Late, but just under the wire, and back to real life, with Jeep repairs, exams and paperwork. Thanks and embraces to Tikatu, Bow Echo, Whirl Girl and Creative Girl. You're the best, guys.

24

Tracy Island, with a storm coming, and unwanted 'guests' trapped below-

Grandma had shifted her base of operations back upstairs to the ring, and Jeffery's old desk. If her boys and Kayo were in danger, she'd dang well be there to see them safe through it. Back in Kansas, all them years ago, her own ma and pa had been the last ones into the underground storm shelter, every time. Sally was an old woman, now; too set in her ways to accept rejuvenation, and her parents were only a memory, buried in a part of the former States that lay well beyond reach. But, the older you got, the more them things mattered; people long gone, lessons hard-learned, voices still yearned for.

Grandma Tracy shook her head as she keyed up the big, blue holo-sphere. Truthfully, she didn't know how to be other than out there in front, lending a hand. It was how she'd been raised.

It was going on 6 AM, but still dark, thanks to that monster storm. Satellite scans showed it losing power, a little. That was something. A touch of good news, for once. Thunderbird 2 and the Prototype were closest to home, needing only to line up with their runways, and land. Behind them cruised Thunderbird 2.2, an ugly blue mockup of Virgil's big rescue craft; not very fast or stable in conditions like these.

As the gale outside worried and thrust at her house, and spattering rain lashed the picture windows, Grandma shifted focus. Shadow was down, its transponder signal gone dark and unmoving. Kayo was with Virgil and Scotty in Thunderbird 2, though, and that's all that mattered. They could build ten, twenty new Shadows, in six different colours, plus plaid… but Tanusha was one of a kind, and safe, thank the Lord.

Further out, Alan was keeping pace with Thunderbird 3.2. By rights, he should've been first back, having the speediest Bird, but he wouldn't leave little what's-her-name, the New Crew's astronaut. Sally could have fussed, or snapped orders, but she was far too wise to distract her youngest grandson, who was doing a right fine job out there. Instead, she just sent him… sent all of them… a nav beacon, showing them how to get home.

Farthest away was Thunderbird 1; damaged, but topped up with fuel, at least. Putting a halfway station on Saipan had been Brains' suggestion. There was another, in Nova Scotia, for those times when fuel was low, and home far away; when there were rescued victims in need of immediate drop-off and medical treatment. (Or, sometimes, arrest.)

Wouldn't have been safe for Johnny to stay at the Saipan station, though. Not with a storm coming on, and no way to get Thunderbird 1 in a hangar. He was coming back, just about in the teeth of that cyclone, and Sally had everything ready. There were mechs fired up, on high alert, in the hangars, the air, and out in the roughening seas around Tracy Island, just in case. Half of her heart and most of her mind were right here and now, working the moment. The rest of her was over on Mars, with Jeffery.

As those blinking small transponder signals drew closer, Grandma Tracy looked heavenward and said,

"Grant, Hon… if'n you got any pull up there, now's th' time ta use it. I'm tired out, an' I miss ya, Big Man… but I ain't done here, yet. Our son and th' grandkids still need me. They need help comin' home. Give 'em a nudge, wouldja?" Then, as another thought occurred, "An', lemme know what you think about Lee payin' court ta me. Fine man, but sorta addled. I ain't replacin' you, Grant. Nobody could… but I like havin' someone ta set with an' talk… if that don't trouble you none."

For just a moment, as the wind picked up outside, and that rain set in fierce, Sal felt his presence; warm, loving and powerful, and so very attractive. Then, the feeling was gone. Sally Tracy blinked away foolish tears, then got her mind and her unruly heart back on business. She had a job to do, and a passel of Birds to land, starting with Virgil and them, over in Thunderbird 2.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Approaching Tracy Island, in a critically low-fuel Bird-

Virgil Tracy had his orders, from John and Grandma, both. Still, he didn't feel right about going in first. Though he had a hold full of shivering passengers, that sorry blue hash of a New Crew rescue Bird was in far worse shape, and needed to touch down, now.

Virgil would have let them push ahead. Only, Captain Taylor came over the private comm, and shook his head, no.

