"They that have power to hurt and will do none, That do not do the thing they most show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone." - Shakespeare

Prologue – Kysan, Korea

Scott Tracy, eldest of the five Tracy brothers and team leader of International Rescue, stood braced at their communications unit with his feet spread and a steadying hand on the console.

"Mobile Control to Thunderbird Five. John? What's the latest?"

Scott stared at the superstructure of his silver rocket-plane that overshadowed him with an almost benevolent protectiveness. Normally he would gaze up at his machine with a reverent awe but today, he studied its red nose cone, sleek body and slender landing struts as a way to gauge the movement in the ground beneath him. With the vibration of the heavy equipment clearing the debris from fallen buildings around him, it was impossible to tell where the movement was coming from - machine or earth. And he needed to know.

"Seismic activity increasing, Scott. Brains is predicting another sizeable aftershock. And soon."

Scott cursed under his breath, and, to keep his look of dismay from showing, turned his back on a group of city officials who were politely waiting for him to work some kind of miracle. He listened for the machinery working not far from him. Along with other emergency crews, Gordon had been using the Firefly as a powerful front-end loader to clear rubble from one multi-storey complex that had fallen in on itself. Virgil worked in Domo One to hold the last vertical section, which had been left standing precariously. John had picked up faint life-signs and they worked frantically to get to the survivors before the next shift in the ground.

"Mobile Control to Domo One. Virgil?"

"H-holding..." Scott could hear the strain both in Virgil and in the reactor of the Domo.

But he couldn't hear the excavator. "Mobile Control to Firefly. Report."

Gordon didn't respond.

"Gordon. Report."

There was a delay that tested Scott's patience then Gordon's voice came back at him.

"Okay over here, Scott. I think I'm getting somewhere. I think I may have found them." His voice was muffled and he grunted like he strained at something.

"What's your location?"

"Hold on a minute, I've found..."

Scott heard the chink of shifting masonry then the tap of metal on metal. Scott's heart rate jolted when he realised where Gordon could be. This time, Scott felt the deep rumble at the same time he heard it. His gaze, which had never left his Thunderbird, focused in on the unnatural sway of his machine.

"Gordon! Get back! Clear the site! That's an order!"

"I'm there, Scott. Give me a second." He heard Gordon talk in a reassuring manner to someone.

"No! Get out from wherever you are! Now!"

Scott felt the concrete ripple beneath him. Without referring to those looking on, he slap-locked the console and switched to his wrist communicator as he leapt for his hover bike.

"Virgil?"

"Can't...hold it...much..."

Scott could see the elevated arm of Domo One strain against the remains of a building as the section poised to topple. He knew Gordon had to be under there somewhere.

"Gordon! Get out!"

Scott gunned his machine across the devastated site to the Firefly. He saw the pile of hydraulic jacks and the distinctive blue of his brother's boots edging out from under a thick slab. The sight cut Scott's breathing.

He jumped from the bike and launched for his brother's legs, feeling as he did that heave, rise and gather of the pressure in the earth beneath him. He grabbed Gordon's boots and hauled backwards.

Gordon fought him. He kicked, yelled, writhed and clawed but Scott was more determined. The onlookers may have expected some show of heroics from the members of International Rescue. More often than not they were too willing to oblige but Scott was in no mood for sacrifices, not today, not after the week he'd had.

Gordon came back above ground with a rush and they toppled backward together as the surface beneath them convulsed. They'd no sooner come to rest when Scott glimpsed the entire site shift then settle with a deafening roar as forces greater than themselves raged about them and they were hit with the resulting draught. Gordon cowered on his knees, staring fixedly at the blood in his clenched fingers. Scott instinctively covered his brother as they were torched, blown and sand-blasted with dust and debris, the last exhale of a lost cause.

Silence gathered. Machinery stopped and voices stilled.

"It's gone." Virgil despaired over the com-watch. "The whole frigging lot has gone..."

Chapter One – Sydney, Australia

Scott slammed his glass down on the table in front of him. He barely noticed that half its contents splashed over his hand, onto the sleeve of his shirt and over the table set for three. Scott did notice the waiter hesitate in his track through the tables as he served other patrons but Scott made no attempt to lower the volume or intensity of his voice.

"I made a decision, Gordon, and I'll live with it. Okay."

Virgil and Gordon glanced guiltily about them, also noticing his aggressive tone was drawing attention.

"I still say I could have got them out," Gordon whispered as he leaned into the centre of the table, looming large in Scott's line of sight when the prudent would have backed off.

"You don't know that," Virgil said. "We need to debrief. Discuss this with Brains."

Scott went to raise his glass to his mouth again but found his forearm pinned to the table by Virgil's hand.

"Eat something," Virgil told him.

When Scott looked at the plate of steak and pasta in front of him, he felt nauseous. He was famished but it reminded him of what he'd done that day, what he'd been doing that entire disastrous week. He attempted to take another drink but Virgil was equally determined.

"Eat something, I said."

Scott closed his eyes. He shoved Virgil's hand aside and emptied the glass.

Scott would have felt better if they'd been able to go home and thrash this out in the rescue debrief as they normally would. But as luck or fate would have it, a tropical cyclone had blown in over their South Pacific island base while they had been away and they had to wait it out on the Australian mainland.

Virgil, forever the peacemaker, had suggested a night out to unwind and relieve the tension between him and Gordon. It took some doing but Virgil had convinced him. Their father had thought it was a good time for them to visit the newly-opened Tracy Corporation offices in Sydney. What was the harm in coming into the city a little earlier than scheduled?

"I almost had that jack under, Scott. Almost," Gordon said. He moved to get in Scott's line of sight and Scott sighed, knowing his brother would not be put off.

"And it could've collapsed on top of you and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Gordon," Virgil said. "Leave it, would you. You had no idea when the next tremor was coming." Virgil pushed his empty plate to one side. "Scott made a decision and it was the right one."

Scott ignored the growing pound of a tension headache and stared past the copper-haired head of his second youngest brother out into the darkness of the harbour. It was a warm, steamy evening. The quay was crowded with Sydneysiders as they dined and mingled. A flash of lightning highlighted the prominent bridge, which Gordon had called a coat hangar due to its unusual shape.

The lights, the boats, the sights and sounds of a harbour city were lost on Scott. He'd been immersed in too much mortality lately to give into the gaiety that easily. It was during times like this, exhausted, defeated, that the questions came. What if"? How could"?

Scott's focus shifted from the din around him to the rain as it ran down the awning that protected the windowless shopfront from the weather. For a moment he watched the water come together like the joining of hands, his gaze following the movement as the torrent cascaded to the pavement below.

"Not for those five we left in body bags, it wasn't." Gordon stared at his hand as if he was still seeing the tiny fingers entwined with his. "I had that boy by the hand. I promised him, Scott. I promised. Just a few more seconds."

Virgil sighed sympathetically. "Yeah, we feel bad about it, too."

"I left them in body bags. If you recall," Scott said before he could dampen the flash of anger that rocketed through him.

He could still see the shocked expression on his brothers' faces when he ordered them off the site once they had the rubble cleared from the dead. He'd taken it on himself to follow through on the decision he'd made and it was as a bitter medicine as he knew. He felt not a little guilty that his brother was going home with him when five families would be left to mourn their loss and he'd had the power to make that choice. It hurt like hell.

And tomorrow, no scrub that, today he would need to smile reassuringly at a whole bunch of new employees.

"This isn't working," Virgil said.

Scott reached over and downed Virgil's full measure of scotch then pushed back his chair with his legs to stand up.

"Let's find a way to lose ourselves. Come on, Gordo, what do you say?"

Gordon crossed his arms and leaned on the table drawing his finger along the rim of his own empty glass. "I wish we could go home."

Scott was stuck by the simplicity of the statement and the sentiment behind it, but before he thought of a suitable comeback a light on his com-watch flashed. This time, the three of them swore loud enough to get the attention of the waiter.

After paying for their meal, Scott led his brothers out onto the busy footpath and herded them into shelter from the rain. He stood with one elbow on each of their shoulders so they could listen in and so it didn't look strange to be talking into his watch.

"Scott to John. What have you got?" Scott said, automatically slipping on his professional demeanour.

John's face appeared in the watch dial. "Sorry, I know you were promised a break. Time to do the neighbourly thing. Authorities on Caroaka are asking for help. That's an island three hundred miles north-east of base. The cyclone has cleared from there and a mudslide has taken out a highland village. Roads have been washed away with the torrential rain. Rescue workers can't get up there for at least twenty-four hours."

Mudslide. Scott felt the muscles in his abdomen clench. Not mud. He saw Virgil and Gordon exchange disgusted glances. Working in mud gave new meaning to the saying 'getting down and dirty' and it was worse when you were already feeling like crap on the inside. Mud was mind-numbingly unwieldy to work, its fluid nature giving it no structure for machines to work effectively. It usually came down to heaving a shovel.

He wasn't surprised by the emergency. Unanchored earth on steep terrain plus rain meant mudslide. What bothered him was that highland villages were most often constructed of lightweight materials. He grimly did a count of the body bags they had left on board. There would be little rescue, only recovery. But then - if they saved one life it would be worth the discomfort to them.

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose as he listened. "Give us thirty minutes." He grinned when both his brothers protested. "All right, make it forty. Just to humour the sceptics."

John knew exactly where they were - a long way from their machines. Thunderbird One and Thunderbird Two were camouflaged by nets in the house paddock of Lady Penelope's Bonga Bonga homestead hundreds of kilometres to their west. They needed to drive their hire car back to the airport and fire up Tracy jet Three for a subsonic dash across the Australian outback before they could even think about the rescue effort. In order to do that even under one hour and fifteen minutes as Scott estimated, he would need all the help John could give him.

The men jogged back to the distinctive sedan they'd left parked up a few blocks from Circular Quay. As they were unfamiliar with the territory, Scott left the communication line open.

"Call up all the telemetry. You're my eyes and ears, bro."

John's blond-haired visage didn't change as it floated eerily along on his wrist. "It'll cost you."

"Doesn't it always." He bet John was referring to the fact that their father didn't know they'd left Bonga Bonga. "Speaking of threats. How's communication with base? Any chance Alan can get over?"

"Not a hope. You're it, Scott. The eye'll pass sometime in the next hour then they'll have to wait for the wind to abate. They're bunkered down in the lab but they're not expecting catastrophic damage. At the moment communication's patchy. If it is taken out it shouldn't take Alan too long to restore it."

By the time all three made it to the car they were tearing at their jackets from the heat. Scott automatically headed for the left side of the vehicle prepared to do battle with Gordon who had taken up his position by the front door. Then he corrected when he remembered where he was. Australians drive on the wrong side of the road. By that time Virgil had beaten him to the driver's door. His brother leaned against the door panel with his arms folded.

"I'll drive."

"No chance."

"Father stood you down. You had a shit week and you're not supposed to be on this. I'll do it."

"Out of the way. You heard John. Al can't cover for me and it's my job, my responsibility."

"You didn't eat and you had - a couple of drinks."

Scott glanced across the roof of the car to Gordon who picked at the paintwork absentmindedly.

"Gordon? You sure you're okay?" Since Gordon's recent horrific ordeal at the hands of kidnappers, Scott got worried when Gordon went quiet. He saw he needed to have a good talk with him but patch-up work was for home and they were a long way from there.

"Sure thing," Gordon replied while still staring at the roof of the car.

"Look. The one thing I'm glad about. I didn't load you into one of those bags. Okay?"

Gordon nodded.

"The damn keys," Virgil said.

Scott leaned heavily against Virgil's shoulder. "Let's see if I got this straight. One before we left Bonga. One while you waited for your order. One with your meal. Do I need to go on?" Scott pointed to the interior of the vehicle. "It's got a drunk meter, for heaven's sake." He used Gordon's term to describe the ignition interlock fitted to the Monaro but it still didn't get the response he wanted from the redhead. "If I fail, I'll hand them over. Agreed? Come on. No time to argue."

Virgil mulled it for a second then unhappily stepped to take the back seat. Scott got in, cracked his knuckles and pressed his finger in the sensor as the first part to starting the car. The rental company had installed driver impairment technology to measure reaction time and co-ordination to make sure the driver was fit enough to pilot. Scott followed the rapid sequence of six activities with ease and the car started.

Scott referred back to his wrist-com. In Tracy vehicles they could bring up the information on a visual satellite navigation screen, here John would have to guide him blind. John would be looking at street layout, traffic position, traffic light sequences, pedestrian location and that all-important notification of speed detection units, both automatic and manual. To help those people on Caroaka he would really need to fly and that meant on the ground as well as in the air.

Scott ran the wipers and did a sweeping check of the instruments in the habit of a pilot. "Everyone strapped in?" When he got murmurs from around him, he said. "Okay, John. It's dark and raining so help me good, okay?"

The airport was eight kilometres south from the centre of Sydney. Scott pushed the car first through streets of inner city office buildings then inner city industrial areas then into re-developed urban precincts. He had no trouble handling the hazardous conditions with John feeding him information and his brothers riding shotgun. He had no trouble, that is, until they could virtually see the lights of the airfield.

He took a left turn from the arterial onto a feeder road that would take them to their destination. It was a fast turn and he felt the rear of the Monaro slide a fraction. Oil, he bet. He accelerated smoothly to stop any side drift and was really beginning to open it up on John's go-ahead when there was a simultaneous shout. His senses picked up both John's shout of warning and Gordon's plea of "Look out!"

Scott saw a flash of fast-moving colour in his headlights. It was a pedestrian, cutting a path straight across him. He made a stab at going around the person like he would on a slalom course but they kept pace with his accelerating swerve to the right. There was a sickening thump then a cry from the other occupants of the car as an outstretched hand came at them like an arrow. The fingers, fully extended, contacted the windscreen and stuck there for a horrific millisecond. The rest of the body followed, slapping into the windscreen to crack it before sliding silently off the side, swept off the bonnet by the sideways movement of the car.

Shocked by the impact, Scott overcorrected. His instinct told him he was way too far to the right not to make contact with something solid. Before he could override this natural tendency, his foot was on the brake, sending the vehicle into a slurring slide. He tried to reverse lock and accelerate out of it but in the wet the tyres refused to grip. There was little he could do. He watched helplessly as the Monaro slid sideways. Then slammed into a power pole.

Chapter Two

Gordon blinked rapidly in those first seconds after impact. He had watched the front section of the Monaro flex to the left at a different rate to the rest of the vehicle then the windscreen disintegrate into a fractured mosaic that flapped rhythmically in the momentum of the crash. The sounds of twisting metal and breaking glass and that noise of a fast moving object meeting an unmovable one were all around him. The power pole they'd hit remained upright but the impact telegraphed the shock into the overhead wires creating a tortured, ominous creak. He feared the worst but it didn't happen. The live wires remained in place. Shaken but in place.

After that, there was a period of confusion until natural law was satisfied. During this time all he could see was the imprint of the hand that had impacted the windscreen. He held up his own hand in order to gain a comparison. It had been small. And female.

Oh shit.

He glanced about him. He'd fared okay. His front and side air bags had inflated and all he could recall was the heave of the seat belt on his shoulder. He would feel that another day. He looked across to Scott. Not so lucky. The sight of him automatically overrode his natural horror and his EMT training kicked in.

The vehicle had struck the pole at the front pillar. The air bag on the driver's door had worked but the one on the steering wheel had inflated then failed. The cabin had crushed in and Scott was unnaturally close to the impact. He appeared wrapped around the steering wheel, both his arms raised in a defensive gesture around the collapsed wheel, his chest on it and his face resting against what was left of the windscreen. He was showered in glass from the side window and the metal of the door pillar was folded down around him.

When he heard movement in the rear, Gordon twisted in his seat. Gordon startled when he saw a short post from footpath eatery barriers had pierced the cabin and stopped just short of Virgil's abdomen. Virgil pulled at his shirt to inspect the damage.

"Missed me," Virgil said. Then he winced. "I think. Winded maybe. Wow."

"Okay?"

Virgil shook his head as if to clear it. "Give me a sec."

Gordon unbuckled his seat belt and touched Scott's shoulder to reach for his pulse. He was surprised to see Scott was conscious. His brother stared blankly through the front then his eyes slid towards the sound of Gordon's voice.

"Dear God," Scott whispered. "Please tell me I didn't... Please tell me..."

"Take it easy." Gordon reached in around him and turned off the ignition. A fire was the last thing they needed. "It's okay."

As soon as Gordon opened his com-link on his watch, John nearly jumped down the line at him. "What in the blazes happened?"

"We hit a pedestrian," Gordon said tonelessly. He was shocked enough not to be able to think of any easy way to say it.

John's mouth gapped momentarily. "What was that almighty noise?"

"We hit a pole. Can't go into details. We're all up but we need help. Urgently. A unit with extraction gear and a mobile intensive care. Whatever they have here."

John breathed heavily into the mike. "Immediately."

Gordon cut the link to turn his attention back to Scott. Scott's left arm was pinned behind what remained of the steering wheel. Once Gordon had unclipped Scott's smashed com-watch his arm was free and Scott showed no great distress at it being moved. Gordon brushed away glass then felt around for Scott's right arm. The light was dim but it appeared to disappear into a tangle of metal and fragments of the dashboard.

Not so good.

"You hurt anyplace?"

Scott shook his head but Gordon knew better than to trust his brother's self-report. Scott hated medical attention and would be the last to admit he needed it. In the fraction of a second of silence that followed as Gordon checked his brother over, he heard a steady drip. Gordon ducked down to look under the dash. He could see a steady line of blood run along the steering column and into the floor well.

