas into reality. Today was the first day that Jeff had weakened and let his son get back to work.
Jeff and Gordon stopped outside the door to the pilot's cabin. They could clearly hear Scott's strong voice gently cajoling his brother. "Come on, Virg. You've done enough for one day. Leave it for now."
"I can't leave it, Scott. I've nearly finished." Gordon was right. Virgil was sounding tired.
"You're practically dead on your feet!"
"I'm all right!" Virgil said testily.
"How long is that going to take?"
"I would have had it finished by now if you and Gordon hadn't interrupted me."
Gordon rolled his eyes at his father.
"How long, Virg?" Scott's voice persisted.
Jeff thought he heard a sigh from Virgil. "Half an hour? Three quarters max."
Jeff had heard enough. He slid open the door and stepped through. "Boys?" He thought he saw relief appear on Scott's face and resignation on Virgil's one. "What are you doing?"
Scott looked pointedly at Virgil.
"I'm just trying to finish this," Virgil held up some wires. "Then we can test the engines."
"He's doing the ignition system wiring," Scott explained before turning back to his brother. "Look, Virgil, even if you do finish this there's no way Thunderbird Two's going to fly until we get the tail section finished. You may as well take a break for the evening. Look at you, you've had it!"
"But…" Virgil started to protest.
"He's right, Virgil," Jeff said. "I'm sorry, but until I'm convinced that Thunderbird Two is airworthy there's no way that I'm going to let her take to the skies… and that goes for her pilot too."
Virgil sadly placed his bits of wire onto what was being transformed into the pilot's console.
Jeff looked about him. "You're doing good work," he commented trying to ease the blow.
"If I could just finish…"
Scott groaned.
"Virgil," Gordon said, "if you're not going to think about your health then at least think of the rest of us."
Virgil looked at his brother, trying to work out where he was coming from.
Gordon continued on. "If you don't take a break Grandma is going to start nagging you and telling you that you should have a rest…" He raised his voice to mimic his grandmother's. "Look at you, Virgil Tracy! You're looking pale." To complete the imitation he pinched his brother's cheeks.
Virgil knocked his hands away.
"Then she'll tell Dad off for not looking after you. So he'll start ordering you away from Thunderbird Two…"
Jeff tried to hide a smile.
"And then," Gordon continued on, "you'll go complaining to Scott about how they're both picking on you…"
"True," Scott agreed.
"And then Scott'll get sick of listening to you and he'll get into one of his moods…"
Scott frowned at his brother, but bit his tongue.
"…And make Alan's and my lives miserable." Gordon finished. "So to save everyone the aggravation why don't you pack it in now and go have a lie down somewhere?"
"But I've done nothing but lie down these last few weeks! Including while you were trying to reach those guys under the Empire State Building! I'm fine! I don't need to lie down!"
"Gordon's right," Scott backed his younger brother up. "If you're not going to think about yourself, then think of the rest of us!"
"Please," Gordon begged.
Virgil shook his head wryly. "I must be tired, because I think that actually makes some kind of sense. Okay… I'll leave it for now."
Gordon winked at his father.
Virgil looked around at his cabin. "How bad did it look before you cleaned up?"
"Pretty bad," Scott admitted. "But not as bad as the sight of you lying there unconscious with the cabin on fire. You had me worried for a bit there."
"Me too," Gordon agreed. "Don't ever frighten us like that again."
"Well, tell the Captain of the Sentinel to keep his finger off the firing button next time," Virgil told them. "I didn't appreciate being used for target practise."
They exited Thunderbird Two and stopped when they saw Alan walking across the hangar floor. "I thought I might find you guys here."
"Why?" Jeff asked. "What's the problem?"
"I've been talking to Brains and he says there's a category five cyclone heading our way. He estimates that if it continues on its present path we'll start to feel its presence in about three days time."
"Three days!" Virgil exclaimed.
"Category five!" Scott said. "That's pretty bad."
"I don't think you can get much worse," Gordon noted.
"Yeah," Alan agreed. "Brains was flicking through a database of other category Five cyclones that have hit this area. He found one called Cyclone Tracy."
"Cyclone Tracy?" Virgil repeated.
"Uh, huh. Apparently it killed 60 people and devastated Darwin in Northern Australia, in nineteen hundred and something or other. I told him that I didn't like the name association." He paused. "D'ya think we'll get Thunderbird Two finished before it hits? We'll want to get at least one test flight under our belt."
Scott sensed, rather than saw, Virgil turn back to his plane. He quickly clamped a hand on his brother's shoulder and prevented him from moving further.
Jeff saw the arrested movement. "I think we'll get Thunderbird Two finished in time," he said. "And we've got to remember that more times than not we have these alerts only to have them downgraded to a tropical storm."
"So we're not doing anything else on Thunderbird Two today?" Gordon asked.
