Chapter Three: Taking Control

Up on Thunderbird 5, John Tracy was staring out into the vast vacuum of space. Even without the aid of his high-powered telescope, the view out of the command centre of the space station was beyond impressive. It never failed to take John's breath away – and served as a permanent reminder just why he had had chosen a career in which he spent six months of the year suspended in space.

To many other people – his little brother Alan included – life on Thunderbird 5 was insufferably dull. On some occasions several days would pass without any calls to International Rescue and the only human contact would be the nightly call to his father on Tracy Island.

And yet John didn't mind. If anything he actually enjoyed the solitude that his months up in space afforded him. It was a welcome change from the hectic household he'd left behind on Tracy Island and although it was undeniably lonely sometimes, there were definite benefits that came from living in a construction that had the best television aerial in the world.

Not that John was actually paying any attention to the baseball game that was playing on one of the vidscreens behind him. The sound was muted and the players were involved in an elaborate pantomime while the crowd showed their silent approval. The current score kept flashing up in the top left hand corner of the screen, desperate to be read, but it was only greeted by the sight of the back of John's uniform.

John continued to study the stars, his eyes drifting across the trio that formed Orion's belt and then tracing the outline of the man himself. It really was an amazing sight; the enigma of space never failed to fascinate John. The ultimate question of whether there was other intelligent life out there in the darkness was one that had captivated scientists, astronomers and astronauts alike for centuries and where better a place to be when that question was finally answered than right next to the stars themselves.

Whether it would be answered in John's lifetime was a whole different question. Considering how far the world had advanced over the last fifty years, the prediction wasn't so far-fetched. After all, who could have conceived the existence of International Rescue twenty years ago?

A quick glance at the console dragged John back to the job at hand. He frowned thoughtfully as he considered the information that was coming through to Thunderbird 5. There was a hurricane building in the Atlantic Ocean, but early reports suggested it would harmlessly dissipate before it neared the east coast of America. It was likewise with the typhoon off the coast of Australia, so while John would keep an eye out for any new developments, there was no need at present to disturb his father.

Especially not with a mission currently being undertaken. John sighed and ran a hand through his blond hair, making it stand on end. That was the very worst thing about living and working in the space station: not being able to be there when his brothers were risking their lives. It wasn't so much about participating in the rescues; it was having to sit calmly by and wait for the sporadic contact that was sent his way, without actually being able to see what was going on down on Earth.

Rural rescues like this one were the worst. At least in the big cities you could expect decent media coverage. Out in the Welsh countryside, John had to be content with a local news network whose inexperience at dealing with 'breaking news' was keeping them firmly behind the barrier that had been erected at the outskirts of the site. From the interesting shots of the back of the local fire-chiefs head that John and the ten other viewers of Croesawu at Cilybebyll were receiving, they were probably better off getting down to the coalmine themselves.

John turned back to his contemplation of the hurricane. The winds in its vicinity were growing dangerous and if there were any ships got caught up in the storm then they might require International Rescue's aid. He scanned the area quickly and was relieved when nothing but static came over the radio waves. While International Rescue did occasionally field two rescues at once, the fire in Wales was already monopolising their operatives, and perhaps more importantly, the Thunderbirds.

After monitoring the typhoon for radio signals, John kicked his legs up over the arm of his chair and un-muted the volume on the baseball game. Sitting as he, eyes intent on the came, John just needed a Coke in one hand and a bucket of popcorn in the other and he'd be the epitome of The American Man.

Of course, most American men didn't watch the baseball from a station that was orbiting the Earth.

The score changed again and John found himself smiling as the underdogs took the lead. It was always rewarding to see one of the commercial giants of any sport becoming flustered at the challenge of a smaller team and up in Thunderbird 5, John willed the local boys to win. His smile grew as they scored yet another impressive series of runs but before he could get too caught up in the game, he ran a practiced eye over the rest of the console and something else snagged his attention.