Even worse.

"Get me out of here, Gordo. Please."

"Hang on, I'm just looking. It's all right."

"Virg? Virgil?" Scott tried to turn his head towards the rear seat but Gordon stopped him.

"Right here, don't worry," Virgil said softly.

Gordon took another precious moment to feel around for Scott's other arm. No luck. He would need mechanical help to get him out.

"Get me out of here," Scott said. "I hit someone. I have to help."

"Not right now," Gordon said. "You're caught well and good, we can't move you."

The more Gordon worked, the more his mind got into gear and his movements became quicker. All the while the image of that hand haunted him. He knew where his priority was but he couldn't leave his brother just yet. Virgil unbuckled his seat belt and eased forward between the seats, bringing his jeans jacket to pack around Scott's trembling shoulders. Gordon indicated between Scott's knees.

"He's bleeding down there. A lot. From his arm, I think. Pressure on his brachial might help. Otherwise-"

"I'm on it. Otherwise, very last resort. Tourniquet. I won't let him bleed out while I watch." Virgil glanced behind him. "Get out and see if there's anything you can do."

Gordon stared at his side door, saw the tortured state of the side frame and reached for the fire extinguisher attached to the middle of the door pillar. He used it to smash the window sufficiently for him to push safely through and handed the extinguisher back to Virgil.

"Take care of under the hood," Virgil said as if reading his mind. "We're under control here. Go, Gordon."

Gordon pushed off from the Monaro more weak-kneed than he expected.

It was an urban street, with high density housing squeezed between low rise office blocks, old commercial properties and boutique dining. It was still raining and the street lights made white halos in places along the street. Other vehicles had stopped and a handful of people spilled from a doorway. Outside lights were turning on as curious residents investigated the noise.

Gordon ran to the heap in the middle of the road and got there as two others bent over her. By the hand he'd seen, he knew he'd see a teenage girl. At that moment, it struck him that it was often the hand he found first and he could see the one that had hit the windscreen was at a strange angle to the rest of her arm. He was reminded of the hand he'd let go earlier in the day and relived that moment of abandonment. It made him hesitate. What if he failed this one? But adrenaline and training pushed him past the doubt. Like his shoulder, he would feel it another day.

He'd rarely seen a human look so limply pliable. That meant multiple fractures.

"We need to move her off the road to a safer place," the first helper said.

"No! Don't move her. Organise someone to stop the traffic and bring some blankets. As quick as you can."

Perhaps warned by Gordon's stern expression, the helpers obeyed without question. He fell onto his knees, his mind already throwing in the list of possible injuries an accident such as this would cause: major extremity and pelvic damage, serious back injuries, multiple fractures, fractured skull, just to name a few - if the victim was still alive.

He found a pulse. A thready one but a pulse. There was no voluntary movement in her chest wall. He yanked off his jacket, rolled it into a log and slipped it gently around her neck. He very carefully eased back her head, checked her airway was clear then commenced CPR with a quick breath in her mouth. As he anxiously watched for a rise in her chest, an older woman carrying what looked like a tackle box ran to help, kneeling on the opposite side of the victim to him.

"I'm a doctor," she said to him.

The woman took over the emergency breathing with an ambu bag and Gordon relayed the injuries he'd already observed. She checked the patient then nodded approvingly at him. In the distance, sirens blared and Gordon took a moment to glance up at the onlookers crowding in around them.

"Keep back," he ordered. "Keep well back unless you can help."

As they worked, the woman said, "You do that well."

He agreed automatically.

The emergency crews arrived in a riot of colour and noise and by the time the paramedics had taken over, Gordon was relieved the girl was breathing on her own. It was the best start he could hope for. The absolute best under the circumstances.

John stared at the screen long after Gordon had bluntly given the news and signed off. He tried to think back, to remember what had just happened. He looked at the telemetry screen for some place to start. He could, in a fake computer-generated way, see the street. The building and roadways were lines and shapes, the cars and people on it were varying shades depending on their ability to generate heat. The weird distortion and sheer physical distance made it difficult to comprehend what he was looking at but with a little imagination it was possible. Now, too much was a disadvantage. He could see the huddle near the centre of the road and also off to the side where the vehicle had come to rest.

John tried to recall how in the hell it had happened. There had been no pedestrian any near the road when Scott came around the corner. He was sure. He'd turned away for a moment to key in Tracy Three's flight co-ordinates. It was routine. Multi-tasking was his forte. In the space station, he had streams of information coming at him from all angles and no more so than on a rescue. He could handle it. He was damned sure he'd checked the road was clear, so how could this happen?

John knew he would have to contact home sooner rather than later. Yes, Father. A little trouble, here. Scott's just hit and possibly killed a pedestrian. Gordon was moving around but called for ‑­extraction gear so Scott and/or Virgil was injured. The fact that Scott had not called in and had not gone to the aid of the victim spoke volumes.

Okay. Try again. A little trouble, here, Father. Scott's just hit and possibly killed a pedestrian. Scott lost control of the car and smashed into a pole. Virgil and Scott are injured. No, Scott was taking too much blame. He needed to rephrase it. He would make sure his father was sitting down.

John steeled himself as he opened the link to base. "Thunderbird Five to International Rescue. Come in, base."

"Base"Thunderbird Five." His father's steely grey image cleared then dropped out in blocks while his voice came in choppy phrases that were interspersed with shrieks. Alan, Brains and his father would be in Brain's lab deep beneath their island home to wait out the storm. Tin-Tin and Grandma were sheltering in New Zealand with Kyrano, their father's personal assistant. Good, he didn't have to break the news to the women.

"We have a situation here, Father." John wiped his sweaty palms on the pants of his uniform.

"Have they launched?"

"Ah - Dad, are you sitting down?"

That statement actually made Jeff stand up. "What's happened?"

"There's been an accident." John heard his father take a breath even over the whine of the wind in the background. He saw the faces of Alan and Brains move into view behind his father's shoulder.

"Okay. Give it to me."

John did give it to him, almost as bluntly as Gordon had been. There was no other way to say it. Jeff did sit down then, still staring at the screen as he received the news.

Blond-haired Alan bent into view. "Once the wind has died down, Brains, Tin-Tin and I can come get Thunderbird Two and go help those people in Caroaka. Six hours max."

"We'll get there," his father said, as the transmission was breaking up, not asking as many questions as John expected. "As soon as we can. Tell everyone to sit tight. Tell them to stay exactly where they are."

"Back off, Virg. Let go." Scott pushed against his brother's bulk then grunted when it didn't get him closer to the centre of the road.

"Sit down. Move around and your arm'll bleed more."

Scott glanced down at what Virgil had done for him. Virgil had made a pressure tourniquet from what he had to hand: a tie, a pen and folded handkerchiefs and applied it just above his elbow so not all the blood supply to his lower arm was compromised. His forearm was splinted with a tyre lever and parts of the wheel jack Virgil had found in the boot. Above that, it was wrapped in electrical tape and his leather jacket. All it looked like was he had his jacket draped over his arm so he wouldn't lose it.

"I can do something."

"Sit over here." Virgil pointed to the footpath. "The medics are on the job. We make it a policy not to interfere, you know that. We'd only get in the way."

"This is important. I have to."

"Sit down."

Scott still tried to get past Virgil even as a police officer motioned a paramedic over to check him. "We're okay. See what you can do over there. She needs the help."

"Don't be a fool." Virgil turned to the paramedic. "I applied a tourniquet. It's been on four minutes."

The paramedic closed in on Scott but Scott back-pedalled. "The girl first. Do everything you can for her."

"Scott! Please!" Virgil pulled on Scott's good arm to stop him from shying away from the medical help.

"The girl," Scott insisted.

The paramedic waited impatiently, didn't get the permission he needed then indicated he would return to Scott later.

"Who's the driver here?" the police officer said.

Scott stopped his struggle with Virgil to stand a little straighter. "I am, sir."

"Step back on the footpath for me, please. Out of the way. Just there." He pointed to a spot on the pavement up against a building that was out of the rain.

They complied, walking past the fire officers who were checking the broken-backed Monaro and the integrity of the pole, which was almost immersed into the bodywork of the vehicle. Scott's stomach contents lurched when he saw the damage he'd caused.

But he also knew that was the least of it.

"How's the young woman? Is there any news?" the brothers asked almost at the same time.

"Not yet. Name?"

"Tracy. Scott Tracy."

The police officer asked him general questions about what had happened and he answered as best he could until he was asked.

"Any particular reason for the hurry, driver?"

Scott didn't answer. He wasn't thinking fast enough to give a good answer. What could he say? Yes! Lives in Caroaka depended on International Rescue's prompt response?

The police officer waited then said impatiently. "Okay. Stay right here. Don't move from this spot. I'll be a couple of minutes and we'll go into details."

Scott sat on the footpath, his back supported by the concrete foundations of an old building, his knees drawn up around him as he cradled his right arm close to his body in his lap. Virgil stood over him with his arms folded across his chest. In a strange, detached kind of way, Scott felt euphoric just to be free of the car. He wasn't claustrophobic but he couldn't stand to be enclosed anywhere where he couldn't move freely. He was not one to like being thwarted.

His mind was a step behind still trying to formulate a good reason. He was travelling at speed because John said it was safe to do so.

"John," Scott said. "Where's my com-watch? I need to contact John."

Virgil pulled it out of his jeans pocket to hold it up forlornly. "Got it but it's broken. Have mine." He unclipped his own and handed it to Scott, who immediately established a link to the secret space station.

"John, listen to me. Don't beat yourself up about this. Okay? I was driving. I bear full responsibility." All John did was to stare unblinkingly at him. "We knew it wasn't foolproof."

When John finally spoke, Scott could hear the tension. "I don't know where she came from. I was keying in the flight plan to Bonga. I looked away for no more than a second."

"We'll go over the recordings together, okay. Did you get through to Father?"

"He's on his way as soon as the wind eases. Maybe in a couple of hours. Alan, Brains and Tin-Tin will come get Thunderbird Two and do what they can at Caroaka."

Virgil leaned to see into the watch face. "Gordon and I can go. Just as soon as Scott's taken care of."

"Father wants you to stay."

"Why?"

"It was a bad connection, Virg. We didn't get long. He was adamant."

Scott saw Gordon separate from the crowd and run over. "Hang on. Here comes Gordo."

There was a frown across his brother's brow but none of the devastated look Scott had seen when they'd lost those people earlier that day. "You've got good news, I can tell."

"Maybe! Hey, good to see you two out of there. The guys were surprised."

"Virg's a genius with a tyre iron." Scott was no prouder of his brother than when he had stood on the bonnet, his feet spread, heaving back the shattered windscreen with little more than the short metal instrument and his brute strength.

"Well, so far so good," Gordon reported. "You know maybe we can be hopeful but now I'm worried about you, Scott. Praise from the man, himself. Take notes, Virg."

Gordon stood over him then reached to draw the covering on his arm but Scott fended him off.

"Ah-no you don't. Not for the faint-hearted and especially not for anyone under the age of twenty-five."

Frowning deeper now, Gordon appealed to Virgil, who strolled to lean on the bonnet of the car with both hands as if he was looking into it.

"A bad crush injury to his forearm and deep lacerations that'll require stitching. Fractured ulna at the very least. But the bleeding's controlled. Other than a multitude of cuts and bruises particularly to his rib cage, I'd say he's pretty damn lucky."

"Hey," Scott said. "How about I set up open contact on Virgil's comm, here, and we can all commune. Group hug kind of thing. I mean - I don't mean - I mean in spirit. That's the new corporate thing, isn't it? I haven't forgotten I'm in deep, here. Humour me. Please."

They stared across at the frantic activities and he knew enough to know when things were going okay. So far so good. The girl was alive and the people of Caroaka would still get help quicker than from their own people if Alan could take Thunderbird Two. Scott was just starting to let go of a little of the terror he felt when he saw Virgil sway.

"Virgil?"

Virgil pressed his face into his upper arm then stepped along the gutter away from the vehicle to vomit. He made a funny noise as he clutched his left side. Scott tried to get up to help but pain in his chest and arm defeated him and he started to crawl to him.

"Virgil?"

Gordon was by his brother's side in an instant. "Sit down. Quickly."

"I think I must have pulled something when I levered that door pillar," Virgil said breathlessly.

Gordon reached across to press under his ribs and Virgil made a choked cry as he doubled over. "Your colour's very bad. Lie down. There you go."

Gordon almost pushed him to street level. A police officer noticed Virgil collapse and called for a paramedic. Scott was shocked to see Virgil start to writhe on the pavement.

"Virgil!"

Scott got to his brother at the same time as the paramedic and police officer. He would have helped him but the police officer wouldn't let him, physically manhandling him back to the footpath.

"Virgil. Hang on. It'll be okay." He wanted to be with his brother, to have his hands on him to reassure him. He called to him over the distance until he became breathless with the effort then had to watch and listen to Virgil cry in agony as the paramedics prepped him for an emergency dash to hospital.

Gordon suggested a ruptured spleen and Scott agreed. The critically ill girl was loaded into a care unit first then Virgil. Scott was heartbroken to see his best mate being taken away.

Virgil. I am so sorry.

Gordon glanced back at him when they were ready to go.

"Stay with him. Don't leave him," he whispered to Gordon through the com-link. The younger brother raised his hand in acknowledgement as he climbed in before the doors shut. Scott watched sorrowfully as the vehicles disappeared into the distance.

The police officer returned to him. "You sure you're okay? We're waiting for another unit to take you, should be here any minute. Bad night with this rain."

"No problem," Scott said. He had an insane fear of hospitals after last seeing his mother in one. It was the bed she'd been in he vividly remembered. Sanitised. Unblemished. Made up for someone else. He was in no hurry to go anywhere and his arm was numb enough to tell him he didn't want to know the outcome. With his injury, he was the one who should've been screaming blue bloody murder, not his brother.

The police officer looked at him then at the car he'd wrecked. "You'd better buy a ticket in Tatts with the luck you're having."

Scott silently agreed it was not one of his better days and he was well aware of the potential for it to get even worse. Much worse. If that girl dies" He was so exhausted he felt light-headed. He leaned on his good hand and spoke to John, who was trying to reach base again but was unsuccessful. Scott put the com-watch down beside him and closed his eyes for a moment.

Or at least it felt like a moment. Then he heard the rustle of fabric near him. He opened his eyes in time to see someone swipe the com-watch from the asphalt beside him, almost out of his hand, and dash for the safety of the crowd.

"Hey!"

The police and fire crews were marking the scene, taking photographs and clearing the mess. They didn't seem to notice Scott start to run. The loss of his communicator was sufficient spur to get him on his feet and staggering after the culprit, using the wall of the building as a support.

He'd left the watch on open contact, which meant whoever held it could listen in on all their transmissions and could see the faces of those who spoke. It was a gut-wrenching blow.

"John! John! Shut it down! Shut it down!" he yelled as the thief made it back to the police line tape and disappeared under it into the crowd of onlookers.

On open communication it was all or nothing. With an outsider in possession of the watch, John would be forced to shut all the communication between Five and the operatives on the ground. They were now essentially cut-off from base.

Scott heard a shout for him to stop. It came from behind him with sufficient authority to make him hesitate but he was also determined to catch the culprit. As he reached the tape, a flash of brilliant light in his eyes temporarily blinded him. As he groped wildly for the barrier, a hand yanked on the back of his shirt and a strong arm across his chest stopped him cold.

John was horrified when a strange face leered at him into the screen for the wrist-coms. His first reaction was to duck out of range of the visual field. As always when on duty in the space station, he was wearing the distinctive uniform of International Rescue: blue suit, hat, and sash with their logo emblazoned on it. Scott's distant but impassioned plea to shut it down had him scrambling to do just that. His fingers shook as he reached for the control to cut all communication. The fearful tone in Scott's voice told him the worst. Someone had stolen it from him.

Virgil down, now the watch. Shit, the news only gets better.

He tried to establish contact with base again. Now, not only were his palms sodden so was the rest of him. Without the wrist-coms operating, Alan and Brains would be put at greater risk when they went to the danger zone.

After much trying, he established a link that lasted more than a few seconds. Perhaps the winds were finally easing. He'd been too busy placating the authorities on Caroaka for the delay to check the conditions for himself.

When he faced his father, he could hardly look at him. "There's been developments, Dad, but they're not good."

The iron face looking back at him was expressionless. "Go ahead."

John relayed what he knew and it felt inadequate.

"Right. Put Thunderbird Five on automatic and use the escape pod. Set a course for Bonga Bonga. I need you down here. Communicate with Caroaka and give our apologies. Shut everything down and get down here. Alan, Brains and I will fly to Sydney just as soon as this wind eases. As of this minute, International Rescue is non-operational."

John was stunned to hear the words but he was expecting it. He heard protests from behind his father, Alan's voice raised a few notes.

"Non-operational! But Dad, we can't not go. Since when have we not gone? Brains and I can go."

"No, son. Too dangerous if you can't communicate with each other once you leave the Thunderbirds. No, we spread ourselves too thin with Virgil and Gordon unable to help. Scott's in serious trouble. And so are we. We need everyone on board to fix this confounded mess."

"But we said we'd go," Alan persisted. "The press'll crucify us. International Rescue Refuses Rescue. I can see it. We'll be dead meat."

"It'll be a first but so be it. We take the flack." His father focused back on John and John wished he hadn't. "All right, I want to know exactly how this happened and how those boys came to be in Sydney. But first we need to cover the essentials. See if you can fix a link to Penelope and tell her what's happened. We need to use the facilities at Bonga. And, John, I want to know why you didn't tell me where those boys had gone. You understand me."

