Hey, guys! Sorry to be so slow with responses, been chasing my tail and singing my head off, all weekend, typing away between times. Thank you so much, Tikatu, Bow Echo and Whirl Girl!

10

London, former United Kingdom, high in the GDF Tower complex-

General Steele had canceled all appointments, delegating his work schedule onto his nervous young staff. With the two rescue teams in optimal position, less a few loose ends, it was time for the hammer blow; time for a failure so spectacular, so public and costly, that International Rescue would forevermore cease to exist. Any survivors incarcerated, or collared and put to their proper use.

As for the hapless recruits and official observers, well… collateral damage was an unfortunate side effect in any war. He'd have a monument erected to their memory, etc., someplace out of the way. Perhaps name a street or a park after one of them.

Glancing away from the 'Live: On-site' news drone coverage, Steele checked the time. Soon. IR's hacker had grounded pretty nearly the entire GDF fleet… which could be used to Steele's advantage, as he could claim that help had been prevented from reaching those poor, trapped people… but some of the general's game pieces had been moved into position even earlier. One of these was Thunderbird 5.2, a joke of a faulty, Fischler-designed orbital death-trap. No safety features at all, and no redundant systems. Plenty of odd little nooks where a bribed technician might place an explosive device, though.

The big, empty space station had been positioned and oriented even before the viewing invitations went out, its orbit destabilized. Now… in thirty seconds, rather… the hidden charge would erupt, sending Thunderbird 5.2 hurtling right for Cutwater Destiny. Game, set and match.

XXXXXXXXXX

Mars Base 1, in a converted Hebrus Valley cavern-

Jeff simply stared, unable to move, or speak. He'd arrived just the sol before, and was still in-process, but that wasn't the Colonel's concern. Mars was an odd little world, with its one-quarter gravity and still unbreathable atmosphere, but Jeff had experienced it all before, and didn't have too much trouble adjusting. The Aurora had been a fast ship, traveling a well-patrolled route. He'd had no problem reaching the site of Earth's first colony, and his enshrined first footprint.

Pete had met him on the landing pad, with a big smile and a firm handshake. No friction there, either, despite their competing ranks. He and the Base Commander went way back, and what McCord accepted, no one else dared criticize, or they'd find themselves facing an old-fashioned Captain's Mast.

No, the trouble lay back on Earth. Jeff could watch only snippets, for much news here was censored, and that on a ten-minute travel delay… but it looked like the new director, a General Steele, was out to crush International Rescue. A new team had been created, after a quick audition process. Just kids, most of them, flying trash rescue craft thrown together by Langstrom Fischler, of all people. They'd been supposed to show off their piloting skills at a mock rescue event in the North Pacific, only… Murphy was having a field day, with that d*mn law, of his.

Jeff stood with a handful of others in the colony's main habitation cavern, staring at a big view screen, as utter chaos unfolded. His boys were up there, Scott, John and Alan, fighting to save lives, despite an EarthGov house-arrest order. Alan had his Bird back, while John and Scott had arrived in the space elevator, accounting for Thunderbirds 3 and 5. No sign of Tanusha, Virgil, Gordon or Brains, though. On screen it was nightfall, a storm was building, and the deep-sea drilling rig they were trying to save appeared ready to fold up like a paper fan.

People were staring, giving Jeff quick, wary side-eyes, because the young former heroes up on that screen were his sons, and he was a banished senior officer. Surrounded by folding tables, potted plants and fluorescent lighting, Colonel Tracy had never felt quite so alone.

Then Pete crossed the common area to stand beside Jeff. Barely coming up to the Colonel's shoulder, McCord rocked on his heels, meditatively chewing a mint toothpick. (Because he couldn't smoke in a sealed environment. Or a helmet.)

"They'll be all right," the Commander told him, after a moment. "You raised 'em well, Jeff."

Colonel Tracy shook his grey head.

"They're being railroaded, Pete. Forced into violating house arrest and stealing back the Birds, so that someone can send them to prison, or worse." Brain-scrape, he didn't say, but dreaded, because there was more than one way to be dead.

McCord ran a hand across his thinning red hair, patting those few hardy strands back into place.