"Think it through, Vic," he said, blue eyes grim in his lined, handsome face. "If'n that hunk a' junk crashes on th' runway, ain't nobody gettin' in safe. You go first. Then, like Jase and Beth toldja, get 2 hauled off quick, ta th' repair bay, an' clear some space f'r 2.2. I'll do th' same in th' prototype hangar, so she'll have her pick o' landin' sites. Keep a clear head, Son. Ya save more lives, that way."

Virgil nodded reluctantly.

"Yessir," he replied, because Uncle Lee had helped raise them all, and taught them respect. Didn't like to just scoot in like that, tail tucked between his legs, but orders were orders, and the faster he got inside, the quicker 2.2 could follow.

Then Scott made his way forward, smelling shower-fresh and looking relaxed, bracing against the giant Bird's shudder and roll. As Virgil banked into a sharp homeward turn, Scott strapped himself into the copilot's seat, evicting Parker. He'd have felt bad for chasing the other man away, if the reformed con artist hadn't looked actually happy to leave. Then again, coming in hot during a dangerous storm wasn't everyone's thing. He got that.

Cuffing his brother's broad shoulder by way of 'hello', Scott said,

"What're we looking at, Virge?"

The big, black-haired pilot glanced at him, saying,

"Oh, nothing much, Scott… just threading a needle in hundred-mile-an-hour winds, while running on yesterday's fumes. You know… business as usual."

Scott cocked an expressive dark eyebrow.

"That good, huh?" he remarked, puffing his cheeks, and then letting the air out in a slow whistle. "Well, put us down in one piece, and you've still got a job."

"How 'bout a vacation?" Virgil suggested, as he lined up with a trail of bright green virtual landing lights, and prepared to come in.

"How about I don't dock your pay, for repairs?" Scott countered, holding tight to the armrests as his younger brother battled a shrieking crosswind. "And that goes double, for John, if he scratches the d*mn paint job." Then, because he hated like h*ll to just sit there and watch, "Want me to fly? I can take over, Virge. Seriously. No problem, at all."

But Virgil had stopped paying attention. His vivid brown eyes had narrowed intently, and his big hands were tight to the steering yoke. Engine noise had dropped from raging howl to mere grumble, while the VTOL rockets first whined, turning on their gimbals, then roared to full life.

Thunderbird 2 couldn't come down like a plane in conditions like these. She had to drop in from above, using her steering rockets to stay mostly over the runway. That gusty d*mn wind wasn't helping, at all. Virgil felt like a tennis ball trying to land on the top of the net, in the midst of a closely-fought match.

There was a picture of Emma taped to the instrument panel, right where he could see her without turning his head. Virgil Tracy smiled at his woman's small image. He had every reason on Earth to come home safe that morning, right there in one brownish-blonde, green-eyed, tough-as-nails package. Started humming, which was sort of reflexive. Bothered the crap out of Scott, but that was just a nice bonus. (Not that Virgil was mischievous, exactly… unless one of his brothers had a date, and he could cut off their hot water, that is.)

It was going to be close, fuel-wise. His VTOL rockets were down to three percent, so it was land the Bird, or crash her, again. Lower she went, and lower still, as the wind slapped and clawed at her.

"Easy, Girl," he murmured, like talking to one of the horses, back at the ranch. "Al…most… there."

With a deep, resounding BOOM, Thunderbird 2 touched down, scraping sideways a little, before Virgil got her nose back into line with the runway. There in the stormy dawn, she was big, green and rain-slick… and finally safe.

A swarm of repair mechs and service drones dashed in from every direction, hooking up power feeds and taking over, as Thunderbird 2 taxied on into her hangar, then over to maintenance. One down, four to go.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

London, former UK, in front of the GDF Tower-

It was getting on toward noon, by the time that Emma Kraft was able to leave. Funnily enough, there was a mistake in her lodging paperwork… and in her orders. As the yeoman had explained, looking highly embarrassed, sometimes a glitch got into the system, and ranks got dropped.

She could have got angry at that… or the fact that her return ticket out to Union Jack had been lost, but… nah. Not worth taking it out on an innocent, well-meaning clerk, who'd smiled nervously as he keyed in a few swift corrections. Incarcerated! Yeah, right.

