Chapter One

He had pinpointed that International Rescue's base was somewhere in the Pacific Ocean; west of 172 degrees south longitude and south of 15 degrees east latitude was the nearest he could get. Close to Fiji but not too far from New Zealand. Near the Samoan Islands but far enough away from those major locales that it wouldn't, or couldn't, easily be found.

But there was only so far he'd been able to track them until three years prior, when he'd finally figured out a way to detect the fields generated by devices they were using to cloak the Thunderbirds from view. He spent a few weeks chiding himself over how blindingly easy it was to follow the signature of the fields based on magnetics and the simplest of Maxwell's equations. The one for each craft, he knew, had to be slightly different to allow for the varying shapes and sizes of them.

Underwater tracking was the obvious choice, as the field would create water displacement and thus following Thunderbird 4 would be a piece of cake. Quickly he realized that was useless, however, since 4 always and only docked with 2 and once it was set inside the larger craft would be protected by 2's own field.

Thunderbird 3 wasn't the first one to try, as tracking a sophisticated magnetic signature moving through Earth's atmosphere to space and back would be the hardest place to start. Lack of gravity and sheer force of exit and re-entry meant that devising something compact that could withstand such pressure was out of the question for a quick win. It was thus that he dismissed 3. The vacuum of space also made Thunderbird 5 off-limits for starters. That left Thunderbirds 1 and 2, and while 2 was slower and would therefore perhaps be an easier ship to follow, as first on-scene 1 was the logical choice.

While Scott Tracy was busying himself setting up Mobile Control, assessing the situation and relaying information to his brothers, he wouldn't be thinking about anything or anyone coming near his ship; no, he would be far too concerned with the lives that he was trying to save. Piloting the fastest of all the Thunderbirds, Scott would be the first one home as well, and once he was there he would have to contact his base in order to land if he followed any sort of military protocol at all.

That much, at least, Belah Gaat was certain of. He may not have gotten a great deal of detailed International Rescue information out of his half-brother over the years, but one thing he knew was the identities of those behind the secret organization. Between the two eldest males were at least forty years of Air Force service, if not more.

As former officers, they'd be running their ship tightly and by-the-book. So that made it easy; when Scott Tracy called in requesting permission to land, it would leave the field generator open long enough for his secret little weapon to send a message home. That deed done, it would completely deactivate itself and fall from 1 into either the water or land, where it would self-destruct.

Despite his best efforts, Belah had never been able to find out where precisely the Tracys called home, at least not full-time. He'd found a couple homes they owned in Europe, one in Greece and another in Kansas, but it quickly became clear they were rarely actually at any of those. It all made sense, though. If you were a secret organization, you'd want to make it as difficult as possible to find you.

Thus his search had begun, and the first of his devices had tracked Thunderbird 1 only as far as American Samoa before the terrific G-forces created by the sleek plane had destroyed it. He'd forced his team to start over again, to build something that could withstand a ride on 1, something that would be undetectable beneath its very own field. Nine months later they had succeeded and the trap had been set.

"Go ahead, John."

"There's a team of volcanologists trapped on Young Island, Father. They were studying the volcano there when it erupted. From what I understand, four of the team were killed instantly by pyroclastic flows. The other half, four men, made it out of their camp with SCUBA gear and into Calaman Bay, but the lava's heading for it fast and their air won't last forever."

"If it hits that water while they're in there, it'll make a crust that will crush them like a vice grip."

"Exactly. I don't even know if Thunderbird 2 will make it in the time those men have left."

Jeff turned to his eldest, who'd come running at the sound of the alarm. "Well, Scott, it looks like it may be up to you to get those four people out of there."

Nodding and taking his place at the wall to the side of his dad's desk, Scott replied, "It'll be a good chance to use the new pulsed pumping laser Brains fitted 1 with a few days ago."

"Right, Scott." Jeff turned to the pilot of Thunderbird 2. "You may not get there in time to help, Virgil, but every second you can coax out of her may mean a man lives instead of dies."

"I'll make her go faster," Virgil vowed. "Pod 5. Gordon, you're with me."

Jeff watched his boys exit the room; Virgil leaning flat against the moon rocket picture, Scott swivelling around on the rotating wall and Gordon speeding out into the hall to the elevator that would take him down to Thunderbird 2. "John, do they know help's on the way?"

He shook his head. "I can't seem to get through to them, if they've got radios. Metals in the cooling lava rock must be blocking the signal. What I caught was what little they transmitted before they had to duck completely under to avoid the flow."

"How deep is Calaman Bay, son?"

"There isn't a lot of data on it, Father, but it can't be more than 25 meters at the most based on scans of the surrounding Southern Ocean and land mass of the island. I can see the molten rock, though. The lava has completely changed the landscape of it already."

"How quickly will that lava fill 25 meters?"

John's face was replaced by a live satellite image zoomed to two hundred percent. "Probably in less than an hour. It all depends on how well the cooled rock is anchored to the shore. The more anchored it is, the more minutes they'll have. If it's not, the rock will just keep sinking until it crushes them. I would say they've already been in there about twenty minutes now."

