Early, for once! How about that? Thanks again, for reading and reviewing. I have tremendous fun writing these stories, and it's nice when they get enjoyed. Bow Echo, Tikatu, Whirl Girl, Creative Girl and Merv, you are much appreciated.

25

Mars, the stricken Freedom colony, an hour past sunset-

Alarm klaxons blared. Battery lights glowed greenish-pale, as the hab tunnels and station continued to quake. Jeff raced forward, hearing his own loud breath over the hiss of recirculation.

"You men," he shouted, at a hurrying work crew. "Where are you headed?!"

Their speed and bulky equipment, as they cut through the dimly-lit common area, had snared his attention. One of them, a big, broad-shouldered blond, paused long enough to snap a salute, shouting,

"Emergency crew, Sir! Shutting down the reactor! If you'll excuse us, Colonel?"

Hard to be sure, under that luminescent Mars surface suit, but the fellow sounded like a Marine; aggressively loud, and all business.

"I'm coming with you," said Jeff, pulling rank. He was taller than the younger man, but not by much. It was senior officer status, plus his own fame and command presence, that choked off dispute.

The other man… Captain Rigby, according to his suit's electronic display… nodded reluctantly.

"Yessir. This way, Colonel!" he said, then resumed sprinting across the hub, soon catching up to the rest of his team. Hadn't expected Jeff to keep pace with him, judging by his startled expression and muttered oath.

Jeff smiled grimly. Eventually, he might lose a step on regular people; get short of breath after running a few miles; need help vaulting the stairs of a burning skyscraper; have to rest after climbing a mountain to reach stranded hikers… but not today, and not on Mars.

The survival suit was solid and cumbersome, but the planet's low gravity made up for all that. Jeff was practically bounding.

He followed Rigby's crew into the reactor access tunnel, which was now venting radioactive steam in great hissing clouds. Tough to see through that poisonous soup, but the survival suit's helmet came complete with scanners and VR technology. Things had certainly changed since the last time he'd been here.

Someone else joined them, as the work crew and Tracy clattered within. Short guy, energetically profane, and much given to laughter. He seized Jeff's shoulder and gave him a friendly shake, then cut on past.

"Skipper?!" said Rigby, looking shocked.

Commander McCord pushed his way to the front of the crowd, saying,

"You bet your sweet ass. My base, my busted reactor, my problem. Now, what the h*ll's gone wrong with the Goddam f*cking piece of sh*t?"

Rigby turned to one of his teammates.

"Walker?"

A fourth man stepped up, this one a tall, depressed-looking engineer.

"Sensors picked up some kind of explosion, Sir, just after Hinton's shift… then a lot of secondary concussions (probably hydrogen flares) and a catastrophic coolant pressure drop."

"F*ck," snapped Pete, feelingly. "Any way to patch the system and get some water back onto that core?"

They were racing forward by this time, the emergency crew up ahead, Jeff and McCord side by side; their combined footsteps clanking like tank treads in the steam-blasted tunnel.

"Maybe, Sir," Walker responded, panting a little. "Won't know till we get there."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Tracy Island, at the control centre-

She didn't like to do it, because it made her feel blind, but rising winds had forced Sally to shutter the windows. Since that incident with the Mechanic's drones, Brains had programmed and installed mechanized storm shutters, proof against most nearly anything.

At her regretful button-press, the titanium alloy shields slid from their decorative housings to cover each and every surface window, door, balcony and vent. There was a chiming noise, a brief hiss and the metallic snap of a catch locking down, multiplied by all the whole house… then quiet, and nothing but fake, indoor lighting.

Sally Tracy was an outdoor person, and the confinement troubled her greatly. On the other hand, she had work to do, and family to bring home. Couldn't think of yourself, when out helping others.

Virgil and them had already landed, and were rushing to clear the runway, with 2.2 coming in ragged and hot, right behind them. Gordon… her tadpole… had taken over the pilot's seat for the homestretch, as he knew the Island far better than them New Crewers did.

(At the same time, those GDF "guests" had apparently kept some low-yield demolition explosives on them, and were breaking out of the dummy lava tube maze. Right now, Sal wished them halfway to Halifax, but had much bigger, more serious fish to fry.)

There was no preset frequency for Thunderbird 2.2, so the old lady 'd had to make an all-call, which went against the grain. Every dang Curious George and his uncle would find out what was goin' on, but no help for it, Sally grumped to herself. Closing things out with Virgil, she said,

"Nice landin', Teddy. Welcome back. Now, clear on outta there, and make some space f'r the rest o' this pit-stop parade."

Her dark-haired grandson nodded at her, his flickering blue image distorted by all of that lightning and chaos.

"Yes, Ma'am. We're on it. I'd have Scott and Parker get out and push, if I thought it'd do any good. See you inside, Grandma, just as soon as 2's home and dry."

"See you, Virgil. Take care." Which was about as close as she'd ever come to saying: I love you. They were none of them good at it, preferring to show, not say.

(And, dang it, them sorry GDF varmints 'd blown their way clear through one of the hidden doors. From that end of the network, they'd wind up in Brains' multi-lab complex, and into more trouble than they knew how to handle.)

Shaking it off, Sally keyed up Thunderbird 2.2.

"Gordon, them crosswinds is fierce. Sensors 're clockin' em at close to 85 miles per hour. How much fuel you got left?"