John broke the link under the guise of interference and blanched.

Scott was marched by the scruff of his neck to the police car and ordered to sit in the back seat.

"That's not necessary," he said, feeling like he was hyperventilating from his exertion. "I wasn't running away."

"Not from what I just saw. Now, how about some ID?"

"My watch. Someone stole my watch," Scott said, trying to control his breathing.

"Settle down. Take it easy. We'll get to that but it might be the least of your worries. ID, please."

Scott looked down at his jeans. "Rear right pocket."

"Get it out for me."

Scott tried to retrieve it with his left arm when his right wouldn't move but he couldn't reach it. He was dismayed to feel his injury start to run with blood after the attempt. "I'm sorry, officer, I can't."

The policeman leaned forward to whip back the jacket wrapped around his arm. He cursed at the sight of Scott's mangled arm then examined the ever-expanding pool in Scott's lap. The officer stepped back to talk grimly into his shoulder mike and he didn't like what he heard. He went to the boot before coming back with a blanket.

"I'll take you to the hospital myself. Why didn't you say something? Doesn't that hurt?"

"Yes, but not as much to see that girl on the blacktop or to see my brother taken off screaming like that."

The officer softened. "Okay. We'll get you help right away. I do need to attend to some basic formalities first. Be as quick as I can. Your ID, okay?"

Scott nodded and the officer pulled out his wallet without jostling his arm.

"Could I ask about the young woman?"

"Holding. Holding. Which is good." The officer gave a weak smile. He looked through Scott's wallet. "Scott Jefferson Tracy. Tracy Corporation, New York." He looked up. "As in Tracy bigger than Microtech Corporation?" Scott was surprised the man had heard of them. "Your company just opened an office around here. I was on crowd control." Crowd control? Tracy Corporation didn't normally attract that much attention, did it? "I heard it has a bigger operating budget than the US Government."

"Well..." They needed it to operate International Rescue.

The officer pulled out a box to stick a plastic tube into the end of it. "Blow in this for me. It's to give us a preliminary blood alcohol reading. As hard as you can." The officer waited for the reading and Scott couldn't tell what his response was. "Do you have your passport on you, Mr Tracy?"

Passport. Scott felt another flash of panic. He hoped John had remembered to key him in some permission to be in this country otherwise he would now be considered an illegal.

His American citizenship was usually sufficient to get him into most countries, including the greatly expanded European Union. This island continent was one of the few western countries to insist on protecting its borders. On rescues, he was normally in and out of countries without being detected. He didn't need a passport.

What if he was asked how he got into the country? Supersonic rocket-plane that few radars could detect and even fewer people had seen?

Scott shook his head as he realised another dilemma his accident had caused.

"I'll arrange extra security at the hospital for your family," the officer reassured him. "The media'll go into meltdown over this. I wouldn't like to be in your shoes."

Scott's mood plummeted. He knew if his image appeared in the papers in the morning, International Rescue's ability to function would be seriously compromised. He was the public face of the organisation at the danger zone. He was the one who'd made the phrase 'no pictures' into an authoritative art form. Enough people had seen him to make the connection between IR and Tracy Corporation. It would only take a handful of people around the world to voice that connection. The rest, as they say, would be history.

He glanced around searching for the presence of any media personnel. Then he remembered the flash in his eyes as he'd tried to breach the tape.

Chapter Three

Jeff turned to the diminutive scientist who was standing beside him. "Well, Brains? Can that individual wrist-com be isolated from the others?"

"Oh, yes, Mr Tracy."

"Even on open contact?"

"Well - yes. It just needs to be - uh - reconfigured."

"How long?"

Brains adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses. "That's the problem, I - uh - believe. It'll take some time - uh- with this storm. It'll need me to -uh- configure each link separately through Five's computer."

"We must have those comms back on line."

"Yes, sir. As soon as I - uh- can. But you know as soon as I do, -uh- you won't be able to trace the stolen comm, Mr Tracy. It would be - uh- imperative to retrieve that device -uh- if at all possible. The - uh- circuits in it are very sophisticated. They would interest a - uh- lot of people."

"Of course. That's right. John can get onto it as soon as he's back. Penelope can help us. You could start the shutdown?"

"Oh, yes."

"Could there be a fault with the telemetry so that girl was not picked up?"

"That's unlikely. Not if the rest - uh- is working. They all would show or none would."

"I don't like this, Brains. How long before we can get off this damn island?"

"Two hours forty is my - uh- estimate."

"Right. In the meantime, I'll engage the best lawyer I can find and get the new CEO of Tracy Corp Australia out of bed."

"Mr Tracy, lie back, please." An emergency room nurse pushed back on Scott's shoulder but he refused to move.

"The girl? Is she okay? Does anyone know her name? I'd like to know her name. Please."

"Still alive last we heard. We're not able to give you any more details. Now, lie back. We can't examine you while you're half off the table."

Scott nodded but didn't move. He felt someone feel for the artery in his left arm. "What about Virg?" When the nurse raised her eyebrows, he added, "Virgil Tracy. My brother. MVA. Possible ruptured spleen."

"He's been taken to surgery. He should be just fine."

Again Scott nodded and looked up to see a crowd of medical staff staring at him, waiting for him to submit. He felt the coldness of a swab and he pulled away. If they started an IV he knew he wouldn't be going anywhere in a hurry. Several pairs of hands grabbed at him.

"Not a good idea, Mr Tracy. We could hurt you. Lie down, please." It was the surgical registrar this time. Speaking very patiently.

"I have to speak to my father. There's something important I have to tell him. I have to get home."

"Mr Tracy. Your arm needs urgent attention or you risk losing it."

"Oh, this. It's okay. We can fix it. No problem." Scott pressed his good hand to his forehead, finding it increasingly difficult to keep all his thoughts in one place. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand. There were things he just had to do, to organise, to supervise.

"Really." There were patient but tense smiles. "And where do you live?"

"Well - on a - private island in the..." the volume of his voice trailed as he looked at their bemused expressions.

The registrar closed in on him. "As our guest, you can be assured of all the resources of the state-of-the-art Australian health system. I may run kangaroos in my top paddock, Mr Tracy, but I do know my way around the anatomy of your arm."

That comment bought guarded chuckles from the staff. Scott was aware of the stereotypical comment about Aussies and kangaroos. He'd been to Bonga Bonga often enough. He smiled with them. He understood they weren't teasing him. They were trying to diffuse a difficult situation without having to resort to physical restraint. It was something he would do. Distract. Humour. Diffuse.

It wasn't going to work.

"But you see Br-" He was going to say that Brains had perfected the new micro-surgery unit and they'd been keen to try out for real then thought better of it. He did know his arm needed the best or he'd have to live without it.

The police officer stepped forward. "You have a choice. Either you check in here or I take you down the lock-up. They're the only options you have. You will be charged with offences that carry jail terms. You're not going home. Better get used to the idea."

They stared at him, waiting for his decision. The two security guards, he realised, were there to not only stop people getting to him but also to stop him from absconding. They waited.

Scott stared at each of them in turn. They didn't understand what would happen if he did lie down. He had responsibilities. He was the mainstay of the family. It had been that way since his mother died. At an early age, his duty had been impressed on him. His father was counting on him to protect his brothers, to protect their family and no more since they'd established International Rescue. He was the field commander. The decision maker. Damage control was his brief.

He needed to do what he could for this child he'd hit, maimed. He needed to find that com-watch. He needed to be there when Virgil woke up. He needed to assure Gordon and John everything was okay. He needed to discuss strategy with Father.

He needed to fix this fucken mess.

"I have to speak to John," he said to no-one in particular, almost thinking out loud.

"Who's John?" the nurse asked him.

The officer scratched his temple. "He's, um, been talking to someone he called John all evening, only no-one by that name was there."

Scott saw the registrar nod to someone outside his line of vision and indicate down with his forefinger.

"Tell Gordon someone took my picture! Please!" Scott shouted, understanding they were going to sedate him, and he hoped Gordon might be somewhere near to hear him. He was restrained and the needle jabbed into his upper arm before he could stop them.

"Decision made, Mr Tracy. Lie down."

Scott hit the sheets hard.

The fall was not so much the result of the injection but the ignominy of it. The contents didn't knock him out completely. They just immobilised him. He was a superbly fit and strong man. His grandma had seen him without his shirt and commented he was one of the best examples of Midwest prime she'd seen but he was not some wild animal to be brought to ground by chemical ropes.

As he faced into what he could see was an unstoppable nightmare for him, for his family and for International Rescue, he was mortified to see water well up into his vision. He was aware in a detached kind of way that someone had noticed and attempted to reassure him by stroking his forehead.

It was too late. When he went down, he felt something give within him.

Gordon was in another part of Emergency when he heard Scott's shout. He'd accompanied Virgil as far as he was allowed and was relieved Virgil was still with it when he'd been taken upstairs for emergency surgery. Once the paramedics had given Virgil a sedative stick to suck on, he was far more comfortable. A torn spleen had been quickly determined by a scan. With modern technology, a spleen could now be repaired and saved using keyhole surgery rather than removed during a major operation.

Potentially, that meant a rapid recovery.

While Gordon was there, he'd also witnessed the transfer of the girl to somewhere where they would stabilise her horrific leg injuries. He silently wished her well. He immediately thought of the long months ahead of rehabilitation if she was fortunate to get that far. After a hydrofoil accident, he'd been left with a multitude of injuries. It had taken months of surgery and intensive therapy to regain his independence. He understood what it would take to learn to walk again.

He felt very sore, dirty and depleted. His shirt carried the outward signs of how he felt. He had inadvertently wiped Scott's blood across his shirt then Virgil had thrown up on him. He couldn't understand why his com-watch didn't work and he wondered if John had been able to reach base with the storm.

When he had casually mentioned he'd also been in the vehicle when it crashed, Gordon was shown to another cubicle where they insisted on checking him, too. They'd scanned him to check for any damage and now he waited for the results as he waded through the paperwork he was asked to fill out.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end when he heard Scott cry out. It had brought him to his feet, a tingling sensation transmitting all the way to his feet.

"Is Scott okay? That's my brother."

"A little confused and frightened. He'll be okay," a circulating nurse said.

Scott confused? Scott frightened? Scott was the calmest, coolest individual under pressure he knew.

"Maybe I can help." He'd seen hefty security guards go into his brother's cubicle that was curtained off from view.

"He's being taken care of."

"Oh, Scott won't like that."

The nurse smiled and asked if there was anything they could do for him but he declined. "Then, if you'll sign this paperwork you can go. Is there someone to pick you up?" All Gordon could do was stare blankly at his silent com-watch. "The doctor thought you're a bit dazed. Mild shock. It should pass. If it doesn't, come back here."

When he was cleared, he wandered back out into the noise of the Emergency waiting room, not sure where to go next. He made the mistake of going outside to clear his head and walked smack bang into a media pack.

Alan couldn't believe that the slender shoot of a woman who met them at the airport and bustled them into a dark sedan was the new CEO of Tracy Corporation Australia. Ms Gleeson. He thought he'd better take more notice of the business side of things in future.

It was five-thirty in the morning, Eastern Summer Time, and yet she met them in a red, fitted business suit, her silken hair curled immaculately under her chin as if she'd had all day to prepare for their arrival. They were only dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts, not having bothered to change in their rush to leave as soon as the wind abated. Still, his father carried himself with an arrogant dignity that left no doubt who was the senior partner, and he didn't mean only in years.

Alan remembered the greeting. The dark eyes had landed on him briefly and she clutched the tips of his fingers in a tight but fleeting handshake, then his hand was dropped so she could clutch the clipboard and mobile phone with equal determination.

The woman did most of the talking on the way to the hospital in her quiet way, so quiet he almost had to lean towards her to hear her. If you believed the look on her face, she had everything under control. His father stared out the windscreen, agreeing in grunts to her strategies to contain the media fallout and other ideas of damage control. An office and fully self-contained living quarters within the security of the Tracy complex were immediately available for his exclusive use. Everything was in readiness.

Alan was sure his father barely heard a word she'd said. Dad would be thinking of the girl and his brothers. His own mind churned at the thought of any of them being injured. And beyond that - what would this mean for International Rescue?

Ms Gleeson only faced opposition to her plans when she wanted to stop at Corporation offices so she could brief him fully on the situation to hand but Jeff had no interest. He insisted he be taken straight to the hospital. And she only had his full attention when she mentioned the scuffle at the opening of Tracy offices.

"What scuffle?" Jeff said.

"A very minor incident, Mr Tracy. Very minor. I have it in my report, if you'd stop a minute to-"

"Lay it out plain. I don't have time for detours."

"A protest group tried to storm the doors during the opening ceremony. The police quickly gained the upper hand. A peaceful end to a very brief struggle, I can assure you."

"We at Tracy Corp pride ourselves on good community relations, Ms Gleeson."

"This is a democracy, Mr Tracy."

Alan couldn't remember any other enterprise group having problems, but then it wasn't his interest. He would rather man the space station than be seen in a Tracy Corp office and even the space duty he shared with John on a month-on, month-off basis was not his favourite appointment.

"Later," his father said. "My sons and that poor girl are our priority."

"I've arranged for the head of hospital Administration to meet you. We do need to show a little care getting into the hospital. I understand there's a full contingent of media camped out there. Let me handle them, Mr Tracy. It'll sound better coming from a woman. The sympathetic angle would look good."

"I want to know who the girl is. I want to show our horror and sadness at such an accident. And I want to demonstrate our willingness to make full amends."

"As soon as possible. We'll know as soon as we get there."

As the CEO by-passed the main entrances and eased the sedan into a less populated entrance, security men rushed to open the doors and a tired looking man in a suit stood just outside the lighted doorway to greet them.

Jeff turned to Alan. "Find Gordon. He must be here someplace."

"He hasn't been admitted," Ms Gleeson told Jeff. "I'll have security find him for you."

"No," Jeff countermanded in a tone Alan was used to hearing. "You find him, Alan. And, son. Keep your voice down. Your accent is distinctive. We don't want a reporter hearing it."

"Okay, Father. Will do." He had to bite his tongue to stop from saying FAB as was their normal call sign of agreement. He watched as his father was taken in hand by Catrina Gleeson. Wait till Gordo hears that the new CEO is younger than Scott.

"Oh, water baby. How about I run your yellow tin can down the runway ramp? How many knots do you reckon she'd do on land? Hey? Oh, water baby. Come watch me."

Gordon was the only aquanaut in the family and had shown an early fascination with anything wet but if there was something he hated, it was being called water baby and that ran a second to anyone else manning his Thunderbird.

"Oh, water baby, I feel mean today. I think dual overruns should get me thirty knots."

Alan. He was going to kill him. His life wouldn't be worth living if he touched his machine.

Gordon groaned and swiped at the voice that was mocking him so near to his face. He flinched when his hand met flesh that was closer than he expected. Gordon struggled to open his eyes and he couldn't believe he was staring straight into Alan's smirking face. He blinked. Outside he could see it was getting light but inside the waiting room, it was still the same old day. The lights were on, and the suffering and scared milled waiting their turn for treatment.

Then he recalled with a start the close shave he'd had when he walked out of Emergency, earlier. Thankfully, the media crew was temporarily distracted by a car that came through the emergency lane and he escaped back inside before he was noticed. He'd found an unoccupied corner of the waiting room and had finally lain down to sleep when he couldn't keep awake any longer, tucked up across five chairs that someone had graciously spared him. Alan was balanced on his haunches right in front of him, a hand squeezing his shoulder.

"Good to see you, Gordo. How you doing, huh? You weren't hurt, I hope. I've been worried sick."

Alan embraced him. Warmly. Tightly. Gordon grinned before grimacing as he tried to move. Forget being stiff tomorrow "How are they doing, Al? Scott? Virg? That girl? Any news? What time is it? Where's Dad?"

"Steady. Let's get you upright, first. Man. Look at the state you're in. You'd scare even the medical staff. Come on. Let's find Dad. He's got the latest."

In hospital administration, Jeff Tracy came forward in his chair, suppressing a howl of disbelief.

"Hubert Kreuzer's daughter! Are you saying my son hit Hubert's daughter, Amber? Our Chief Engineer's daughter? My son hit one of our own employees?"

His gaze shifted from the administrator to the CEO. Ms Gleeson appeared just as surprised. Jeff stood up, bringing to mind all he remembered about the man.

Hubert Kreuzer had worked as Chief Engineer in TC New York. A steadfast, brilliant designer for their company who had been lured from Eastern Europe as a very young man in search of opportunities. Jeff had come to respect the man's ideas enough to allow him to develop his radical ideas for alternative fuel engines, a fervent interest of Jeff's with a depletion of fossil-fuel energy sources. Kreuzer's wife had passed on many years back, leaving the man and a daughter alone in the US.

He remembered when Hubert had shown him pictures of Amber as she'd travelled the world, backpacking across every continent before choosing to call Australia home and to work part time in administration for Tracy Corp. An ultra petite eighteen-year-old with an eggshell white complexion. Hubert had followed, accepting a demotion to be closer to his daughter. That was only last year.

Alarm bells rang. Jeff's face turned to stone.

How could this happen? The boys weren't expected in the city until the morning and they certainly weren't supposed to be sprinting to the airport at 2 am. Three Tracys injured, the com-watch stolen, and an employee near death. What were the odds?

"She was knocked from her scooter," the administrator went on.