"Your oldest boy… what's his name… Scott. He takes after you, Jeff, and if this is a trap, I guarantee you, the kid's all over it. My former lieutenant can handle himself, too. Have a little faith, Jeff… and you can use my comm to get in touch with the new chancellor, if you think it'll help. Don't much like politicians, myself. Never been able to figure 'em out… but you could try."

Jeff's shoulders hunched, slightly.

"Not sure I have the right to do that, Pete. I let my family down pretty badly, back on Ross Island. Shot two of my own sons, and nearly a third. The Hood had control of me."

McCord grimaced sympathetically.

"Then, I'd say it was the Hood pulled that trigger, Jeff, not you. The boys don't blame you, do they?"

Tracy shrugged.

"I don't know, Pete. We haven't discussed the matter. Didn't… can't seem to quite bring it up."

McCord had only one child, himself. A daughter, living back on Earth with his former wife. He'd never been too good at family dynamics. Was willing to try, though, for an old friend's sake.

"Partial to text messages, myself," he admitted. "when sh*t between her mother 'n me gets a little rough, Steffy and I can still text. Don't have to react straightaway, if you don't know what to say. Talk to Scott, or John. Your girl, maybe, if they weren't the ones that got blasted."

Jeff sighed. He was trapped out here on a frigid, mummy-dry little world with one of his best friends, while his family fought for survival, thirty-seven million miles away. Felt utterly helpless, once more. Worse than he had since the Hood had caught him struggling to escape a wrecked plane.

"If I was to commandeer a ship, and head back to Earth…" he mused.

Pete cocked a sandy-red eyebrow.

"I'd be obliged to report the theft, and come after you… once I noticed it, in, say… a week or so. Might just make things hotter for 'em, though. And, um… the less I suspect, the better."

Colonel Tracy turned back to the view screen, yearning for simpler times, when surviving Mars with Pete McCord and Lee Taylor had been the worst of his problems.

"Ever miss the old days, Pete?"

McCord snorted.

"Every d*mn minute of my life, Buddy. But you play the hand you're dealt, right to the end of the game. These days 'll be "good old" soon enough, anyhow."

The haunted thought, 'Maybe I did the wrong thing', was not made any better by what happened next, up on that screen, and on Mars.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Thunderbird Shadow, approaching Cutwater Destiny-

The way Kayo had it figured, she was a few minutes ahead of Thunderbird 1, and way below radar. In stealth mode, she dropped down through a night of battering winds and high seas, of sullen, high-altitude lightning. Behind her, Kat was muttering into a microphone and taking occasional pictures. They could see the drill platform below them, surrounded by aircraft, pinned by the gleaming space elevator. She'd have to be careful. That cable was d*mned hard to see, at night. Couldn't risk cutting it, or damaging Thunderbird Shadow.

"We're going in closer," she told her avid passenger. "Make sure you're strapped in, and keep your eyes open. I don't trust our "friend" not to stack the deck even higher."

"No worries, Ducky, if there's one thing I excel at, it's…"

The reporter never got the chance to finish her boast. Kayo gave a sudden involuntary jump and gasp, instead, as burning junk came hurtling out of the sky in huge shards. Station-sized shards. Part of a ring, a section of tumbling hull-plate, most of a fiery, still-churning engine. They tore the night sky like blazing claws. Like meteors. More and more rained down from orbit, screaming as they fell. A few small chunks struck Shadow's force field, which plunged from 92% power to 21%, in less than ten seconds. Each blow sent the Bird rocking and spinning, with a searing-bright flare of her shields.

Now, Kat yelled (still recording it all, though). A big chunk, largest of all, was headed for Cutwater Destiny. Kayo did not think. She acted. Throttling forward, the girl dove directly into the path of that blazing metallic mountain.

XXXXXXXXXXX

In midair, just over the observation deck-

"…ure."

Something had sparkled above him, so Scott Tracy looked up. His heart and stomach plunged right down into his boots as the pilot saw a storm of tumbling, burning debris headed their way. John had looked upward, too, and quite succinctly said,

"Oh, sh*t."