It was the smaller vidscreen on which Croesawu at Cilybebyll were clumsily broadcasting. The shots of curious, voyeuristic members of the public standing on their tiptoes in an attempt to see the mine had gone. In their place was a mass of confusion; people were crying out and falling to their knees, the camera was shaking so hard that the picture was becoming distorted and in the background of the hazy shot, a dark cloud was rising from the direction of the mine. Snatches of commentary from the programme's presenter – "… never seen … some kind of explosion … cloud burst out of the mine …" – could be heard above the cries of the crowd but the woman herself was no one in sight.

John stared blankly at the screen for several seconds, hardly believing what his eyes were showing him. Then his cool professionalism kicked in and he lunged towards the console, punching through a connection to the team at the rescue site.

"Mobile Control from Thunderbird 5."

There was no response.

John frowned, his fear growing. "Mobile Control this is Thunderbird 5 – please respond."

Once again he was greeted by the crackling of empty airwaves.

John glanced back down at the vidscreen but it was now showing the grainy black and whites of a lost connection. He was now completely blinded to whatever was happening down in Wales – and that scared John more than he liked to admit.

"Thunderbird 5 to Mobile Control. Tin-Tin, can you hear me? Please respond!"

In the wake of the ground tremors and the explosion of choking dust, the scene outside of the mine was one of utter confusion.

The firemen who had originally been called to attend the scene were grouped around their large red vehicles, listening intently to their tall, brawny leader as he attempted to take control of the situation. The paramedics who were attending to the injured miners looked shaken but continued their work with only a few worried glances at one another betraying their inner emotions. They, of all the people in the area, where used to have to remain implacable in the face of a disaster.

The few police in attendance were struggling to control the panicking crowd, particularly those miners that Scott had rescued earlier, who were straining to reach the mine in the vain hope of finding out what exactly had happened to those of their colleagues who were still trapped beneath the surface. Somewhere amongst the seething mass of people a child was crying, her thin voice raised in protest against the events that had both physically and metaphorically shaken her world.

For Tin-Tin's part, she'd hardly comprehended what the ominous rumblings and explosion of rubble signified. All she could think about was Alan; all she could see was his bloodied form lying still on the ground, and all she could was run towards him.

She'd barely moved more than ten feet however, when someone grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her back.

"Don't go near the mine – it's still unstable!"

It was the leader of the firemen, a dark-haired man who had introduced himself earlier as Rhys Evans. Scott had been liaising with him since reaching the site and he had proved himself to be a consummate professional. Yet rather than the presence of such a competent individual warming Tin-Tin, she only saw him as an unwelcome barrier between her and Alan.

She tried to pull out of his grasp but his grip on her arm simply tightened, until he was holding her hard enough to bruise.

Tin-Tin fought to compose herself and not lash out at Rhys. After all, he was only doing his job and if she hadn't been so concerned about Alan then she would have recognised that fact with greater clarity.

As it was, she quickly realised she wasn't going to be able to break his grip. Instead, she drew herself up and spoke as forcefully as she could. "I am merely trying to ascertain the specifics of my colleague's injuries. And as I am a fully qualified member of International Rescue and I completely understand the risks involved. I will take full responsibility for my actions."

The fireman looked doubtful; Tin-Tin knew it was probably the unhelpful combination of her being nineteen and also female. Instead of becoming indignant as she would have in any other situation, Tin-Tin took advantage of Rhys's uncertainty and shouldered past him without another word, intent upon Alan.

When she reached him, her inner calm and composure fled and she fell to her knees. Her hands frantically sought the wound that was spilling his blood so freely. It was difficult to find it; his hair was already stained red, but when she did she was able to breathe far more easily for it was smaller than she had imagined and the bleeding was already beginning to slow.

However, Alan was still unconscious. Rudimentary First Aid lessons came back to Tin-Tin and she prised his eyelids open, willing his pupils to react to the light while trying not to give in to her panic.

Several long, horrible seconds passed and then his eyelids flickered. Tin-Tin pulled back quickly, her arms coming around to support his weight and turn his head slightly. "Alan?"

He groaned but it was the most wonderful sound that Tin-Tin had ever heard.

"Oh Alan, thank God. Are you okay? How did you feel?"

Alan blinked up at her and then he groaned again. "Like Virg just landed his 'bird on top of me."