Scooter? Scooter? How could John have missed that? None of the boys had mentioned anything about a motor scooter.

"-right near her flat."

What was she doing on a dark and wet street at two o'clock in the morning? Gordon hadn't relayed anything about a helmet or a scooter? How could they not know about this?

"Ms Kreuzer is in a critical condition. I can't reveal her full details but the extent of damage to her lower extremities is extensive."

Jeff swallowed a groan of anguish. "Hubert's here?"

"Yes, he's waiting outside ICU for her to come back. She's still in surgery."

"I must see him."

Ms Gleeson came at him with her hands clasped in front of her. "Mr Tracy. Jeff. That might not be a good idea. Let us handle this for you - at least in the preliminary stages of negotiations. I'm sure you're anxious Tracy Corporation is seen to do everything possible for their employees."

"I'll meet with him. I'll approach him as a father and a friend. Whatever offer of help will be made directly from me and not Tracy Corporation."

"Jeff. That's noble but this is a delicate situation. Legally. There's no telling how he'll react when he finds out your son has done the damage."

"I disagree. I'll go personally. When will my sons be up to visitors? I want the latest."

The administrator checked his computer. "Your younger son, Virgil, is in recovery and should be awake shortly. Everything went well. He should be up and about in a day or so."

"I want security tight around those boys. I want to know the minute Virgil's fit for travel. And I want him transferred to private quarters as soon as possible."

What a difference it would have made to know they had two International Rescue operatives under their roof. But that wasn't going to happen, even if they saw him as an overstressing father. Jeff felt the organisation had been split wide open - belly to brain. The operatives were scattered across half the South Pacific, without the ability to communicate and without the luxury of the secure quarters at base. He'd rarely felt so vulnerable.

"A place in the secure unit has already been arranged for your older son, Scott. Your son will be subject to an on-going police investigation and they've stipulated the terms he's to be held here. The police have his blood alcohol report, Mr Tracy. He was over the legal blood alcohol content limit for this country of .05. No doubt your solicitor will explain what this means.

"He will also be in surgery for some time to come. The preliminary report suggests he requires orthopaedic surgery to repair comminute fractures to both bones of his forearm. Also microsurgery to repair a severed flexor muscle group and associated nerve damage. The surgeons will go over it with you in due course and explain it when the full extent of damage is assessed."

As Jeff was taking all the man was telling him, the door slid open and Alan's beaming face rounded the edge of the door.

"Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt." Alan nodded to the other two people in the room then focused on Jeff. "Found something we lost. Thought you'd want to see."

Alan opened the door wider to reveal Gordon standing in the doorway and looking like he was about done in.

Jeff rushed him and embraced him. "Thank goodness. Son?"

"We're real sorry, Dad." Gordon rested his head on his father's shoulder.

"As long as you're safe. By the look of you, you need rest. And plenty of it."

Ms Gleeson walked to them. "The offer of the corporate office suite still stands. Self-contained accommodation and private office space."

"Right, boys. We take it for now. Go back to Tracy Corporation and get cleaned up."

"I'll arrange a private physician to attend. Immediately," Ms Gleeson said.

Jeff put up his hand to stop her. "That's not necessary. We have everything we need. Make sure that entire floor is sealed off. No-one is to gain access to that floor unless I say so. If you'll excuse me, I want a word with my boys."

Jeff shepherded them back out into the hospital corridor and briefly relayed the condition of Amber and their brothers. He watched their faces turn to mystification then alarm then fear when Scott's predicament was mentioned.

"There was no scooter." Gordon shook his head. "No way. I didn't see any motor scooter."

"Dad, something's not right," Alan said. "Why use Tracy Corp facilities when the threat seems to be coming from there - though, honestly, I can't see how?"

"We designed that place. We know its strengths and weaknesses. It's the best we can do for now. Until Virgil's ready to go. Then we draw back to Bonga and set up a forward command there. A day or two at the most."

"What about Scott?"

"He'll stay where he is."

"Dad, Scott said someone took his picture," Gordon said as he leaned heavily against the wall.

"What?"

"I was in Emergency. I heard him shout something about a picture. I think someone took his picture. It was hard to tell. He sounded mighty upset."

"Scott?" Alan said in disbelief. "Our Scott?"

Gordon nodded.

Jeff covered his face with his hands as he thought then stood up straight. "Listen up. Here's what we do..."

Chapter Four

Alan pushed back the double doors to the Tracy penthouse and pulled Gordon in behind by his belt buckle. "Will you look at this!"

It was a massive space of many rooms, opulently furnished with minimalist, sleek-lined furniture and with dabs of bright colour selectively placed around the fittings. He could see full-length windows in each of the rooms, looking east, the sun an orange ball low in the sky. It looked over the airfield and out across white sand to blue, blinking water.

"That Ms Gleeson sure likes red," Alan said.

"I don't give a rat's arse about the decor. The bed, Al. Where's the bed, for Pete's sake?" Gordon lurched on his feet. It'd taken most of Alan's cajoling and physical encouragement to get him up to the top floor.

Alan dashed from room to another, stopping at the last. "In here. And it's massive."

Gordon mechanically followed and would've sprawled straight onto it had not Alan held him back.

"No way are you getting in like that. No way. Shower first. By then Brains'll be here to check you over."

Gordon stood helplessly as Alan undressed him, turned on the shower and pushed him into it. Alan pulled back the bed and, as he passed the window, tapped on the glass. The one thing about being IR was that paranoia about security was handed out with the uniform.

"Hmm. Nice and thick. I hope that'll be okay."

When Gordon finally turned off the shower, Alan was ready with a towel to dry him off and he barely got the towel on him when Gordon climbed into the bed with a groan and pulled the sheet over himself.

As Alan prowled the expansive space someone spoke on an intercom then Brains was there pushing a trolley from the lift. It was piled with black metallic boxes and Alan rushed to help him.

"Big table in the dining room for those. Gordo's in bed. Father thought you could check him over."

Brains took a scanner from a box and followed. Alan snickered when Gordon barely moved while Brains ran the routine check.

"He's -uh- okay, Alan. Some bruising from the -uh- seat belt. He's exhausted."

"Thanks Brains." They left Gordon to sleep, closing the door to the bedroom. Brains went over to one of the black boxes and slid out a laptop computer.

"While I -uh- was waiting I managed to -uh- partially reconfigure the com-watch. I've -uh- managed to shut off transmission from Five but we -uh- can still receive."

"So we can hear them but they can't hear us?"

He opened a file and immediately a voice eerily entered the room.

"Hello. Hello. Can anyone hear us?" A male called from the device. "Calling International Rescue. Hello. Can you hear us?"

Alan groaned. "They recognised John. What are they doing with it? Can you tell where it is?"

"Well, so far it's -uh- in one piece. It hasn't gone -uh- far from where Scott lost it -uh- and it's not far from here."

"Hubert?"

Jeff approached his company's engineer and stood back from him five feet, waiting for him to respond. The older man didn't appear to hear him. As Jeff expected, the man was the epitome of grief. He was alone in one corner of a guest lounge outside ICU, and sitting forward in his chair with his shoulders slumped. One hand held his glasses while the other rubbed above his eyes.

Jeff knew that had been him when they'd nearly lost Gordon back those few short years ago.

"Hubert," Jeff said, a little louder.

The man looked up with a start, struggled to focus then stood up. "Mr Tracy? Jeff?"

"I came as soon as I heard. I'm very, very sorry." Jeff laid a hand on his shoulder.

The man was perplexed. "You came? For me?"

"I came as soon as I heard what happened. I'm here to offer whatever help I can, Hubert. You know I count you as a friend. Whatever you need."

"Well, I'm..." He struggled to find words. It had taken many years for his new homeland to mask his harsh accent but Jeff noticed it was back. "Some drunken maniac" So fast on wet roads"how could they be so stupid?"

Jeff sat down and encouraged Hubert to sit beside him. "I'll wait with you if that's all right."

Jeff waited, his own heart rate pounding heavily. He would tell Hubert. He had to tell him. It was a matter of timing.

John kicked open the door to the Tracy Corp penthouse and gladly unloaded the silver cases, slim-line laptop and gigantic canvas bag from his person in the doorway.

"Yoh, kid. Y'here?"

Alan bounded in from another room. "Brain's found the com-watch. Penelope should be here any minute to take care of it. And you won't believe what job Father's given us. Good trip? That escape pod hasn't been used very often."

John shrugged out of the black bomber jacket he was wearing. He didn't like to think it was the only time the pod had been deployed from Thunderbird Five and he was a little apprehensive about using it. It had been a rough re-entry with the storm over the Pacific but he had landed at Bonga with no problems.

"Hey, you know, nice scenery, lousy service. What's the latest? Virg? Scott?"

Alan relayed the latest and helped take his load into the dining room.

"Looks like the Tracys have arrived," John said at the sight of the equipment taking shape around Brains. He was about to add to it substantially by providing a sophisticated communication link to Five. "Hey, Brains."

"John. Good trip?"

"Thanks to you."

Brains smiled distantly before he went back to his work.

"How's Gordo?" John said to Alan.

Alan put his fingers to his lips as he encouraged John to the partially closed door of the bedroom. "Dad said to keep an eye on him. He hasn't moved."

John pushed back the door and tiptoed in the room. Both brothers grinned.

"He's making those sweet snoring noises," John whispered. "Like when he was a kid."

"Should we record it?"

‑­

It was tempting. Damn, it was tempting. Gordon was like litmus, his intensity of humour and practical jokes an indicator of the state of their family. When things were going well, they knew they would be in for it from Gordon. Things that would squirt, explode or made rude noises could turn up anywhere, usually in the most unexpected places. Any opportunity for payback was sweet but John thought Gordon would be registering somewhere in the red right about now. Not good. He took pity on him and shook his head in answer to Alan's question as he slid a potted plant from the pocket of his jacket and placed it on the set of drawers beside his sleeping brother.

"Here's company, Gordo. Sweet dreams," John said.

"You brought your plant?" Alan almost choked.

"Didn't want her to think I'd run out on her."

Alan rolled his eyes. "You got to get out more."

They went back to the dining room where John drew out an enormous telescope from a canvas bag.

"Give me a break," Alan said. "Can't you live without that thing for a few days."

John set it up by the window, tripodding the legs then testing out the focus. "So, what's this job?"

"We," Alan puffed out his chest. "Weve been given permission to access NTBS."

John was dubious. "You sure it wasn't as in me?" John was also a little disturbed. They'd always believed in the freedom of the press, particularly the world-wide news service - the only exception was when it came to the Thunderbirds. This was a different matter. They'd screwed up. They'd involved a civilian.

"We are allowed to access NTBS. Scott thinks someone took his picture and Dad wants us to intercept it or any other picture they drag up of Scott. He thinks it's the only way to save us. Someone'll make the connection between TC and IR for sure if his image is all over the papers. We have to stop that picture."

"Hubert. There's something I need to tell you."

Back in the waiting room, Jeff had chosen the moment. He'd let Hubert rant and pace and say out loud the confused, hurt things that any parent would in a situation like this. The man was finally quiet, depleted, a little more accepting of the accident.

"I came here because I was called here. Not as a representative of Tracy Corporation but as a father." Jeff paused when Hubert's head came up. "Two of my boys are in this hospital right alongside your Amber."

"How"can this be?"

"My son was driving, Hubert. My eldest. Scott. Virgil was also in the car. They're both injured."

Hubert's mouth sagged slightly. "I know these. I don't understand. How is this-"

"My son is responsible for the accident, Hubert, and I want to make amends in whatever way I can."

Hubert's hands pressed against the sides of his head. "Your son has hurt my daughter?"

"I offer the best help money can buy. At your disposal. Whatever your daughter needs."

"Money?"

"Scott will be punished for this. You have my word. If it's any consolation, Scott is unlikely to fly again. You know the machines he loves to fly. They tell me his right arm is badly damaged."

Hubert stared at him and Jeff was prepared for the anger that would follow. "That does nothing. He caused this by his own stupidity and carelessness. So be it."

"I come to you as a father who grieves the wrong his son has done."

The man turned away. "Enough. Enough. No more. Let me be."

"Hubert. I want to help. I offer anything you need."

"Need? What I need is my daughter. Can you give me her? No. Go. Get away from me. You and your money."

Virgil was on the point of remembering something and couldn't quite capture what it was. His thoughts were like wisps that became disembodied and floated away when he tried to hold onto them. He groaned his frustration and raised his hand to his forehead. There was something he had to do"

He was sure it was important. If only he could remember what it was.

Then an outstretched hand rushed at him like a bolt of lightning. Sounds of shattering glass and twisting metal surrounded him.

Scott was trapped.

His arm was bleeding.

"Scott!"

"Son?"

Virgil opened his eyes cautiously, blinking at the light. His father stood at the bedside, making an attempt at a smile despite his pinched appearance.

"Welcome back, son. Scott's doing okay, don't worry."

"Dad, his arm," Virgil breathed. "I used a tourniquet. I had to do something."

"I'm sure you did the right thing."

"I'm sorry, Dad. This's my fault."

"You weren't driving, son."

"I suggested we come into the city. To unwind. It'd been a tough one. Gordon was taking it hard. I thought if we had to come into the city anyhow."

"Scott's in charge, Virgil."

Virgil rested his forearm across his eyes. "I could've stopped him."

"Stopped him from doing what? You mean from drinking? Or from getting behind the wheel while intoxicated?"

"He wasn't intoxicated."

"Over the legal limit for this country is intoxicated. The authorities here are extremely strict, much stricter than the US, and penalties are severe. Not only was he driving, he was about to fly a jet and then fly a multi-million dollar Thunderbird to a rescue. He should have deferred to Gordon or you."

"We'd all had a few drinks, Dad. Gordon included. Scott'd had three. That's all. Three. You stood him down, remember. He wasn't expecting to be needed and you know the terrible week he's had. The car was fitted with a Gauntlet interlock. There's no way it would have let him drive if he was impaired. This is not his fault, Dad. John told him the street was clear. Scott wasn't being irresponsible." Virgil rubbed his face with his hand. "He hadn't eaten. The alcohol has gone straight to his bloodstream. That's what has happened."

"It doesn't change the outcome, son. How long has this been going on?"

Virgil licked at his dry lips. The foul taste in his mouth made him wish for a drink of water. "Don't know what you mean."

"I wondered if something was up with Scott but I thought I could trust any of you to pass on concerns that might jeopardise our operation."

Despite the after-effects of the anaesthetic, Virgil was indignant at the implications. "Scott never jeopardised anything. He saved Gordon's life today. He had to haul Gordon out. Gordon wouldn't let go of that boy's hand. It was horrible."

"Look, Virgil. The last thing I want is to argue with you but if Scott's got a problem I need to know about it. I'm sure relieved everyone's survived. I'm mighty thankful you're all right. But the fact remains Scott was involved in a wreck and he had alcohol in his system."

Virgil didn't want to say anymore about Scott. His head felt woozy and he didn't want to say anything he might regret, anything Scott might regret. "Have you found out about the girl?"

"Her name is Amber Kreuzer, Hubert Kreuzer's daughter."

Virgil frowned. "Tracy Corporation Kreuzer?"

"The same."

"How the hell did that happen?"

"That's what we're going to find out."

Chapter Five

"Gotcha!" John said as he exercised his fingers above the keyboard in the Tracy Penthouse like a pianist might while warming up.

Next to him, Alan leaned on the chair across his shoulder. "All right!"

They gave each other a high five. There on the screen was an article for the next morning's paper including a picture of Scott. It wasn't a recent photograph. It was from Scott's Air Force days. He was in his uniform and it was a scathing write-up.

"Yeah, that'd be right," Alan said and sneered. "Rub it in. From decorated fighter pilot to drunk driver. Took you long enough, Johnno." Alan turned to the far end of the dining table. "Found it, Penelope."

"That was tricky," John drawled. He rubbed his eyes. He felt like he'd been at it for hours. "Their IDS is robust. As soon as I attempted entry, I was tracked. Followed, sneaky like. Had to take the last resort option."

"What's that?"

"Re-create Ned Cook's authentication and get in that way."

"No way. Gordo'll kill you. That info was given to him, in trust."

Since Gordon had saved journalist Ned Cook from certain death when the Empire State Building collapsed, they'd kept in contact, the journalist doing them favours to keep word about International Rescue in the media to a minimum.

John held up his hands. "Following orders. Didn't say I liked it."

He pushed back in the seat as Lady Penelope left her whispered conference with Brains to come to stand between the brothers. John smelt sweet flowers and something stronger and, as she read the article, there was only the rustle of her lemon linen suit to distract him.

"Oh dear. Yes. One should never expect to read well of one in this kind of predicament, I suppose. Still. Poor Scott. I do hope he doesn't read it. He doesn't deserve this. And I pity your father."

Penelope went back to talk to Brains.

"Scott is sooo dead," Alan said to John. "Dad was livid when he found out. And I mean livid."

"Give Dad some credit. He's worried sick."

"No, not about the accident. About the - you know." Alan made the shape of a cup with his hand and raised it to his mouth. "That's what did it. He went ballistic. He's asked me about Scott before but there's no way I'd tell on Scott."

John frowned. "You saying Scott's got a problem?"

Alan made a worried face towards Penelope then lowered the volume of his voice. "I don't know if he's got a problem, exactly. I've just noticed he's - not quite himself. Drinking more than normal. I mean. Okay, we do, too. But I know he stays up late. By himself. I know he does."

"Since when?" John said indignantly, not liking to miss out on family business just because he was hundreds of miles away in space.