Jeff shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "We've all been working hard and we need a break. We're all tired, and tired men make mistakes. And that could be more disastrous than not finishing before the cyclone hits."
"But what if we get a call out because of the cyclone?" Virgil protested. "There's any number of islands that could need International Rescue's help at any moment!"
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Jeff said. "In the meantime I'm sure your grandmother is wondering where we all are. Dinner must be nearly ready. Come on, Boys."
Scott laid a companionable, but firm, arm across Virgil's shoulders and led him away from Thunderbird Two. He couldn't help but notice that his brother wasn't looking happy at being dragged away from what he considered to be urgent work. He also noticed that Virgil didn't look back at his plane. It was almost as if his brother was scared to see his craft in less than perfect condition.
When they reached the edge of the hangar Scott stopped and turned back. "She's looking good," he noted. "From this angle you wouldn't even know that anything had been wrong with her."
"Yeah," Gordon agreed as he looked back at the great green transporter. "You can't even see that missing bit of tail section, and we'll have that replaced tomorrow, no sweat."
"I reckon we'll have it finished by afternoon tea," Alan added. "Then we'll give her a quick coat of paint. Day after tomorrow we'll have her airborne."
Virgil looked at his brothers and appeared to steel himself. Slowly he turned, looking for the first time, since the accident, at his pride and joy. A smile spread across his face. "You're right. She does look good." He looked at his family in gratitude. "Thanks, Guys."
"Any time, but don't make it too often," Gordon said.
"Another thing I was going to remind you," Alan informed them. "Brains is going to test the fire alarms soon..." He'd no sooner finished saying the words when there was a screech followed by a blip.
"Thunderbird One's hangar's alarm is working," Scott remarked.
There was another screech followed by two blips. Gordon looked around Two's hangar. "I can't see any smoke."
A third screech was followed by three blips. "Three's launch bay," Alan said.
The fourth screech was followed by five blips. Gordon shuddered. "I hope we never get to hear that one for real. I often wonder if we'd reach Five in time to do something if it developed a fire."
The next screech had a different pattern and tone. "The Round House," Jeff noted.
The noises continued on, checking that the alarms for the various rooms in the Tracy Villa and other parts of the complex were all operational. At last there was silence.
"Thank heavens that's over," Jeff said rubbing his ears. "They all seem to be working."
Gordon looked at his watch. "I wonder if I've got time for a practise before dinner."
"Are you hoping to win another gold?" Alan asked facetiously. "I think you're a bit old now. Those young kids would swim right over you."
"Never!" Gordon protested. "I'd wipe the floor with each and every one of them."
"Maybe the floor, but they'd beat you in the pool," Alan rejoined.
They were still bickering during the monocar trip back up to the main house and when they stepped through the concealed doors into the lounge of the Tracy villa.
"Have you checked out Polinko's times?" Gordon asked his younger brother. "He's supposed to be the fastest in the world, but I can do quicker laps in our pool…"
"What do you expect? Our pool isn't an Olympic pool…"
Grandma Tracy was waiting for them. "Ah, there you are. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes." She looked at her middle grandson and frowned. "Look at you, Virgil Tracy! You've been working too hard. You're looking…"
"…Pale. I know." Virgil grabbed the hands that were about pinch his cheeks and gave his grandmother a fond kiss. "Don't worry. I'm going to grab a shower and get ready for dinner. And the most strenuous thing I intend to lift this evening is the lid of the piano."
She smiled at him. "You're a good boy. If only your brothers and father were as sensible as you. The hours they've been putting in these past weeks!"
Her comment went unheard by her two youngest grandsons. Alan and Gordon were still enjoying their debate.
"You're just jealous that no one wants to do a story on you," Gordon claimed. "Do you know how many times the researcher for that TV show's tried to get me to do an interview? It's almost a shame that I've got to turn them down…"
"Will you two shut up?" Scott ordered. "You're giving me a headache. The whole point is moot anyway. We all agreed when we started International Rescue that we wouldn't do anything public that wasn't good for the organisation. And that includes re-launching Olympic swimming careers."
"Scott's right," Jeff agreed. "Our secrecy is important, and that includes staying out of the limelight at all costs…"
"Where does Gordon Tracy live now, Jasmine?" Ned Cook asked.
Jasmine frowned as she looks through her notes. "That's another thing I haven't been able to discover. But his father lives on an island somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean…"
"I remember," Ned interrupted.
"So I would assume that it's a good bet that Gordon lives with him, if he's working for him. If he doesn't, you can guarantee Jeff Tracy knows where he is."
"Right!" Ned rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "How're you feeling, Joe? Do you feel up to a long distance flight into the middle of nowhere?"
"You're convinced that there's more to the Tracys than Gordon's 15 minutes of fame?" Joe asked.
"I am."
Joe grinned. "Then I'm feeling just fine. I'll prepare the plane for a flight first thing tomorrow…"
To be continued…