The cloud-carrier was riddled, and began listing badly to starboard. Nor was that all. One of the chunks, a really big sonuvabitch, exploded before it quite reached their perch on the drill platform. Plenty of smaller crap still flying around, though, trailing comet-plumes of fire and smoke, turning night into brief, lurid day. One of them sliced right through the elevator cable, sending fifteen miles of carbon nano-structure line hissing down from the sky.

Then, Thunderbird 1 arrived with a gargantuan roar.

"John!" the pilot shouted.

"I know!" his brother replied, punching up a dim-orange virtual keypad. "Block what you can, I'll move the claw!"

Because it had now ceased lifting, and become a dead weight, dragging the platform seaward. Scott jet-packed up to his waiting Bird, which had already dropped cockpit and seat to receive him. The noise was like fiery Armageddon; screaming, roaring, crashing and rending. But Scott could do nothing about it, outside of his plane.

"Everybody hang on!" he instructed. "I'll intercept the big ones!"

Which he did, with magnetic cable and force shielding, filling the night sky with shrapnel and fireworks. John didn't react. Too busy. What had come out of quantum nothingness could go right back home, with the right keystrokes. Just a matter… of… inputting the… right code. And, done. With a brief, lightning-like flare, fifteen miles of cable, falling in long, humming coils, just ceased to exist.

"Eos," the astronaut called, as he released the claw and fired its maneuvering thrusters.

"Yes, John?" she replied, sounding concerned.

"Need you to get that elevator up and away from here. Can't strike the platform, or anything else, understood? Not enough fuel to get back to 5, either."

"I understand, John. However, it is unsafe for you to remain in this area. Thunderbird 5.2 has been sabotaged, and there are 3.755 metric tons of unburnt debris still descending."

"I noticed," he said, ducking a swarm of incoming missiles. You would think that any self-respecting piece of space junk could hit a few buzzing news drones, but no. They survived, until John came up with a use for them. Called down to Alan, next, saying,

"Hey, Al. Can you boost that shield to reach the observation tower? We've got… people up here… in danger…" (Had had to swing a hovering news drone into the path of a deck-skimming hull chunk, knocking the fiery bastard aside.) "…and I'm running… out of… drones."

"I'm on it, Bro. Getting some folks loaded up, down here, but if Piper 'll take over, I can work on expanding the shield. You got this, Pip?"

John didn't hear any more, because Thunderbird 2 had arrived, her pressure wave nearly flattening the people trapped on that tilted, rocking observation deck. Her enormous bulk shouldering debris aside like spring rain.

"Too late to join the party?" Virgil joked.

"Nope," Scott told him. "Get those people off the rig, Virge, and then drop Gordon for a look-see, down below. We'll keep you two busy all night, and let you crash on the couch, afterward."

"Throw in a beer and loaded cheese-fries, and you got yourself a deal, Big Brother."

The prototype was next to appear, giving the struggling elevator someplace to land. Better yet, Brains got right to work programming more cable. One less thing, y'know? The astronaut only dropped to that platform because Scott would have killed AND fired him, had he not seen to Penelope, Parker and Bertie. Got his face licked on one side, kissed on the other. Image went viral. Yay.

XXXXXXXXX

Thunderbird 4, making ready to hit the drink-

Gordon Tracy punched his brother farewell, then just about teleported down to his sub. Strapped in and lit her up, bracing when Virgil said,

"Ready, Kiddo? Commencing drop in 3… 2… 1."

Then, the bottom crashed out of his universe, as pod 2 fell from cargo-lifter to the ocean's wild surface, about fifty feet below. Even with inertia-dampers, it was one h*ll of a ride. He landed with a resounding, belly-flop WHUMP and a noise like someone had hit a metal garbage can with a baseball bat, while his head was inside. The pod tilted and spun, not able to settle down in water this rough. Gordon went, anyhow, because that's just what you did; sucked it up, and got the job done.

Turning up his music, the aquanaut triggered "pod open". Watched as the giant ramp-door first unsealed, then yawned outward and down like a creaking and crashing felled tree. Fired his Bird's launch rockets next, timing her exit to meet an on-rushing swell (because a further fifty-foot drop into a trough might damage the goods, or the Gordon).

Thunderbird 4 shot out of her pod and into her bubbling and swirling natural element, where it soon grew quiet, dark and incredibly peaceful… for about five minutes.