"Since Dad put International Rescue on a budget last month."

"A budget? How can you put IR on a frigging budget?"

"Dad's put the operational side on one. Scott has to account for and justify every expense. Every plaster, every bandage. Dad says he's thinking of the future when Scott has to head this whole show. Said Scott needs to demonstrate he knows how to manage money and not just spend it." John rubbed his hands over his face and groaned, thinking of what it'd like if he had to account for every expense on Thunderbird Five. "Scott and Dad had words, strong words over it. Blue haze for days. Scott hates it. Absolutely hates it. He's as mad as hell. He's drowning in paperwork, John. You know, sometimes I feel sorry for him. Not often, but sometimes."

John rested his hands on his face and tried to think of how that policy could possibly work.

"So, what are you waiting for?" Alan said. "For them to print it? Get rid of it."

"Not so fast, little brother. If all the pictures of Scott start disappearing, someone's going to notice. It'll only encourage some poor bastard to dig up another one. No, we don't get rid of it, we alter it. That way people won't be so sure it is Scott. Leave doubt, not create more suspicion." John clasped his hands in front of his face. "Now the question is; What do we do to change it so it's different but still like our Scotty?"

"You mean like big ears and a long nose, maybe a moustache."

"Do that and no-one will believe it is him. Don't forget most of the female population south of the Canadian border knows what Scott looks like. Up close and personal. Our serial stud used to have quite a following."

"Yeah, but that was probably only in the dark. Hey, you don't give us blond-bombshells enough credit. We've done our bit for the reputation of masculinity."

John grinned crookedly. Oh, yeah. They'd done their bit, all right.

The one thing that rankled John was the contradiction in their father's outlook. The future meant new recruits but they couldn't add strangers to the ranks. It had to be family. Dad was the biggest believer in family values - fidelity, love, marriage. They'd been brought up that way. And yet, he denied it to his sons. He winked at their infidelity, their numerous affairs. And he denied them their need for relationship and intimacy - the very thing they'd been taught to treasure and idealise.

John had managed okay. He was content in company or without, female or male. Sometimes it was nice to have sex other than in his dreams but he was not bothered by it. Virgil called him insular but he was often just happy in his own company.

With his natural charm and dark looks, Scott could love them hard then leave them just as quickly, without a backward look. For some reason women would clamour for his company and he'd happily oblige - for awhile. Then he was on the move. The restless one, was Scott.

Virgil had the most trouble with girls. He did the slow burn. His affairs were always tumultuous, frequently getting in too deep and unable to draw back. How many times had Scott rescued his younger brother from something that had developed into a relationship? Virgil seemed to slip naturally into settling down mode. He would have married many times over before acknowledging in the end it was impossible and had to rely on Scott to bail him out.

Poor Gordon. John chuckled when he thought of Gordon and girls. He was as ungainly at gaining a girl's attention as Scott was proficient. The more he liked a girl, the more tongue-tied he became. Scott had taken it on himself to show his brother a few moves but even Scott had given up. It was too painful to watch.

Of all the boys in the family, Alan was the most privileged having Tin-Tin, the daughter of his father's assistant Kyrano, as his companion and bed partner - right under his father's nose on Tracy Island. It really was unfair on the rest of them when they had to lie and cheat to get what their youngest brother enjoyed secretly in their own home.

"So, come on. Get on with it," Alan chided. "There's not only the newscasts, there's the internet sites, the bulletin boards, the narrowcasting outlets. We aren't done, yet."

"You know what I love about you, Al," John said. "Your ability to make a molehill into a mountain. I'm thinking. Give me room, here."

"Well, hurry it up. I want to get down the hospital."

"I remember what Virg said about getting a likeness. He said to see how a likeness in a portrait is made is to see the picture in a mirror." John did a few clicks to reverse the image. "Then I think some defining mark might do it."

"Those dimples have to go. Dead give away. How about a scar or a birthmark? A great red blotch over his eye."

"Definitely no more dimples. Too cutie-pie. A mole on his cheek." He tweaked the image, stretched the proportion and then sat back to admire his handiwork.

Alan altered the angle of his head and grinned slyly. "You know, that rootkit of yours is going to get you into serious heat one of these days. How easy is that. Penelope. Come look. What do you think of John's makeover?"

Penelope did come. "I say. That does look like him but it doesn't. That mole is distinctive. If anyone thinks they've seen him on a rescue they would look for that. Splendid work, boys."

"Convinced Brains of your idea?" Alan asked.

Penelope gave the ghost of a smile. "I do believe I have."

"I didn't need convincing, -uh- Alan," Brains said from across the table, turning his highly magnified eyes their way. "In my mind the need to retrieve -uh- the electronics was always balanced with the need to know who -uh- wanted to steal the watch in the first place. Particularly now with this -uh- unexpected connection to Tracy Corporation. It's a matter -uh- of how that's the problem."

John felt Penelope squeeze his shoulder in a fashion that made him glad she was on their side.

"Can I count on you boys to do a little sightseeing for Parker and myself later this evening? I'll phone with the details."

"We'll be there," both of them agreed.

Penelope smiled softly then walked to look out the window as she settled her wide-brimmed sun hat onto her styled hair.

John heard the door to the bedroom open.

"Al?" Gordon called, sounding very groggy.

"Out here, Gordo!"

"John?"

"Yeah, Squirt."

Gordon limped into the room, yawning, rubbing his eyes. He was not quite awake but quite naked. John stared at Alan then they both looked at Penelope.

"Where's my clo...thes?" he began to say before the volume of his voice trailed off.

Gordon froze. He'd seen Penelope by the window. John heard the slap of bare flesh as both Gordon's hands raced to cover his groin. Gordon blushed to the roots of his ginger hair, looking as bright as a navigation beacon.

Penelope's expression didn't change. She walked smoothly across towards the door as she made final adjustments to the angle of her hat. John could see Gordon was perishing from embarrassment as he stood transfixed to the spot. John didn't trust himself to speak and Alan watched wide-eyed.

"So glad to see you're in one piece, dear boy," Penelope said suavely as she passed Gordon. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and headed for the door.

Gordon swallowed with difficulty. "Th-anks."

"Afternoon, everyone. Parker and I feel like a spot of shopping. Then we'll see how Jeff's bearing up. We'll be in touch."

As soon as she disappeared, Gordon fled, slamming the door of the bedroom. "Did anyone think to bring me something to wear?" he yelled through the wall.

Chapter Six

"Oh, this is so lovely!" Penelope said as she sailed through the lunchtime crowds of inner city Sydney, only a few blocks from Tracy Corporation.

The day was hot, the skies pure cobalt, a slight breeze from the harbour lifting the colourful awnings and lazy flags. The street was strewn with alfresco dining eateries. People lounged and lolled in the shade of generous umbrellas while sun-tanned youths in white uniforms served them. Shoppers pushed their bags out from quaint refurbished stone buildings to merge with the overhead trees and the slow-moving traffic. It always reminded her of England but the pace and colour gave her the tingle of something fresh.

Parker on the other hand, she observed on her many efforts to slow down so as not to lose him, was having a time of it. Right from when she declared they'd walk to their destination and not take the distinctive pink Rolls Royce, his face carried a twinge of concern. His efforts to shield her from the noon sun with her parasol were ineffectual as he negotiated the busy footpath beside and behind her. His button-up uniform was not helping as she could see the sweat gathered in the creases of his ample-sized nose.

"Nearly there, Parker," she reassured him.

"Very good, milady," he said as he puffed.

"Now remember what we planned."

"Right you h'are."

Penelope stopped suddenly to recheck the address Brains had given her and Parker nearly bumped into her. He mumbled an apology.

"There it is. That's the position of the com-watch."

Opposite them on the other side of the street was 'The People's Whole Food Co-operative', a renovated shop similar in style and age to those around them. The large window was painted in a rainbow of colour with a cornucopia of food spilling across the pane. Very clean and newly painted.

"H'are you sure, milady?"

"I'm sure, Parker. It does look rather nice, doesn't it? At least from the outside. I've already positioned two agents to watch both entrances and they'll report in at fifteen hundred hours. There's an entrance through a back lane so we should get some idea who comes and who goes."

As they watched, young people went in and out. Young sophisticates with their suits, tiny square glasses and cropped haircuts coming out carrying paper parcels.

"Brains could detect a large area of heat coming from the rear of the shop," Penelope whispered. "John suggested it could be a hydroponics set-up for growing illicit drugs."

"H'a bad egg, milady?"

"Let's find out, shall we?"

They crossed the street and entered the shop to the sweet chime of a welcome bell. Business was brisk with shop attendants going about the store as customers pointed to white bins and picked out what they wanted to buy. It was a whole food shop. The bins contained items such as lentils and dried beans and an array of food that Penelope had rarely seen. Each purchase was weighed in a scale and shovelled into a paper bag. The people paid with cash on their way out, a sight so unusual Penelope stared longer than she thought was polite.

"Can I help you?" a young man with overly long curly hair and those trendy little glasses asked her with the raise of his eyebrows.

"Oh, isn't this wonderful. It reminds me of a long-gone era," Penelope enthused.

"When people ate real food from the ground and not pre-packaged manufactured products?" He was tall and clean-cut in most ways, his hair tending to bob in waves when he spoke and moved.

"Exactly." She immediately went in search of something that might interest her and left Parker to do what he did best.

Ten minutes later, they stood back on the footpath, Parker holding up and staring into a plastic container where a blob of yellowish solid matter floated in water.

"Er, milady?"

"Tempeh, I believe he said it was. Soy beans fermented by a mould. Something new to try. Well, what do you think?"

"H'a bit off-beat for my taste. Do you eat it?"

"I believe so, Parker, but I was actually referring to the set up."

"Oh. Oh, piece of cake. Barely h'a lock in the place. Couldn't see h'an h'alarm, even. There's h'a tumbler combination behind the counter. Should take me h'about three minutes."

"Strange - but good. I'd expect more robust security measures for a drug lab. Still. That's one piece of good news for Jeff. Let's just hope the watch stays there. Come on, Parker. Some tea."

Parker found a table for them where they could see the front door of the shop. Just as Penelope placed her hat on the table a gust of wind sent it spinning into the street. Parker jumped out to save it.

"Hey, watch it!" someone called.

Parker was bumped from behind by a strange-looking contraption. Penelope stood up to watch as a motorless device sailed on down the street at speed. The rider stood on a board. Wheels were front and back and the rider clutched a crude steering device. They pushed with their foot to make the transport go.

Parker righted himself then stared with dismay as the purchase Penelope had made was splattered in a bilious fashion on the street.

"Oh, milady," he said aghast. "I do believe I just dropped your bundle."

"Never mind," she soothed. "I think I've just discovered something that'll help Jeff with his."

"John. John. Look at this!" The timbre in Alan's voice nearly hit soprano. "It's Scott. He's right. Someone did take his picture. It's on the internet."

John dashed from the kitchen and swore when he saw the screen. "Nuke it. Right now. Get rid of it, Alan. Shut it down, for mercy's sake!"

When Alan continued to stare at the screen, John took over and activated a DoS attack that was sent into the website. It would disable it in five seconds. John counted down the time. The website blue-screened. He relaxed until the website re-activated.

"Hey what?" John clicked a few more keys and the website disappeared with the same message again. And just as quickly came back on. "Brains! It's fighting back."

John and Alan moved apart as Brains took over.

"It's okay, fellas. Let me -uh- handle this."

John stepped back and rubbed his hands over his face, suddenly feeling slightly ill. There on the internet for the world population to look at was a picture of Scott taken at the accident scene. It was dark and wet and the outline of the wrecked car could be seen in the background. Scott was running towards the camera, a police officer running behind him. He was reaching for something, and obviously in a distressed state. The only saving grace was the image of Scott was slightly blurry, his face being so close to the camera and moving. The caption asked:

IS THIS THE FACE OF INTERNATIONAL RESCUE?

And underneath the caption was a photograph of the com-watch.

Back in America, a hand on the mouse of a computer paused in its almost hourly Google search. Then it made a couple of moves to go back two screen steps. The website flickered, disappeared, came back on. Just for a moment. Just enough time to be certain.

The hand became a fist.

"That's him. I know that's him. That dark-haired bastard!"

Jeff couldn't avoid it any longer. It seemed every room in the hospital had a television set on and the news was dire. International Rescue had turned down a rescue call. From the tone and urgency of the newsreaders it was as if WWIII had started. The speculation was rife and rampant. It didn't matter whether he was in the cafeteria or in the waiting room near where Scott was in recovery, he couldn't avoid the fact that now the world knew International Rescue had let the people down.

They hadn't come. They'd said 'no' to those in need and people had died that day because of it.

It made him pace. It made him churn. It made him downright angry. And it wasn't the best mood to go see his son. His injured son, he needed to keep reminding himself.

When he was finally allowed into the booth outside surgery where Scott had been left to sleep off the effects of the anaesthetic, he still hadn't quite mastered his feelings. But no matter how you prepare, it's always a shock to see your loved ones hurt. Jeff felt no different during that initial glimpse he was given of his eldest.

Jeff had been assured Scott had woken from the anaesthetic but was sedated, having come out of the surgery agitated and restive. They hoped it was a sign that feeling had been restored to his arm. Jeff stood at the side of the bed, his hands clenched around the rail that had been put up to stop Scott from rolling off in his uneasy state.

"Son?" His voice sounded hollow in the compartment where around him the rattle and clash of equipment being cleaned up were harsh.

Scott didn't respond.

Scott was lying flat out, his head turned away. It highlighted a long cut that was developing into a swollen bruise across his cheek. Where the gown had slipped from his shoulder, Jeff could see deep bruising already forming.

Jeff forced himself to look at his son's right arm. They'd explained they'd inserted an external fixator into the bones in his arm to keep the limb straight and at the right length. It was a metal construct that came straight out of the tissue of his forearm and joined into a rod running parallel to his arm, with an adjustment device at the centre. It was a macabre looking instrument. The rest of his arm was bandaged and his fingers, swollen and purple, extended motionless from the swathe.

"Scott?"

Still no response.

Jeff couldn't tell if he was asleep or awake. Scott was barely breathing, like he was holding his breath. The boy was tense - rigid, almost. There was no voluntary movement at all. It was as if he was holding himself against some blow to come.

Jeff felt a desire to reach out to reassure him that everything would be all right but something held him back. He clutched at the bedrail, instead, his knuckles whitening. Ever since Lucille, his wife, had died when the lad was nearly ten, Scott had refused physical comfort from him. He would fight him. Push him away.

Lucille. If you can see him. Help him. Please help him. You know I can't.

Scott, being the firstborn, had enjoyed a special relationship with his mother and when she died he'd felt it the most keenly of the boys. But when Jeff broke down at the loss of the boys' mother, the little lad had put his own grief aside and had taken on responsibility as carer to his siblings. Sometimes, Jeff felt a little guilty about the load Scott had carried, mainly without complaint. And now he was carrying the responsibility of this latest tragedy.

Reach out to him, Lucille. Reach him. Help him carry this.

"Scott?"

Still nothing.

Was the lad was shutting him out? Again?

Jeff was helpless to prevent a surge of anger. In some respects, Scott had made him redundant. It was Scott the boys went to if they had a problem. It was Scott they looked to for guidance. It was Scott they trusted with their lives. And now it was Scott they had protected from him.

So, why had Scott let them down? Why couldn't he have come for help if he had a problem? Jeff knew the answer. Scott didn't look to him for help. He never had. He'd worked things out on his own. But why had he shown his brothers such a bad example?

Jeff's grip on the bedrail became painful. He pulled back.

He knew there was only one person alive who could comfort Scott and that was Virgil. Virgil was Scott's buddy. They were inseparable. He would have to leave Virgil here instead of taking him to Bonga. Despite his overwhelming desire to gather them all back into safety, he would have to make a sacrifice. He would have to risk another son, another member of International Rescue, to save Scott from himself.

I hope nothing happens to Virgil, Scott. How could you live with that? Lucille. Help me. Help us.

Jeff retreated to the door and stopped to look back as he left.

"I'm disappointed in the decisions you made today, son," he said sadly.

"Listen up, people." Jeff clapped his hands for silence and the dozen or so members draped around the furniture in the massive living room area of the Tracy Penthouse came to attention.

All the family members were present, now. Grandma, Tin-Tin and Kyrano had arrived from New Zealand. There was a lot to catch up on, not the least the condition of those injured.

John came in from the kitchen and sat on the floor next to Gordon, stretching to iron out a kink in his neck. Brains, Alan and he had spent the entire day chasing down Scott's picture until Brains came up with a program that would hunt and tag any copies automatically.

The mood in the room was sombre, despite the knowledge that they were about to retrieve the com-watch. The lights were low and the curtains drawn. It was past midnight and most of them hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. Even though they were tired, John suspected the downbeat mood had to do more with the fact Scott had refused to see them when they'd made the trip into the hospital. No-one was allowed in his room. Not Father, not Grandma and not his brothers. The nurses tried to soften the blow by suggesting it was because he'd had trouble sleeping but John wasn't so sure.

John rested his hand on Gordon's shoulder. Gordon had slept all day, even after his embarrassing run-in with Penelope, and still looked worn. Gordon turned with an inquiring look. John gave him a reassuring squeeze and Gordon tried to smile.