Jeff shook his head. Scott was the only chance those poor scientists had, and he knew it. They all did.

Scott broke his own record and made it there in twenty minutes flat. That left little time for anything but the most drastic of measures. His infrared wasn't able to penetrate the lava – it had cooled enough to become solid, but was still so hot the entirety of the lava field glowed bright red on his screens.

"Thunderbird 1 to Base."

"Go ahead, Scott."

"Father, I'm just going to have to take my best guess here and use the PPL. Do we have any idea where the deepest spot is in what used to be Calaman Bay?"

"Listening in, Scott," came John's voice over the airwaves. "I went back to the last Earth scan Alan performed during one of his tours up here and it would appear that you've got about twenty-three meters at minus fifty-seven point oh-nine and minus twenty-six point seven one."

Scott's mind kicked into gear as he pinpointed those coordinates. Surely the volcanologists would have sought the deepest part of the bay. That meant the eastern-most side of it would be the safest bet, as it was the furthest from the pyroclastic flow and far enough away from where he hoped the men had sought refuge.

"I'm going to hit the eastern edge with the PPL, Father," Scott advised. "Thunderbird 2 from Thunderbird 1."

"Go ahead, Thunderbird 1."

"Virgil, you'll be landing south of Calaman Bay on the ice-covered portion of the island, I'm transmitting the coordinates now. I'll need you and Gordon to get the Mole under there in case there isn't any water left." To himself he muttered, "In which case what I'm doing is useless."

"Ten-four, Thunderbird 1."

Scott punched the coordinates into the pulsed pumping laser software and the gun lowered just behind 1's red-painted nose. He moved the plane east of the island and steadied her. "Firing," he said as his thumb pressed the button on his steering yoke.

Poised at the northern tip of Buckle Island, just over eighty kilometres south of Young, he watched the feed from the portable field tracker's tiny camera. It was nearly at its destination and already picking up a disturbance in the air. Within minutes, as it closed on its target, he realized he had indeed found Thunderbird 1. It showed its outline on his screen as clearly as if Scott Tracy himself had drawn the picture for him.

Now it was just a matter of settling the small device, small enough to be held in his hand, onto the hull of the 'Bird without detection. The camera told the story quite well for him. Tracy had used a pulsating laser beam to blast some of the rock from the eastern edge of Calaman Bay and was now setting down just south of that; high enough to not be hit by what was left of the flowing lava, but close enough to make it there on foot.

As soon as the small flying object, itself cloaked from 1's sensors, told him Scott was running away from his ship, he docked it softly and carefully on top in a place no one on the ground would ever see it. Now all he had to do was wait. Before the day was through he would know exactly where International Rescue's base was. Sure, if he'd outfitted the tracker with some sort of weapon, he could've had Scott Tracy then and there. But he didn't want only him. He wanted all of them.

Scott set 1 down and took off running like a bat out of hell. He'd cut a hole large enough to where he could see there was still water beneath the rock, but 2 was still sixteen minutes out and he knew he hadn't any time to lose. His heat resistant suit wouldn't protect him from fresh lava, but it was safe to 1,200 degrees Celsius and his instruments had registered the cooling rock he'd have to walk across at 800 degrees.

Closer to the center of the Bay it was only in the 40 degree range but Scott had to get past extreme heat to reach it. He'd be safe enough, but would the men have seen the escape route he'd created for them? Would they already have succumbed to the heat?

Carefully he made his way to the hole and looked under, dismayed to see not one sign of life. Maybe they were too late. Maybe the men had been crushed already. He refused to follow that line of thought, however. He had to do everything he could. Never give up, at any cost.

Taking a couple deep breaths and letting them out, Scott stuffed the regulator in his mouth and dove down into Calaman Bay. He was only a couple feet in when he realized the rock had already sunk so low he was scraping the back of his air tank on it. He shook his head and used his arms along the bottom to pull himself ahead, but he was having a tough time manoeuvring in the bulky suit.

Note to self, he thought. Get Brains and Gordon to invent heat-resistant SCUBA gear.

He could see absolutely nothing, even with the small light that was situated just inside his face mask. The ash that had hit prior to the lava made seeing all but impossible. Realizing he couldn't make it any further with the air tank on, he scooted back a few yards, managed to squeeze it off and bring it to rest on his right.

Pulling it along with him, he kept reaching out as far as his fingertips would go, praying he'd feel a person, a regulator, an air tank, something. That was when the regulator was yanked from his mouth. He searched blindly for it as his chest began to burn. When the tank was ripped from his hand, what little air was left in his lungs came out in a whoosh.

"Scott!" Virgil called, regulator hanging down over his shoulder.

"He got some of them out!" Gordon puffed, pulling alongside and then passing his brother. "Look!"

Virgil moved his eyes to the right, following Gordon's pointed finger. "I'll be damned," he breathed, noting three bodies on the shore.

"John said there were four; Scott must have gone under for the last one!" With that, Gordon quickly dove down into the hole Scott had created while Virgil raced to Thunderbird 2 for a hover bike and some hover stretchers.