Despite the severity of the situation, Tin-Tin found herself grinning. She felt weak with relief; as if she was going to collapse then and there. After all, if Alan was well enough to make jokes then surely he was going to be okay!

Alan reached up and gingerly probed the wound on his head. When he winced, Tin-Tin caught his bloodstained hand in hers and pulled it away.

"Don't poke at it – you'll just make it worse," she scolded.

"Who are you, my mother?"

"No, I'm just your concerned gir – uh, friend …"

The word came out of Tin-Tin's mouth awkwardly and hung in the air between them. Suddenly she found she couldn't meet Alan's blue gaze. Her concern for his wellbeing had overridden the problems that lingered between them, but now she knew he was going to be alright, those problems had come swimming back to the surface again.

To cover her confusion, Tin-Tin yanked Alan to his feet, releasing her grip on his as
soon as she could. She regretted a moment when Alan swayed unsteadily on his feet and she was forced to pull his arm around her shoulders and support him.

"We need to get your head seen to," she told him needlessly, leading him back towards the paramedics.

"W-wait," he breathed but she ignored him and continued moving.

"Tin-Tin – please … what – what happened?"

She stopped then and stared at him in surprise. How could he have forgotten? "The mine … you were about to go back in when a huge cloud burst out of it. It threw you backwards and you must have hit your head on the ground." She didn't add how scared she'd been in that split second when she thought that he had been killed.

Alan blinked at her; the expression on his face was slightly confused. "But Tin-Tin … Tin-Tin, where are my brothers?"

Tin-Tin's surprised turned to horror as the implications of his question suddenly struck her.

Gordon Tracy was trapped between a rock and a hard place.

Literally.

The left hand side of his body was pressed up against what he thought was the wall of the mine tunnel and the right was sharing the same space as a huge pile of rocks where the roof had collapsed.

To make matters even worse, the stones were hot, even through his protective gear. Which suggested that somewhere close, the fire was still burning unabated, creating the possibility of a second collapse.

Gordon shifted his weight and bit his lip as a bolt of fiery pain shot up his arm and along his shoulder. Great, just what I need to make this situation perfect. A damn dislocated shoulder.Should make digging my way out of here pretty interesting.

Gordon gritted his teeth and moved again, desperately trying to pull himself free of his stone tomb. Inch by inch he dragged his battered body out of the niche he'd become trapped in, trying his best not to knock his injured arm against any of the rocks. He succeeded for the most part and when he finally tore himself out from the rocks that had snared him, he began to breathe more easily.

That was until he looked about his new location and found himself in yet another, slightly larger, enclosed space.

Gordon groaned, the sound echoing oddly inside his helmet. Out of one life-threateningly-small space and into another still-life-threatening-but-not-quite-so-small one.

The pain in his arm making him feel dizzy, Gordon sagged against the rocks at his back, catching his breath. Not for the first time since the collapse, his thoughts started straying towards his absent brothers. He'd just got back to Scott when the earth around him had started to rumble threateningly. In the torrent of falling rocks and timber that had followed they had become separated and the ominous silence over the radio waves of his headset was something Gordon hardly wanted to contemplate.

He'd tried his own when he'd first regained his wits but there had been no reply from any of his brothers, or from Mobile Control. Virgil, he wasn't so worried about – the Firefly was made of an alloy that could withstand temperatures of a thousand degrees and it was equally impenetrable. Then there was Tin-Tin – as far as Gordon knew she had definitely been outside the mine at the time of the collapse so in all likelihood she was perfectly safe. This knowledge reassured him slightly; it meant that someone, at least, was above ground and able to co-ordinate the rescue effort.

It was Scott and Alan's fates that preyed on Gordon's mind. Like him they'd been in the mine when it had collapsed, with nothing more than a protective fire-suit to stop them from being crushed by a barrage of rocks. He desperately hoped that his inability to contact them was because their headsets had been damaged rather than that they were physically unable to respond.

Then there was himself. Gordon was under no illusions that this tomb he found himself trapped inside could soon become his final resting place. The lack of any natural light suggested his rock-prison was airtight and while this wasn't an immediate concern, Gordon knew it was something he'd have to think about if he didn't manage to free himself before his oxygen tank ran out. That gave him about twenty-five minutes – and while he could sit back and hope that someone would rescue him, he could also set about trying to rescue himself.