Her connection to the ersatz Bird was poor. The big, blue cargo-lifter had no holo-projector, and its radio wasn't much to write home about, neither. Almost like they'd never been meant to last more than one or two flights. But Gordon drew her attention away, saying,

"Um… sorta low, to tell you the truth, Grandma… but with skills like these, one pass is all I need. Watch, and be amazed!"

Sally smiled, despite herself. Then Johnny called in, and Brains, with two versions of the same good idea.

"Grandma, listen; if you cut on the Island's shield projector…"

"Mrs. Tracy, if y- you will, ah… will allow m- me to program a n- nano-structure windbreak… Oh, y- your pardon, John."

"No, that's okay," the astronaut told him, shaking his head. "Go ahead, Brains."

Sally smiled briefly at both young men; the one red-haired and tall, the other a slim, short and dark-haired man of science.

"I like both o' them idears, boys. Johnny, you fix that shield up remotely ta let th' Birds in, an' nothin' else. Brains, work y'r magic. Build whatever y' think 'll cut down on that blasted crosswind… and come home safe, th' whole lot o' ya."

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll do what I can," John responded, smiling a little.

"I am n- not Gordon, Mrs. Tracy, but still, I th- think that you shall b- be amazed," said Brains, squaring his narrow shoulders.

"Whatever we do, it'd better be fast," Scott put in, looking concerned. "Some of these Birds are all the way through their tanks, batteries, and last prayers. They're down to the redline on reserve fuel, and having to glide. Speed matters, people."

Sally nodded.

"We hear ya, Boo. Just concentrate on helpin' Teddy clear th' runway, then take some o' th' service bots, an' see what you c'n do about our surprise guests. Calm 'em down, or somethin'."

(Because, by that point, lab security cameras had spotted the trapped GDF crew working on the lock system. Them boys just wouldn't quit, and was bound ta do themselves hurt, if not stopped in a hurry.)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thunderbird 2.2, in the noisy, wind-stressed cockpit-

"Everybody just shut up," Gordon snapped, as the short, lighted runway came into view through dark clouds and spattering rain. Caleb and Josh, who'd been full of loud (and conflicting) advice, fell silent; eyes on the viewscreen, hands white-knuckle tight to their armrests. Josh hadn't wanted to give up control, and it showed. His posture was defensive and rigid. Not that Gordon had much time to worry about feelings and other squishy stuff.

He'd taken over for the big, shaven-haired pilot, and nudged 2.2 into line with the runway… sort of. Grandma hadn't lied about that crosswind, and he had all the wrong reflexes. Thunderbird 2 was heavy and strong; built to fly through a hurricane or volcanic ash-cloud. This piece of sh*t mockery would have had problems with the breeze from a ceiling fan. Had problems, period. Right size, too light, and too poorly constructed.

Gordon had one shot to bring her down safe on that runway, before he ran out of fuel and ditched in the ocean. Worse, there was no heads-up display, no electrical guidance system. Just the Island's beacon, and his own instincts.

As wind and rain lashed the straining, booming hull, making that lighted airstrip seem to jiggle and dance in his water-blurred windows, Gordon came to a sudden decision. Turning his head slightly, he said,

"Josh, you know this Bird better than I do. Switch places with Caleb, and keep one hand on the transfer button. Be ready to take over, if it looks like I'm screwing things up."

The other young man looked over, then gave him a swift nod.

"Yessir," he replied, adding, "Caleb, shift your sorry butt outta my seat!"

H*ll of a time to be playing cockpit musical chairs, but the other aquanaut didn't complain… much.

"What the goof!" he muttered darkly. "I was just getting comfortable!" Took him maybe a second or two to unstrap, vault out of the copilot's chair and over to crew seating. "I can't even see from over here!" he protested, but nobody listened.

Josh Kelly settled in, took hold of the second controls, then nodded at Gordon.

"Ready, Sir," he said. "Let's do this."

Trying not to wince at that unwanted 'Sir-age', Gordon found the intercom switch and depressed it, generating a brief, loud squeal and a few feeble sparks. Right. Muttering,

"Sh*t. Never mind," he craned his head back over one shoulder and bellowed, "Hang on, back there! We're going in!"

Then, Gordon pushed slowly forward on the yoke, throttled back some, and started down. Visualized a wire, straight and bright, from his position, through those beckoning hangar doors, and onto the ground. Pictured 2.2, riding that wire, smooth as silk. Grandma was probably clicking her beads and calling up favors, right about now, and the thought made him smile.

Lightning and wind and extraneous thoughts faded out of his consciousness. He was all eyes, reflexes and big, straining Bird. You get a feel for machines, if you love them, and this one was trying. He could work with that.

Something… somehow, the wind died down to barely a whisper. (He did not see the blue soap-bubble gleam, or the sudden, towering nanobot wall, but all at once wasn't fighting to keep his aircraft in line, anymore.)

Landing gear down… reduce air speed… wrestle the nose up… stay on that line like superglue… glide in lower…

2.2 touched down, bounced a little and shimmied. Got her back under control, then felt the nose gear touch tarmac with a sharp, jarring bump. One of her tyres exploded, flinging big strips of shredded black rubber all over the runway. The nose gear sagged a little, but she kept on rolling.

"Over to you, Josh," Gordon called out, letting 2.2's pilot take back control. "I put her down, you get her in."

The pilot grinned at him, almost tearful with joy and relief.

"Yes, Sir," he said, "and, thank you."

Gordon Tracy could've said a lot of things, right then. What came out was,

"It's what we do, Josh. You'll have to get used to that. All of you."