The city's power grid had just now come back on line after a massive surge and blackout, and the files were an unholy mess. All night long, London had been plunged into silence and darkness, except where terrified people had set dangerous fires to bring back the light. Modern folk did not deal well with stone-age conditions.

She and Ridley had jumped in to assist Security in getting General Steele out of the frightened crowd, and over to Medical. Too late, as it turned out. The man's brain was damaged beyond repair. A massive stroke, apparently, caused by the stress of fire, darkness, and his sudden meeting with Chancellor Shaw, and Sir Creighton-Ward. Now, his body was hooked up to a roomful of cold, ticking and beeping machinery.

Captain Kraft didn't know him well, but couldn't help feeling sorry for the general, who appeared not to have a friend or a living relative, anywhere. Must be a terrible feeling, that.

Funny thing was, Emma had talked to him, just the day before… but she couldn't remember a thing that he'd said. Neither could Ree, for that matter. They'd compared notes after making their statements with Shaw and Sir Hugh. No blame had been placed for the general's sudden collapse… but a lot of stuff didn't add up.

Like, why were they here in the first place? Why had the details of their ranks, status and lodging been so badly screwed up? What had happened to General Steele, and why were there so many blank, brain-scraped prisoners standing around in the crowd? No ID, any one of them. No arrest or court-martial history, either. Where were they from?

Emma shook her head, as she stood waiting, valise in one hand, for Ridley to join her. The other young officer had detoured off to the PX for a few travel supplies, having arrived from Global-1 with not much more than her papers, and the clothes on her back. Evidently, she, like Kraft, had been summoned to London HQ in a hurry.

As she awaited her friend, Emma looked up at a huge, electronic news board, watching as images flashed up from the New Crew's abortive first mission. Thunderbird 2 was up there, as well, despite… Well... had there been something wrong with the Birds, some reason they weren't supposed to be flying? Kraft simply couldn't recall, and that made her suspicious.

"Be careful, Taz," she whispered, though the news feed was a few hours old. A reporter… Cavanaugh, that was her name… soon took over the board, looking directly into the camera, as she told the world what she'd seen. Uh-huh. Emma wasn't impressed.

"…rode in two mighty Thunderbirds, one destroyed in the storm, one badly damaged, and I can absolutely attest to the courage and heroic self-sacrifice that…"

Well, okay. Maybe a little impressed. Sort of interested, too, when the brown-haired reporter went on to say,

"Questions have been asked, about the link between missing construction funds, General Robert Steele, and a certain Dr. Fischler. Why, the whispers keep coming, were the New Crew's planes so poorly designed and constructed? How, exactly, did an old, but stable, drilling platform pick precisely that moment to fail? Some claimed to have heard the sounds of explosion. Could they be right? Were the New Crew, and International Rescue, victims of deliberate sabotage? What will the inquest, and my deep-cover reporting, reveal?"

Despite herself, Emma became so absorbed in Kat Cavanaugh's story, that she almost missed the person standing nearby, watching her. Turning slightly, the captain spotted a slim oriental girl with short black hair and cold, measuring eyes.

No uniform, nondescript clothing, no visible weapons but… there was something in the girl's hard stare that put Kraft on alert.

"Can I help you?" Emma asked, in a carefully neutral voice. The crowd had thinned by that point, giving her plenty of room to maneuver, if it came down to a fight.

"You are bound to one of them, aren't you?" the girl… nineteen, maybe twenty years old… demanded.

Startled, Emma moved her right hand protectively over the ring on her left. Its pink, heart-shaped diamond pressed into her flesh, for she'd turned the stone backward and clenched her fist.

"Well… we haven't been given official permission, yet, but… But why the h*ll am I talking about this, with you? How's it your business?!"

Something about the girl had almost compelled a response, which put Emma both on the defensive, and plunged her into a very bad mood. But the girl didn't answer directly, instead saying,

"It's dangerous. You should be warned and prepared, Emma Kraft. Tell the other, as well. Better a long, peaceful life with one of your own, than what lies ahead."

Then, she gave Kraft a peculiar, intent stare, and the captain felt something… shift. How, in what sense, she couldn't say. But, all at once, the girl was gone, and something important had changed.