"Let's get this done," Jeff said, addressing everyone present with the sweep of his hands and the direction of his eyes. "Then we can rest before we tackle new problems tomorrow. As of this minute the com-watch is still at the premises of 'The People's Whole Food Co-operative'. And we aim to get it back. Tonight. Brains has made up a substitute watch with a tracker from the remnants of Scott's watch. We want to know who this crowd is and what threat they might be." He held up the replica. "Penelope and Parker will go into shop and make the switch. And we will make sure nothing else goes wrong while they're doing it." He gave them a run down of the set-up as observed that afternoon by Penelope and by the agents stationed out there. "There's a residential premises above so keep your wits about you. Penny?"

Penelope, dressed in figure-hugging black, stepped into the middle of the group. Without speaking, she drew a 9-mm automatic weapon from a bag and laid it at Alan's feet. Then she shifted to John and placed an identical handgun in front of him. No-one spoke as each of the boys picked up their weapon and slid it down the back of their jeans, pulling their almost identical black jackets over it.

Gordon, who was following Penelope's movements with his eyes, looked up expectantly.

"Not tonight, son," Jeff said. "You've been through enough. Go back to bed. You have a special job tomorrow and I want you fresh."

John saw Gordon sag with disappointment.

"So, what do we know about this crowd?" Alan said. "Who owns this store?"

"An organisation called 'The People for the Planet', a green activist group, opposing the further development of new technologies, particularly in third world countries. I had Ms Gleeson prepare their background and they're the ones involved in a skirmish at this building's opening."

A murmur went around the newcomers.

"The manager of the store is Martin Langley. We're working to get his image tomorrow."

"Yeah, it's more than that," John said. "They're the ones responsible for the website that Brains and I have been trying to shut down all afternoon."

"Any connection between Amber Kreuzer and this group?" Tin-Tin asked.

"Not that we've found," Jeff said. "Our CEO will have the employment files checked."

"They must have been there," Alan said. "To get the com-watch."

"Jeff, I have one piece of news I hadn't relayed to you. About the scooter."

"There can't have been a scooter," Gordon said heatedly. "She was standing up. She was upright. I saw her in the lights. Only for a second but I saw her. She must have been running."

John had gone over the recordings with Brains. There was no heat source the size of a motor bike on the screen. He hadn't erred. He hadn't missed anything and with that knowledge a tight band had removed from his chest. But even as they'd watched in muted horror as Amber dashed out in front of Scott's vehicle and the two shapes came together, the tiny image gave him shivers down his back.

"There was definitely no motor scooter," John said. "We checked."

"She was travelling -uh- at some speed," Brains said. "I estimate - uh- the velocity needed to intercept the vehicle would be -uh- greater than is possible on foot."

That comment brought on another round of murmuring.

"How?" Grandma asked. "How would that be possible?"

John let go more of the tension he'd been holding when he saw his father nod at him.

"Standing up is exactly how it would be," Penelope agreed. "That's it precisely. Something we observed today. Push or kick scooters I'm told they are called. They're all the rage with these inner city dwellers. They rely on their own power to get around. No pollution and no parking worries. And as Parker can attest, they can travel quite quickly."

"Oh yes, milady," Parker said and groaned, rubbing his rear portion.

"So, I'm thinking that this kind of scooter may explain what we've experienced but also what witnesses have seen."

There was another murmur, this time of agreement.

"Technically speaking then, as soon as the com-watch is swapped," Alan said. "International Rescue is operational again. Brains can turn the comms on."

"I admire the sentiments, son. Brains will turn the comms on as soon as the switch is made but we have two members of our family and two members of International Rescue at risk. I've decided Virgil will stay here with Scott for the time being. As the hospital officials don't know who they have under their roof, I need you boys to keep watch on them. That will be our job in the short term."

John also bet it was to keep an eye on Scott to stop him from doing anything stupid.

"Right. Be careful, tonight. And good luck."

It took less than five minutes for John, Alan, Penelope and Parker to be in the street of the shop. The Rolls was parked in a side alley, ready if a quick getaway was needed. They checked with the agent at the rear of the premises then when the all clear was given, they congregated around the front. The agent who was watching from an opposite laneway reported that everything was quiet. No-one had come out or gone in for hours. The lights in the residence above were out.

John ran the imaging and the portable camera detector past the shop and came up blank. No-one was in the shop and the interior of the shop was not being filmed. Alan and John separated to stand in shadowy corners to wait while Penelope and Parker went in. If they needed assistance, one of them would flash a light onto the window.

John leaned up against the bricks, his hands in his pockets, keeping his face turned towards the shop door. He could see his little brother pace back and forth in his usual impatient manner. As he had a few minutes to wait, he couldn't help wonder what they were doing there. He felt the firearm press into the small of his back as he leaned on the brickwork not so much for support but to reduce his shape in the dark and largely deserted street. A few restaurants were open but clientele was light, the atmosphere subdued on the warm and steamy night.

It was significant they'd been given a standard automatic and not the IR issue they normally carried. Obviously, nothing must lead back to IR. He wondered if his father actually meant him to use it. How far did his father expect him to go to protect IR technology? That's what they were doing. They were risking further exposure to get the watch. A complicated watch, but only a watch.

As John brooded on the direction their intervention had taken, his com-watch flashed and Penelope's voice floated up from his arm.

"All clear, boys. Back to the penthouse."

Once back at Tracy Corp, Gordon found they had a far more mundane matter to settle.

"There is no way I am sleeping in there," Alan said, his hands on his hips. "No way and that is final."

"We used to sleep together," Gordon said. He sat on the floor in the master bedroom, his hands resting on his knees. The light was off, the curtains drawn back, his face towards the sea. He loved the sea and he already missed their island home where the sea was available to him all day and all night.

"If you haven't noticed," Alan retorted. "We're adults. I am twenty-three, technically speaking an adult, so that would make it kinky on one side and downright wrong on the other."

"Yeah, well, technically speaking," John said as he stretched out fully clothed over the bed Gordon had been sleeping in that day. "Why don't you sleep with Tin-Tin, then? Don't know about you but I am absolutely wasted. I couldn't care less where I slept or with whom."

"Right between her father and Grandma. Are you crazy?"

"Have to learn to do it very, very quietly, bro," John said.

"And how-?" Alan was stopped from saying more by the rap of knuckles on their door as their father pushed his way in.

"Sorry about the sleeping arrangements, boys. There wasn't enough single accommodation on the other side of the penthouse for us all. Shouldn't be for long."

He was quickly reassured there was no problem.

Jeff sat down on the bed. "I appreciate the good job you all did, today. Gordon, don't take this too hard. You're needed tomorrow."

"What's wrong with Scott?" Alan asked.

"Look. No doubt, he's mighty upset at what's happened. I want you to watch out for him the next couple of days. Okay. That's your job. Look out for both of them. And I don't want you to bother Scott with too many details of what's happening. I don't want him to think about things. He must have rest. And plenty of it."

"He won't even let us in his room," Gordon said.

"He'll come round. You'll see. I meet with his physician and the administrator, tomorrow. We see what's to be done, then."

"Scott won't like it if we don't tell him anything," Alan said. "He'll know if we're not straight with him."

"He needs rest, son, so I expect you to be at your diplomatic best."

John snorted but Alan ignored him. "Couldn't International Rescue issue a statement about why we're not attending distress calls? It's all over the news and people everywhere are talking. Maybe if they knew that there was something wrong."

"And what could I say, Alan? We can't afford to let our enemies know we're vulnerable. It's the opportunity they'd be looking for."

"Well"maybe. Hey, great to have the com-watch back," Alan said. "That was so easy."

"Yeah," John drawled. "Too easy."

Chapter Seven

"Think you're up to it, son?"

Next morning, Jeff stood shoulder to shoulder with Gordon outside the opaque doors of ICU. They'd been standing there for some time, catching glimpses of Hubert at Amber's bedside each time personnel passed through the doors. Gordon looked at him and Jeff was struck by the sorrow in his son's eyes.

"We usually save lives, Dad. We don't normally take them."

Jeff put his arm around Gordon's shoulder. "This is a terrible, terrible accident. There is no way any of us would want this. You said Amber wasn't breathing when you arrived so you did save her life. Hubert hasn't met you so he doesn't have to know you're a Tracy, at least not at first. Show them our care. You know what's ahead if she's granted the opportunity. Help her through this. Think you can do it?"

Gordon nodded slowly. "Anything I can."

Jeff left Gordon standing there in the corridor with some misgivings. Gordon had given them a fright earlier when he'd woken up screaming. His brothers had first thought it was an undetected injury from the accident but when they'd finally been able to wake him, all he said was that the hands had touched him. That was all he said, and it was enough to send the jitters through all of them.

When Jeff was finally able to see Scott's physician as they'd arranged, he wished he'd taken up Penelope's offer to accompany him. There was quite a group waiting for him. The administrator, Ms Gleeson, the surgeon who was introduced as Dr Rossiter, and a police officer. Introductions were brief and terse and there were a number of computer files open on the desk. Jeff could tell he wasn't going to enjoy this meeting so he decided to go on the offensive.

"I want my sons together, either in the same room or next door. It's imperative for security and their wellbeing. Has this been done?"

Jeff could see Dr Rossiter was a man who considered his words and limited his physical output. The physician nodded distinctly.

"As you have requested. We would like to discuss each of your son's future treatment requirements. But first we do have a few questions for you," he paused as if to consider his words. "We are mystified as to the whereabouts of your sons' medical records. Scans for Scott and Virgil show numerous broken bones and soft tissue injuries, some recent, some healed. They seem unusually accident-prone."

It was one consequence of International Rescue Jeff hadn't anticipated. The dangerous occupation meant they were often injured in some way. Mostly minor but there had been occasions when they'd sustained more serious injuries. Due to the frequency of the injuries, medical practitioners often asked awkward questions as to how these could occur. To stall off any suspicion, they treated as much as possible on the island.

"My sons are pilots, Dr Rossiter. They test experimental craft. It's dangerous work."

The physician frowned. "You don't provide parachutes, Mr Tracy?"

"We have our own medical staff at Tracy Corporation," he hedged. "We have our own fully equipped facilities so their records are not public information."

"In relation to Scott. We were wondering about his mental health prior to the accident. When he presented he was incoherent and combative, more so than we would expect."

"No problems," he heard himself saying, though at the same time doubting it.

"Do you know anyone by the name of John?"

"My middle son."

"I believe Scott was talking to him after the accident, even shouting at him. Yet I understand he wasn't there."

Jeff feigned laughter as he spread his hands. "Look. It's harmless. It's something they've done since they were children."

"Your son is refusing to communicate and to eat. He is on IV for now but if this situation continues we will need to commence tube feeding. That is not a nice thing, Mr Tracy. We would like to send Scott for a full psychological assessment and we would like your support in this decision. Scott has full control of his treatment options but if we knew you agreed..."

Jeff knew Scott would implode at the suggestion. "Certainly not. If there's a problem Virgil will sort it out."

"Mr Tracy," Dr Rossiter said with forced patience. "We are at this moment drawing up a care plan for Scott in co-operation with the police."

"When will you charge my son?" Jeff asked the police officer.

"There are still details. For any charges we lay, we will not be posting bail. We consider him a serious flight risk."

"Then I'll appeal to a judge."

"When the magistrate hears your son attempted to flee the scene."

Flee the scene. Never Jeff knew Scott would never tolerate being called a coward. It was the lowest insult anyone could put on him.

"My son had his watch stolen!" Jeff thundered.

"Expensive one, was it?" the officer said a little sarcastically. "I don't think the magistrate will appreciate your son's priority, considering all that was going on around him."

"It's an extremely important one."

"Considering his predicament and observed behaviour, we assess the potential for self-harm is high," Dr Rossiter said. "Mr Tracy. I have the power to keep your son here until I consider he is well enough to be released. As soon as he is released he will certainly be taken into custody. A hospital would be an infinitely more desirable and safer place for Scott than remand, don't you think. I ask you. Do you think Scott has any mental health issues that need our attention?"

Jeff stared at those watching him. Ms Gleeson appeared to find this discussion distasteful. It would not help Scott to have his mental health questioned but it wouldn't help any of them if he were in jail and open to attack. Was there any potential for Scott to hurt himself, given what had just happened?

Damn it! Scott took his responsibilities very seriously.

"All right. We'll go your way for now, Dr Rossiter but I want to be told of all developments."

"Thank you. Please be assured we have your son's best interests at heart."

"I want limited numbers of staff to have access to them."

"We will arrange it, Mr Tracy."

"One thing, Mr Tracy," the police officer said. "How did your sons come into this country? Immigration can't seem to find any record of their entry."

Damn. Damn. Damn.

"Hey, did you know that our big brother is on the Bastards Incorporated website?" Alan whispered to John across the Tracy penthouse table. "You know where jilted lovers put on all the gory-"

"I know what it is, Alan." John came around to see what Alan was looking at. He was sick of computer screens, mopping up what seemed like endless talk about their eldest. Thanks to Gordon, they'd had very little sleep and for John it was only the knowledge that he had drawn first watch at the hospital that kept his darkening mood in check. "What have you got?"

"An old post. Back...let's see...must be the year we started IR. This girl is claiming Scott ran off without a word. No letters. No reply to her letters. It seemed to be renewed quite often. Can't move on."

"A kid," John croaked. "She claimed he fathered her child. Shit."

"John. You know this stuff. Most of it is bullshit. We get accused of doing all sorts of things. I remember after Parola Sands, one -"

"Yeah, all right. I suppose you're right." John rubbed his face when a light on his com-watch flashed. "John here, Father."

"Get into Immigration," his father said. "Get your brothers entry permission. Immigration is after them."

Gordon saw Amber's father come out of ICU and go into a lounge. The man was stooped, his hair uncombed, his grey beard unkempt. Gordon watched him go and hesitated. He waited a few minutes then drew a deep breath as he went in after him.

"Excuse me, sir, I couldn't help notice you sit by that young woman's bed. They told me they'd brought her in here. The young woman who was - struck - by the car. I was there, you see and I was wondering how she's doing."

Hubert froze. "You?"

"Yes, sir. I was the first there. I was wondering if she's okay. I had to give her CPR and I was wondering - well - if she came through."

The man's face brightened. "They told me she was saved by you people there. You? You saved my Amber?"

"Well, there was a doctor, too, but I was just wondering how Amber was doing."

"Oh, my lord!" Hubert came at him joyously and Gordon tried not to wince as the man squeezed him. "You save my daughter. How can I repay? I must give you reward. I must."

"No, please, I was just wondering, you know."

The man pulled back, tears on his cheeks, and Gordon found he was being scrutinised at arm's length.

"Come. Sit. Tell me. Oh, my. You saved her. Thank you. Thank you."

Back in the US, a hand ran down a uniform and straightened a hat on a head that was past its prime, a form wearied and aged prematurely by loss and grief. The hand touched the photograph on the desk then saluted it with the ease and crispness of experience. There was a black case beside the photograph and in it was an assortment of weapons. The hand hovered over many before settling on one that pleased it.

"Our fellow countrymen and women," a voice shouted. "We must unite against the scourge of evil on our streets. We must protect ourselves. We must fight those who threaten our country, our families. We must punish those who take our children."

Chapter Eight

John stretched his hands back over his head and the chair tilted as he lifted his feet onto the sill of the hospital's window.

"I'm thinking of checking in here, Virg. Exhaustion, you know. Sure smells good what you're eating."

Virgil pushed up against the raised bed and poked at his food with a fork. "Something Grandma rustled up from the local store. You know Dad won't let us eat the hospital food."

"From what I hear, that's the way they drum up business. Eat up, Virg. Not like you to leave anything."

"How's Amber?"

"Doing okay. They're keeping her asleep but they're going to bring her round soon."

Virgil pushed vegetables around his plate distractedly. "I'm worried."

"Yeah, I know. Give him time. Imagine what you'd feel like. Pretty damned overwhelming if anyone's asking. Maybe if he could get some sleep he'd feel better."

"He's not going to sleep in here. He hates these places. In fact, I think he's afraid of them after being there when Mom - you know."

John could see a plane take off from the airport. "Look. At least you two'll feel at home."

He pointed to the plane.

"But that's just it. He has to look at that. You didn't see his arm, John. It's a mess. What if he can't...can't fly? He needs two hands to fly One."

"There's a lot of what-ifs, Virg. One step, you know."

"Are Thunderbirds One and Two still at Bonga?"

"Ye-up. Being watched, don't worry."

"Why not take them back where they're safe?"

"The island's taken a hit. Alan said it was touch and go getting out in the jet. To get Two down, we have to clear the runway and I guess Dad's thinking you two are more important."

"I don't like this, John. Feels creepy. We're wide open."

"Yeah, know what you mean. Hey, if you don't want to stay."

Virgil eased his position with a wince. "Don't even suggest it. I'm with Scott."

"Thought you'd see it that way. Oh, before I forget. From Brains. Dad's orders." John slipped what looked like a sweet from his pocket and tossed it onto Virgil's tray.

Virgil screwed up his nose. "Not an edible transmitter?"

"Can't use the com-watch around here. Might send someone into V-fib. We've contributed enough guests to this place."

"Argh. Do I have to?" Virgil lowered the volume of his voice to a whisper. "They give me - you know - gas."

John grinned. "Then I'll remember to stay upwind." He got up from the chair and fingered the lock on the door that separated the rooms. "So, what do you figure? Think I should make a full-scale assault on this?"

"It's locked - from the other side. The nurse checked."

"About ninety seconds."

"I'm allowed up later, I'll do it."