Gordon made it only a few yards before realizing his tank wouldn't fit under the rock – in fact, he barely fit with just his heat-resistant suit. He had to take the tank off and slide it along next to him, plus he couldn't see worth a damn.

Two more yards of struggling through the murky water and just as the aquanaut was beginning to think he needed to grab a much more powerful light than the one he had, he felt a hand on his left arm and jumped, whacking his head on the rock above. He could just make out a familiar wristwatch and knew he had Scott. Ignoring the pain, Gordon pulled at his brother and started scooting backwards, but was gaining little ground. He stopped and took the regulator out of his mouth, touching it to Scott's hand.

It disappeared and Gordon was at least grateful his brother was able to get some oxygen as he continued struggling against the tight space. Had it somehow become tighter since he dove under? Panic wanted to rise in him as he thought of fresh lava making the cooled rock overhead heavier and heavier, until at last there was no more room and they were crushed.

The copper-haired man maintained his composure, continuing to pull Scott as hard as he could with his left hand and the oxygen tank in his right. At last, and it had seemed an interminable amount of time, he felt hands on his feet as Virgil pulled first him, then Scott and finally the fourth scientist out from a setting that wanted to be their watery tomb.

Virgil loaded the volcanologist onto a hover stretcher, hopped onto the attached hover bike and started off toward Thunderbird 2. Seconds later the great cooling rock field finally gave in to the fresh lava pouring onto its western edge. With something that sounded almost like a groan, followed by a sigh and then a large crack, it gave way. Crashing to the bed of the bay, sealing the fate of whatever wildlife had once been there, it was done. The bay was no more.

Gordon looked up at the still-spewing volcano as he helped a bedraggled but breathing Scott to his feet. "We got them all, Scott," he said, pulling his elder brother's arm around his shoulders. "Thanks to you."

Deprived for too long of the oxygen his body had needed, however, Scott collapsed onto his brother without so much as a nod of his head. Gordon lifted him into a fireman's carry and ran as fast as his burden would allow toward Thunderbird 2.

Nobody saw the tracking device, colored the same as Thunderbird 1's hull. They were happy, they'd done their jobs, and aside from some bumps, bruises, scrapes and a bit of unconsciousness, they had come out of it relatively well. It was a successful rescue, and they could all be in high spirits about that. As Virgil lifted off with his five patients and Gordon took command of Thunderbird 1, they had no way of knowing that this trip home for the sleek silver rocket plane would be the one that would doom them all.

Dark eyes surveyed the underwater excavation with satisfaction. From his position inside the small Deep Sea Vehicle which he had dubbed Kuda Laut, Malay for 'seahorse,' he checked what his readouts were telling him about the precise position of each explosive device. Nodding slowly as he compared that to the plans he'd been refining for months, a smile crept across his harsh Asiatic features. Rather than soften his appearance, the movement lent a menacing air to the man whose true identity only four men in the world knew. And three of those were dead.

That would soon change. Years of planning and nearly fourteen months in execution, preparations were finally near completion. The Tonga plate had turned out to be the most logical choice. A microplate with an ideal adjoining trench where it subducted the Pacific plate, it was very active already. He would just be helping it on its journey and it, in turn, would be helping him.

This was the single most brilliant and foolproof plan his mind had ever conceived of. And he was using a combination of the most technologically advanced human creations on the planet and the very essence of the planet itself to achieve the one thing that had eluded him for decades: the complete destruction of International Rescue.

Kuda Laut's radio suddenly came alive. "This is Team Two. Placement complete." He nodded, looking out the window before him. "This is Team Six. Placement complete." Each team called in, eight total, to announce their work was done. Now it was just a matter of timing. The simple push of a button was the next step, and he would be the one to do so when his gut told him it was time.

"Very well," he said into the small microphone to his left. "All teams disperse as directed."

He turned the wheel and accelerated, moving quickly toward the east. From the rented warehouse at Hanan International Airport on the western side of the island of Niue he would be safe. His calculations and painstaking placement of the explosives ensured this area would receive waves of only moderate height as a result of his deeds. Anything several hundred kilometres to the west of the ridge where the Tonga microplate met the Pacific plate would be wiped out by the largest tidal wave the world had ever witnessed.

And the best part was, he'd already taken care of making sure the Tracys wouldn't know it was coming. The night before he'd sneaked into the International Tsunami Warning Center in Hawaii and disabled the two data buoys that were directly between Niue and Fiji, and even the one further south of his location, northeast of New Zealand.

Posing as part of the overnight janitorial staff, it had taken no effort whatsoever between the mask he'd worn and the generic blue coverall he'd taken from the first closet he came upon. First the data buoys and then the seismographs. He managed to rig the computer detection programs to suppress incoming data for 30 minutes by telling it these were only going to be tests. This would give the tsunami he was planning time to reach Tracy Island before anyone even knew what had happened.

It never ceased to amaze him how unguarded some places continued to be in this day and age with the Hood running loose and no one having any idea who he was or where he'd strike next. That thought made him laugh out loud with great pleasure as he continued on his way.

International Rescue, and countless other innocents, would never know what hit them.