He stepped forward carefully and began feeling his way along the wall with his good hand, looking for any kind of cracks or fissures that he could exploit. He could hardly see his hand in front of his face thanks to the loss of his flashlight when the mine had started to collapse and with his injured shoulder throbbing with every step, his progress was painfully slow.

Finally his efforts paid off. Just above the level of the floor, he felt a gap in the rocks. Carefully pulling off his glove, he held his hand against the gap and was rewarded by a thin stream of warm air. While it wasn't enough to breathe by, it was enough to give Gordon fresh hope. Kneeling down in front of the gap, he replaced his glove and gave his prison one last cursory glance.

"Good job I'm not claustrophobic," he muttered as he started to dig fragments of rock from the gap, increasingly its size. "Cos this is going to be a long day."

"Thunderbird 5 to Mobile Control – please respond."

It was the same monotonous call that John had issued a hundred times over the last five minutes, as he grew increasingly more frantic. This time however, it was greated by something more than silence. This time it was finally answered.

"Mobile Control receiving."

Tin-Tin's face appeared on the screen but John was so overcome with his own emotions that had barely registered how scared and upset she looked.

"Tin-Tin, where the hell where you?" he demanded, his growing concern making his tone much sharper than usual.

"I'm sorry, John, I –"

"You should never have abandoned Mobile Control," John interrupted severely. "I've been trying to get through for the last five minutes. What happened? Where were you"

Tin-Tin blinked furiously and it was only then that John noticed her dark eyes were brimming with tears. His anger started to melt away as he realised how upset and scared she looked but before he could apologise, another familiar face appeared on the vidscreen, peering over Tin-Tin's shoulder.

John's eyes widened in horror as they took in the state of his youngest brother. "Alan!"

Alan tried to smile. "I'm okay, John. Just banged my head a bit when the mine blew."

"A bit? Alan there's blood all over your face!"

"Johnny, I'm fine." Alan's eyes were huge in his bloodstained face and there was no mistaking the warning flashing through them. "We've got bigger things to deal with than a bump on my head, believe me."

John tensed, knowing what was coming. "Scott, Virgil and Gordon?"

"And the remaining six miners," Alan finished shakily. "They were all in the mine when it started to collapse." He leaned heavily against the console, his eyes closing momentarily.

John frowned at him but knew his brother wouldn't appreciate any more prying questions and so said instead, "Collapsed?"

Tin-Tin nodded. Although still pale, the moisture had gone from her eyes and she appeared to have regained some of her normal composure. "The fire chief – Rhys – has spoken to us. He believes the fire weakened the wooden supports in the mine. What we thought was an earthquake was actually those supports giving way and parts of the mine collapsing. Rhys isn't letting anyone near the mine; he said the whole area is unstable and it's too dangerous."

"For civilians perhaps, but not for International Rescue," Alan argued. "We have to get them out."

"But - but we don't even know where to start!" Tin-Tin protested, the enormity of the situation obviously getting to her.

"You want to just leave them?" Alan's tempered flared.

"Of course not, I just -"

"We have to get them out," Alan repeated firmly. Then his thinking appeared to falter and the defensive expression faded from his face. He looked beseechingly at his older brother. "What should we do, John?"

It was a measure of how serious the situation was that Alan was asking for help. Normally he would have blustered his way through, determined to prove that he could cope as well as any of his brothers. However, now he and Tin-Tin were alone and as the youngest members of International Rescue, they were the least well equipped to deal with their current situation. They were still only kids really and now that the responsibility of orchestrating the whole rescue had fallen onto their shoulders, they looked horribly frightened and out of their depth.

John took a deep breath and fought to calm himself. The last thing Alan and Tin-Tin needed was him losing his cool with them because they'd made some early bad decisions. Nor could he let his fear for his brothers overcome him. They needed him and perhaps more importantly, International Rescue needed them.

"Alright," he said slowly, a rough plan forming in his mind. "Here's what we'll do."