When John went back to luxuriate in the chair, a light on his watch flashed. He groaned loudly. "What now? You owe me, Virg. I not only had to hack into NTBS, I had to access the frigging Australian government's site. The dogs should be at bay - for now. You came in by Tracy jet, okay. Pass it on. I'm sure the cops will work out a way around Dad some time soon to see you. Brother, with all this hacking, it'll be me going downtown and without the key. My rootkit is smoking. I'll be back - I hope."

John hurried downstairs to the entrance foyer to answer the call on his watch. Penelope eased from a seat to stand next to him, her expression inscrutable.

"Security alerted us that someone had come in asking after Scott. He claimed to be media." She slid out a printout. "He looks like the gentleman who served me in the Co-operative. Did Alan have any joy finding a picture of Martin Langley?"

John took the black and white image to study. "Yep, that's him."

"I think we should follow. Parker's radioed that he's on foot and headed north. Your father is expecting some kind of threat. It would be good to see who else may be involved. To see how big the threat is."

"Sure throwing down the challenge to Brains. That site keeps re-activating. It looks like they've stopped using their phones. We haven't been able to pick up any transmissions from the store. This guy is stacking up cunning. You've already been close. What's say I go."

"FAB, John. I'll wait here. We don't want this to be some sort of distraction to draw us away. Jeff should finish his meeting with the solicitor shortly. I'll keep him informed."

John left Penelope and, with Parker's guidance, managed to get within half a block of his target, keeping an eye out for anyone else who may have been following. Martin Langley was reasonably tall and his shirt shone a brilliant white. John had no trouble seeing him through the mill of people. His quarry was headed towards the shop and John estimated they were about four blocks from there. In a direct triangulation, Tracy Corporation was three blocks to the east and the hospital back three blocks.

Martin had not spoken to anyone or shown interest in any of the other business premises. He walked with his head down as if he was thinking. He carried something black and silver in his hand, which John thought was a mobile phone or something similar.

At the next intersection, Martin crossed ahead of him and John waited impatiently at the lights. Then he saw Martin change course, cross the street and turn into a lane. John skirted the traffic, kept on his side of the road and stopped to look up the lane. No sign of Martin.

Great, just great.

The lane was narrow and cobbled. Very few people were up the lane but there were little niche businesses crowded in multi-story renovated complexes with awnings and mobile billboards at street level. The lane was straight for only a few yards then veered sharply to the right. John couldn't see very far and cursed his luck.

"John to Penelope. He's gone up a back alley just past Jackson street. Does it come out? Can Parker go around? I'm not sure whether to go up or not. It doesn't look seedy but I'll look obvious. It may be a way back to the store. I'm dialling up the GPS now."

"Stay where you are. Parker will see what he can do."

Four minutes later, John received word Martin had not come out. According to his GPS read-out, this was not a short cut. Martin had come here for a specific purpose, perhaps the purpose they'd been seeking.

Decision time. A casual walk-past may not hurt. Martin could've gone into any one of the small businesses and John might get lucky.

"Okay. I'll go. See what's there. At least it's a through street."

"John. Be careful. Penelope out."

Oh, yeah. He'd be careful all right. He was an astronomer, not some trained spy. As much as Scott had drilled him in the finer points of warfare and defence, it was not who he was. Besides, he was not packing anything more deadly than a ball point pen, unless you count the damage hitting someone with a GPS unit might cause.

It was broad daylight. He had every right to be walking down this lane. There was little traffic. He did walk down the middle so as not to be surprised by anyone off to the side.

He had only walked as far as the bend in the lane when he saw someone standing in a doorway. It was Martin. He looked straight at John as he watched John walked past. John pretended not to notice and continued on.

"So I am being followed," Martin called across to him. "You're John."

John glanced his way but didn't stop.

"I know who you are. I saw you in the watch. I heard what the other one called you. Scott, isn't it?" Martin said. "You're International Rescue. I know. And you were at the shop. Last night. I saw you with a blond guy. Someone entered my shop illegally. I don't know why they did that. But I know who all of you are."

John answered him in fluent Swedish, something John thought might suit his almost Nordic blond and blue-eyes appearance and something that would mask his American accent. He suggested something to the effect that Martin should piss off and go do something he'd really, really regret. Then Martin did the thing John dreaded. He took a snapshot of him. With his phone.

Where were the jammers when you needed them?

John was boiling mad. What could he do? He could try to wrestle the thing from him but that would only confirm the man's words. He'd been outplayed and he'd never live it down.

Damn. This sonofabitch is good.

John gave him the finger and said a few more choice words in Swedish as he walked on. He was surprised when Martin ran past him. John braced for him to take more photos but he turned, instead, into what was a dead-end back lane. When John walked past the corner, the man had disappeared.

"And I am not going down there to look."

Chapter Nine

>

Scott was flying; high, higher, up beyond anything blue he could remember into a haze of greyish-white. It wasn't clouds but he gave its substance no mind as he was, at last, one with his precious Thunderbird. Nothing else mattered. So much in one with his machine, in fact, that he couldn't tell where his rocket-plane began and he ended or vice versa.

He was soaring effortlessly above the dark, the rain, the devastation...until his higher cortex got curious. Why didn't he register the g-forces riveting his spine against his especially-designed seat? Why couldn't he feel his guts restrained by the small of his back? He was soaring effortlessly until he heard the voice.

I'm disappointed...

He didn't need to hear much else. It was enough to send the systems in his Thunderbird into major malfunction. Thunderbird One went into free fall, nose down, spiralling straight back from where he'd come. He watched the planet Earth enlarge from a speck to a baseball to a basketball in terrifyingly rapid time.

I'm disappointed...

He was going to crash, head first until by some freakish warp he was suddenly not looking down but up as his Thunderbird came straight for him, red nose tip smouldering. Just as he opened his mouth to protest, the machine morphed into a hand, a girl's arm, and, as he watched, the palm enlarged and threatened to pulverise him into the ground like the boot on the foot of a giant.

"Mr Tracy?"

The sound of a strange voice near his ear had him mentally scurrying for cover, snapping back in on himself like over-wound elastic.

Which nurse was going to humiliate him, now?

Then there was more light in his room and the head-end of his bed rose. He began to count backwards, inaudibly, to focus. Nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine, nine thousand nine hundred and -

"I'm Deirdre," she said. "We'll being seeing a lot of each other in the coming days. I've been appointed to take care of you and I specialise in orthopaedics so we'll work to get your arm functioning again. I'll let you call me Dee if you're civil." She paused in her introductions as if to wait for a response but when he didn't give one, she went on. "Oh, dear. You haven't touched your meal. Your grandmother got it especially. They told me you don't say much but you'll find I'm extremely persistent. What I want I usually get and what I want for you is to get well."

Scott allowed his eyes to slide open a fraction to locate this fresh avenue of torment. He had to rely on the nurses to do most things for him. His dominant arm was useless and his left was limited by the IV trailing from it. He'd rarely felt so helpless and he didn't like it.

Back to the real world, Tracy, and a whole new ball game.

He saw a compact female, about his age. He had to listen carefully to understand what she was saying as her accent was a mix of Australian and something else. She was the type of woman he may not give a second glance with her sparrow brown hair pulled back severely with pins but there was one thing he had learned from his years with International Rescue and even longer years raising four brothers and that was to distrust first appearances. Something in the way her unplucked eyebrows knit and her mouth disappeared into a grim line as she concentrated on her task warned him to take notice.

"Do I have your attention? This might interest you more." She undid the bandages, giving him a running commentary despite the fact he refused to look at it. "This apparatus looks bizarre but it's just to hold everything in place. More nerve grafts will be done later but I'm sure Dr Rossiter will explain it to you. Now, this other swelling and bruising around the sutures looks worse than it is. Quite normal. How about some simple exercises?"

That was a statement, not a question. She moved his fingers and he endured the pain in silence. He could see she was watching him. He discovered he could move his hand to some small degree, though sensation in it was tingling and poor.

"You know, pain is a good thing," she reassured him. "Have you ever seen leprosy, Mr Tracy?"

He knew what she was suggesting. They often received calls to underdeveloped countries. Millions of people around concrete construction with poor emergency services. They often filled in the gaps. He'd seen the devastating effects a lack of physical sensation produced.

"Will you see your family this afternoon? Your dad would like to know?"

His father? He's disappointed. Scott was disappointed in himself, too. Bitterly. But he knew only one way to survive. Containment. First rule of self-preservation. In this instance, the nurse was wrong; numbness would be his saviour, not his slayer.

He shook his head slowly.

"Shame. I understand your brother, Virgil, is worried about you." She indicated with her head to the door between the rooms. "He's been moved next door."

Scott frowned at her.

"Eye contact," she said. "That's an improvement."

"Virgil's next door? Why is he still here?"

"You'll have to ask him. You're going to be very, very sore, especially around your rib cage. You'll need to take care when you move."

"Virgil should be taken home. It's not safe. Tell my dad."

"You're in a secure unit. You don't need to worry about security. Why don't you tell him yourself?"

"Virgil must not stay here."

"You may be used to ordering a secretary about, Mr Tracy, but that won't happen here. No such luxuries. Now. I'll make a deal with you. You eat something and I'll find out about your brother. Okay?"

Scott closed his eyes. He knew what would happen if he did eat.

She held the bowl of rice and vegetables in front of him. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"

That was the wrong question to ask. It brought back involuntary images of the hellish week he'd had. He hadn't sat down to a Tracy meal for more than a week, surviving on specially-made energy bars and coffee, but there was only so much legal stimulants could do to keep an exhausted body on its feet.

His week had begun in a far-off Malaysia where a flood had wiped out a town. It was apparent early on this was recovery not rescue and only Thunderbird One had been launched. He'd stayed to organise the five days of clean-up and disposal of the dead as local resources were limited.

He'd gone straight from there to join his three brothers at a train wreck in a tunnel. He'd maintained radio contact with the victims trying to encourage them while his brothers tore through the mountainside in the Mole. It was to no avail. The victims succumbed to their injuries while Scott listened.

That last rescue had been a turning point. It was not their usual protocol to handle the dead but Scott felt more than obligated. Gordon was devastated to let go of the young boy's hand and betray the survivors' hope like that. There was no way to know whether they would've survived if he'd let Gordon secure that jack. Scott sincerely doubted it but it didn't make the decision any easier. He'd made a clear choice - the life of his brother for those five lives and in some convoluted sense it felt wrong of him to keep what was precious to him while the others were lost, yet he knew he wouldn't be able to choose differently.

As Scott did what he considered his duty, he was left with the realisation that he couldn't take much more of it without a break. The smell was the worst in any of these situations, particularly of those long dead. Of bloating, bursting corpses. It seemed to be absorbed into his mouth and into his nose. Everything tasted and smelt of earth and decay - and death.

Then the car accident. To damage an innocent bystander. To hurt one of his own brothers. He saw that hand. The girl's palm, tiny and pale, imprinted on the dark, rain-scarred glass of the windscreen.

He stared at the food bowl and began to retch.

At least that move got the food out of his sight. Deirdre dashed it aside as she rushed to help him. It was good he hadn't eaten. There was little to bring up but Scott heaved and heaved in an effort to get rid of that smell, to get rid of that horrible sensation of drowning in lives they couldn't save.

"Sorry."

"That's okay." She held a towel in front of his face. He trembled from the exertion and pain as she wiped the sweat from his face. "Are you drug or alcohol dependent, Mr Tracy? We need to know if you are. You may be going into withdrawal."

He gritted his teeth. "No."

"There was alcohol in your system when you were admitted. It's not an accusation."

"No." Scott pressed his face into the pillow to stifle the sound of his distress. "They can't see me like this. They can't."

"Brains!" Alan yelled. "Will you look at this?"

Brains came over to Alan's computer on the dining room table back at Tracy Corp.

Alan punched a button on his com-watch. "Alan to John. Where the hell are you?"

John answered immediately, sounding breathless, though he sounded so strange Alan didn't catch what he said.

"You won't believe what happened," Alan said as he heard the slam of the penthouse door behind him.

John jogged into the room and sprawled onto the back of a chair as he caught his breath. "My picture's on the internet. Right?"

"Ye-up."

John covered his face with his hands and moaned.

"I can see -uh- why Microtech had this individual -uh- in their employ," Brains said. "He is very good."

"We're not here to appreciate his handiwork," Alan said. "We have to find a way to stop him."

"Oh, I doubt you'll do -uh- that."

"You're not admitting defeat, are you?"

"Oh, no Alan. It's a -uh- question of how far do we go. I could disable his -uh- operating system but he would only have -uh- to start up again with a different one. He's not -uh- actually attacking our attempts to block him. He could -uh- attempt to destroy us in return but I haven't seen -uh- any hint of that. No direct threat has been made -uh- against us."

As they the watched the website display for a minute, more pictures of the family appeared.

"There's me. When I won Parola Sands. And Gordo when he won his gold medal. Now, he's cheating. Virgil when he was at college? That's ancient. No-one will recognise that! Look. He says he's got proof we're members of International Rescue."

"And Tracy Corporation will release a statement refuting it, tomorrow." Their father's deep gravelly voice behind them startled them. "Brains is right. It's a question of how far we go. We're being provoked. They accuse us and if we take it up we make their accusation come true."

"But he's accusing Tracy Corporation of heavy-handed tactics. Of him being followed and harassed, his premises being watched."

"Well, aren't we?" John drawled from the corner of his mouth.

"We've got the com-watch back without harm. That's what matters," Jeff said. "Any more information about this fellow's background? We must know who he is."

John picked up a sheet of paper to his left. "Martin James Langley. Born in England. Son of a Tory politician, when Great Britain had such a party. Mother died when he was young and he lived with his aunt. Fairly conservative background. Formal education in Europe before taking up a high-flying role with computer hardware giant Microtech, Seattle. Left there under a cloud, disagreeing with their company politics apparently. A crisis of conscience, so says his website. Then formed this green group. That's it, so far."

"So, what do we do with this joker?" Alan said.

"We wait for him to make a direct threat," his father said.

"You think he will?"

"I'll bet International Rescue on it."

"See that, Gordon?" Hubert enthused, tears immediately in his eyes. "She moved. She moved. Her fingers. You try."

Gordon had just returned to the ICU to give Amber's father a break from the bedside vigil. He'd been in and out of ICU all day and the thought that Amber might be rousing sent a little thrill through him. He sat down in the chair Hubert vacated and took hold of the tiny, white fingers.

"Hey, Amber," Gordon said to the apparition in the bed in front of him. In ICU, the machines and life-support systems made any human appear less than lifelike. "I'm Gordon. I'm your new friend, remember, do I get a squeeze, too?"

They both watched anxiously for a response. Gordon wasn't sure he did feel pressure on his hand other than the reflexive response of the unconscious but the joy on Hubert's face was too much to disappoint.

"You know, maybe I did feel something, Mr Kreuzer."

Hubert patted him firmly on the shoulder, which Gordon regretted but smiled through it. He spoke to his daughter then hurried outside for a short break. Gordon sat staring at the figure in the bed. This beautiful young woman would not be the same. Long, dark hair, translucent skin. A fragile, perfect creation broken in more places than he could recite, and he held the hand that he saw in his night hours.

Poor Scott if he ever sees her.

They say that people in a coma have some awareness. He couldn't remember a great deal directly after his own accident. Weeks of his life were a blank but the knowledge that his family had never given up on him was something he treasured. He wouldn't give up on Amber, either. He talked softly to her until her father returned when Gordon had to make his apologies.

Hubert leapt at him, embracing him. "How can I thank. For saving her. For coming. You save me, too."

"Would it be okay if I came back tomorrow?"

The man cried into Gordon's shoulder as he nodded. "Any day. Every day."

Gordon trudged from ICU and went to look for his brothers. Even the short distance up a couple of storeys was a harrowing one. Everyone was talking about International Rescue. Where were they? Why had they abandoned the world? Why had they vanished without word? The paper's headline asked the question on everyone's lips:

WHERE'S INTERNATIONAL RESCUE?

It took Virgil less than ninety seconds to undo the lock between his room and Scott's. He paused a moment to thank Parker for his dexterity with these devices and his willingness to pass on his dubious skills.

Virgil shuffled in, wrapping a gown around his silk pyjamas, acutely tender around the midriff. The light was turned down and Scott was on his side, actually asleep. Virgil saw the strategically placed towels and dish.

"Oh, Scotty. Not again."

He listened to his brother's rhythmic breathing. It was the first time he'd seen Scott relaxed in a long time. He shifted a chair to sit near him and sat down to watch.

Scott roused slightly. "Mom?"

"I wish, I wish."

"Virg?"

"Here, buddy. Go back to sleep." Virgil took up his hand. Scott tried to pull away as he struggled to open his eyes and look around in sudden anxiety but Virgil held on.

"News?"

"Relax, relax. Everything's headed in the right direction. Don't worry."

"You need to...go."

"Not going anyplace. Go back to sleep, I'll watch over you."

"But-"

"Sleep."

Scott closed his eyes and did go back to sleep. Virgil watched over him, almost nodding off with him. The door opening, however, woke him. The nurse came in then stopped short when she saw him and glanced at the door to the adjoining rooms.

"The lock's broken," he whispered to alleviate her worried look.

"What do you know, sleeping at last," she whispered back as she looked down at her patient.

"What did you do? Down him with a piece of four by two?"

"Just about had to call the vet in here. I think we used enough to knock out a horse."

Virgil grinned. "Well, he can be as stubborn as their closest relative."

"He's almost smiling."

"He can do that quite well."

"He only glares at me."

"He hates this." Virgil motioned around him.

"Does this regularly, does he?"

"No - more than the rest of us," Virgil said self-consciously moving his hand away from Scott's when he saw her looking.

"You seem - um - close," Deirdre said. "Does he have any problems we should know about? Don't take offence but high profile people often have substance abuse issues. He's showing the classic signs."

"I see he's throwing up again."

"That's right. Severely. He's also shivery and agitated. Does this happen often?"

"Only when things get too much for him. It means he's reached his limit. It doesn't mean he's drug dependent. It means he works too hard."

"What exactly do you do, if you don't mind me asking? I guess you work for Tracy Corporation."

"We're in research and development. We're pilots. We test and operate new equipment."

"Well, you both don't look like you have desk jobs."

Virgil grinned. "We work outdoors a lot."

"What are you working on that's causing your brother so much grief?"

"You don't think seriously injuring a pedestrian is stress enough?" Virgil said trying to avoid the question.

"Why do I get the impression this was an accident waiting to happen?"

Virgil couldn't look at her. "Sorry, I can't talk about what we do exactly or what we work on. Industry secrets."

"I suppose one multi-national is just like any other with their secrets," she said and sighed. "Look, if there's anything that might help him, let's know, okay?"

"The biggest way to help is to not make judgements about what you see and decisions about what he doesn't say."

Deirdre looked askance at him. "That's very cryptic, Mr Tracy."

By the time Gordon passed through security and reached Virgil's room, he was ready to hit the sack. He'd had an intense day in ICU and he was glad to visit his brother. He carried with him that deep-seated ache painkillers couldn't reach. He'd spent the day remembering...remembering what it was like to be so helpless, so broken; watching as death teetered above as tangibly as the slab of concrete that had wrenched life from his fingers and as unpredictably as the whim of a kidnapper's next blow.

He remembered it all. And, moreover, he understood - not in a textbook knowledge of understanding - but knowing from those depths of personal experience. During intense times like these, he could often fall back on his humour to survive, his 'bag of tricks' as his brothers called them. He saw this tendency as something he practiced, more along the lines of a physician - jokes to revive a spirit, a shot of laughter to boost morale. Only right now, he seemed to have misplaced the whole damn kit.

He knocked on his brother's door and went in. "Virg?"

The bed was unoccupied, though he saw that the adjoining door to Scott's room was open. It was quiet in Scott's room except for Virgil whispering to a woman, who he presumed was a nurse. He curled up on Virgil's bed, intending only to take a nap.

He woke sometime later to find someone touching his sore shoulder. Gordon sat up, his eyes wide with guilt. "I'm Gordon. I was waiting for Virgil to come back. I'm his younger brother," he explained in a rush.

"Oh, you're Gordon," she said. "I'm Deirdre. I've heard you're a walking wonder. Apparently your scans are impressive. The emergency nurses were talking about it, how you survived such a horrific accident."

"Yes, ma'am," Gordon agreed as he felt a tinge of heat creep into his cheeks. "Thank you, ma'am."

She laughed softly. "What do you do? Are you a pilot, too?"

"No. Well, yes, I am but I'm an aquanaut first. I'm a diver and oceanographer. I love the water. I work in research and development."

"Oh, so you work with your brothers. You know something. I love the water. You can call me Dee."

"Thank you, ma'am."

The main door to Virgil's room came inward.

"Don't take that cute, bashful teddy bear look too seriously, Miss," John said as he strode into the room, both hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. "He's a real shark underneath."

John stopped to call for Alan out the door and Alan came in panting.

"Gordo. We looked all over. Dad's doing a piston with worry."

John nodded to the lock on the door that adjoined the rooms. "Mission accomplished."

"Virgil said the lock was broken," Deirdre said.

John grinned. "Certainly is now."

"So, I'm talking to more brothers?"

"We, unfortunately, do share the same surname," John quipped. "Where the resemblance stops is pure conjecture."

"How many of you are there?"

"Grandma says we must be an innumerable horde by the looks of the table after we've eaten," Alan said.

"I could believe it. I've got three brothers. So, you work for Tracy Corp? Don't tell me. Let me guess. Research and development. Right? So, is it sky or sea? Pilots or aquanauts?"

"What do you think? Is this gal quick or what?" John said to Alan using one of his voice impersonations.

"For us. Neither," Alan said. "We do those but we're the out-of-this-world type of guys. We reach far beyond where no man - or woman - has ever gone before."

John nudged him. "I'm an astronomer and this here kid is a race driver who thinks he can shoot for the stars. An ego thing, I think."

Deirdre laughed. "Oh, you blokes are too much."

"That's what Dad says - though not as nicely as that," Alan said.

"Gordon!" John barked. "Before you go back bye-byes. Any news?"

Gordon startled awake at his name being called.

"How's Amber?" John said.

"Yes, how is she?" Deirdre asked.

Gordon shifted his focus to the nurse. "You know her?"

"Actually, I'm not sure. I've heard her name somewhere before. I think she lives in the airport precinct. I do, too. We may have met. I've been trying to place her."

"You don't live in that trendy up-market green redevelopment, do you?" John said a trifle sharply. "You're not one of those radicals? From what we've seen the place is alive with alternates big on biofuels and recycling or some such."

"About the only radical thing I do is volunteer for World Aid Services every summer. Medical work in India and Africa. Not too radical for you, is it? What's Tracy Corporation doing in that area? Now, that's hardly radical. A huge multinational conglomerate into new fuel technologies and billion-dollar government contracts could hardly fit the radical mould, could it?"

"We do actually have our moments," John said.

Deirdre squared up to John. "Like when? Give me an example."

"Believe me, we know how to get our hands dirty," John bit back. "We contribute."

"Er - Deirdre? Ma'am? How's Scott?" Gordon asked, cutting straight across what he could see was going to be a serious clash.

The nurse turned back to Gordon. "Thanks for reminding me. I came to get a spare blanket. He hasn't been well. He's asleep now but his temperature's way up. It's probably his arm."

"Can we see him?" Alan said.

"If you could wait until tomorrow, that would be better. I need to get Virgil out of there. He's been up too long. I think Mr Tracy should be left asleep."

"Okay, Miss World Aid. Tomorrow," John snapped.

"It's Ms Stewart to you."

"John?" Alan said. "What are you doing?"

Later in the Tracy penthouse, John tapped faster on his keyboard. "I don't like that Stewart woman. I'm doing a search."

"No kidding. What was that about? You changed all of a sudden."

John stopped work and leaned on his hand. "I don't know. Something about the way she-"

"Moves?"

"I was going to say speaks. I am the language expert, after all. And if you make one wise crack about me hearing voices, I'll deck you."

Alan held up both hands in surrender.

Gordon stormed into the dining room flapping a piece of paper. "John?"

John sighed. "Sometimes I hate that name."

"What is this?" Gordon slapped the paper right across his keyboard. "It's from Ned Cook. Someone used his identity and he just got burned for accessing an unauthorised area. He's pissed off big time. Did you?"

"Guilty, your Honour."

"But Ned and I have an agreement. He trusted me with that information. He does favours for IR."

"So sue me. Sorry but I'm only following orders."

Gordon turned to his father, aghast.

"John's doing what he was asked to do, son."

"But that's not right."

"Steady Gordon, you'll blow something," Alan said to one side.

"I'll talk to Cook about it," Jeff said. "Apologise. Cook didn't respond to John's attempts to contact him. John's registered his protest to me. There's no time, Gordon. This could mean the life of your brother, not to mention International Rescue."

"It's still not right," Gordon repeated, looked like he waited for a show of support from the others but, when none was forthcoming, he stalked out.

"Gordon. Get back here," his father bellowed. "We're about to have a meeting. Come together, everyone, we've got things to discuss. Alan, get your brother."

Alan groaned. "He won't come, now." He trotted to the bedroom and came back alone. "He's gone to bed."

"Well. That might be a good thing," Jeff said. "Fill him in tomorrow. Brains, make sure Gordon does sleep. Then we can all get some rest. We're feeling the strain."

"Yes, Mr Tracy."

"Okay. No further threats from the People's group. Our agents on the ground are monitoring the situation there and all appears quiet. John's little escapade may have cost us but not too much. Tracy Corporation will continue to deny any connection with International Rescue. As you noticed, there have been reporters round the building today. Stay clear. As of now, you boys are to stay off the streets. Penelope is monitoring the media coverage for us so we don't have to watch the International Rescue debacle ourselves.

"I don't like the Thunderbirds away from base. It's time we took care of that loose end. A group of us will go back to base tomorrow and clear the runway. There was a heck of a lot of debris. We concentrate on those areas we need to clear to get those birds down. Alan will come with me in Thunderbird One. Brains and Tin-Tin in Tracy Jet Three. If we get an early start we could be back by dark.

"John, I want you at the hospital. Check everyone who comes near Virgil and Scott. Gordon will continue with Amber and Hubert, though I want him to check in on the boys. Tell him. We'll be as quick as we can. That's our day tomorrow. Get some sleep, even if you have to see Brains. Right. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Dismissed. Long day ahead of us, tomorrow."

Chapter Ten

"Virg. How long...have I been out of it?" Scott croaked as he squinted past his brother's shoulder to the scene beyond the hospital window outside. He could tell by the angle of the light that it was getting towards the later afternoon. Virgil was surrounded by a halo of light. The shadow made his silk bathrobe deeper in green and almost obliterated the fancy 'V' sewn into his pocket.

"Twelve hours. A Scott Tracy record."

Scott struggled to roll onto his back. "Everything still okay?" he asked cautiously, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"All good."

Scott allowed himself to relax. "I feel lousy." He mouthed. "What - is that stuff? My mouth feels-"

"Anticipated." Virgil held out a glass of water. "Sip it. Slowly." At Scott's wary look, Virgil held out a dish as well. "If you're going to barf, I don't want it over me."

Scott sipped the water slowly and it took five minutes not feel like it was going to come straight back up. The brothers grinned. Scott winced as he pushed himself up with his left hand and was surprised by the effort it took. He glanced around the room, silently congratulating himself he was at least sitting up. Vertical. Progress. He asked about Amber and what was happening on the home front.

"Dad's doing everything he can, believe me. They've gone to clear the runway at home so One and Two can be taken home"

"How's IR holding? Was there any picture of me?"

"We're concentrating on keeping you out of trouble. That's our number one priority."

"The com-watch. Any luck tracking it?"

"It's being taken care of, don't worry. Leave it to Father. Dad doesn't want you to think about any of this. Okay? You rest and get yourself right. Everything's headed in the right direction. Amber's off critical and the watch is being taken care of. There's reason to be optimistic. Things'll work out, you'll see."

Scott shot him an angry look. "Work out?"

"Leave it, Scott. Leave it to Father and the authorities."

"I'm dead meat as far as they're concerned. And for all the wrong reasons."

"Trust Dad to take care of things. You concentrate on mending up."

Scott kicked back the bedding and shuffled along the bed. "Swap places. I have to get off this bed."

"Actually, I could do with a nap now you're awake. I'll go back." Virgil eased out of the chair and stood up gingerly.

"Okay?" Scott asked worriedly.

"Yeah. Yeah. Have to be careful. Don't want to rupture it again. Definitely don't recommend it." Virgil shuffled to the connecting door. "Open or shut?"

"I love to hear you snore, bro."

Virgil closed it forcefully and Scott smirked until he tried to get from the bed to the chair, which were only two feet from each other. He felt heavier than a Boeing Jumbo and he had to make a grab for the arm to stop himself from going straight to the floor.

He was getting weak. He had to find a way to eat. He'd barely made the chair and arranged the hospital gown so he was modest, when Deirdre breezed in.

"Look at you. Out of bed." She checked his IV line and his temperature then arranged his right hand on a pillow in his lap. "You need to give your arm proper support."

Scott still refused to look at it. As soon as she turned her back, he slipped his arm under the pillow so it was covered. She noticed but offered him water without comment.

"It's good you're awake. You have visitors." Scott tensed. "You can't refuse these people. It's the police."

He suddenly wished he hadn't drunk the water. Chill, Tracy. Act cool. Contained. He began counting again. Nine thousand nine hundred...where did I get to?

Two officers came in. One in uniform, one in a suit. The one in uniform was from the accident scene and Scott nodded to him. The second was introduced as a detective. The detective stood in front of him with his feet spread, a clipboard open in front of him.

Scott started to feel hemmed in. "How can I help?" he asked, trying to get off on the right foot.

"We're simply pursuing our enquiries, Mr Tracy," the detective said. "Would you like to tell me your version of events leading up to the accident?"

His version? Why did that sound accusatory?

"Not much to say" was how he started the interview and virtually how he finished it. It became apparent very quickly that he could answer only the most basic questions without jeopardising International Rescue's status. Where was he going? Why was he going there? What could he say? He couldn't defend himself without lying. Personal integrity was something he valued and to deliberately give misleading information in these circumstances didn't sit easily with him. Certainly not to protect himself.

The interview ended with an outcome none of them wanted and the experience left Scott feeling wound-up and frustrated.

"Look. I don't mean to be difficult about it but I'm sorry I just can't say anything," he finally blurted.

"Really," the detective said rather sceptically from the corner of his mouth. "Do you want to say anything at all that might be helpful?"

Scott felt prickly heat crawl around inside his abdomen. "I might want to only I can't. All I can do is register my sorrow and regret at what's happened. I'm not able to comment on anything else. I'm sorry but I just can't."

The detective closed his book slowly. "Then I think you'd better engage a very good solicitor, sir. No doubt your daddy can afford one. Unfortunately for you, we're going to enjoy throwing the book at you."

"Amber. Amber." Gordon leaned across to stroke the top of her head. "It's me, Gordon. We really want you to open your eyes. Could you do that for us?"

In the afternoon, Amber had shown definite signs of waking. Her eyes moved under their lids. Her fingers twitched. She responded to stimuli administered by the nursing staff and best of all, when Gordon squeezed her hand and spoke to her, he felt a corresponding pressure on his fingers in return.

Hubert must have heard the excitement in Gordon's voice. He hurried over to Amber's opposite side.

"Amby. Mein Engel! We're here. Come back, my beautiful."

The hand that had smoothed the uniform, that had saluted the photograph, that had chosen with care the appropriate weapon, shielded the angry eyes from the sun as they stared up at the Tracy Corporation logo in urban Sydney. The logo of the giant 'T' surrounded by bursts of flame, which could have been the after-burn of a multitude of jets, looked even more orange as the westerly sun touched it with fire and its glare seared the image into the heart of the observer.

Scott observed that same fire on the wing tips of a Super Hornet fighter as it took off from the airport. Now he was off the IV he could allow himself to think beyond the hospital walls. He watched the jet soar, and his spirits lifted only to bottom out just as quickly when he remembered what awaited him. Even so, his fingers reached out to trace that spot on the glass where his passion culminated.

"Glorious, isn't it?" a male voice said from across the room.

Scott startled and immediately drew back his hand as if caught in an unguarded moment.

"Sorry to frighten you. You were absorbed. You obviously didn't hear me come in."

Scott's gaze scanned the newcomer and the rest of the room to make sure nothing else had changed while he'd been preoccupied. This time he couldn't even remember the numbers.

"What do you want?" he said moodily. He had mulled over the interview with the police for an hour, trying to figure out how he could have handled it better and now any semblance of order in his mind had evaporated.

"You flew them in the Air Force, didn't you? Fighter jets?"

Scott regarded him with suspicion. He wasn't going to give out any information unless he was sure who he was talking to. He could see the visitor wore a hospital lanyard, though he was casually dressed.

"I'm Nelson. From the mental health unit. Mind if I sit down?" Scott could see he was a doctor and that meant psychiatrist to him. Scott braced, his good fingers clutching the pillow in his lap with more force. Nelson grabbed the back of a chair off to the side and swung it around to face him. "So, how are you going, Scott? Is it all right to call you Scott?"

For the next ten minutes, Nelson made small talk and his patient answered in stony, mechanical one-word sentences then he got down to the purpose of his visit.

"As part of the care plan the hospital has in place for you, I've been asked to conduct a check on your psychological wellbeing, just to make sure everything's okay with you."

"Does my father know about this?"

Except in the most extreme cases, the Tracys preferred to treat themselves. Virgil was his listening ear, his safety relief valve. To see anyone outside the family only made the procedure a psychological nightmare for the participant. They just couldn't let their guard down. How could they explain the types of fears and pressures they lived with without revealing who they really were?

The last time it had been necessary had been after Gordon had been kidnapped and subjected to unspeakable horrors. They'd all been terrified and sickened by what had happened. It was the reality that no matter how many good things they did, someone would want to hurt them - in the worst possible way - for what they possessed that changed a lot of things. After this incident, it was difficult not to look on a stranger without feeling some kind of threat.

"He's been consulted and given his in-principle support," Nelson said, in answer to Scott's question. Scott was bewildered and showed it. "But I need your consent. The hospital is doing this in your interest. The police have agreed to hold off charging you until we make a full assessment of your health needs."

"I'm okay. I don't have any problems." Or if I did I couldn't talk about them.

"I'm glad to hear it. Let's just talk about you, then. Get to know you a little better."

Scott gave him the standard basics. He was test pilot with Tracy Corp who lived on a tropical island with his large, extended family. He thought that sounded pretty normal.

"You live and work for your father. And you live and work with your brothers. You know I don't know anyone else who does that. How do you find it?"

Scott nodded. "Okay." A mine field.

"So, you all get along?"

"Yes." Generally.

"Do you ever disagree?"

"Sometimes." Frequently.

Nelson asked about each of the members of his family and general information about his background and education. Then he changed tack.

"Do you have a partner or current relationship outside the family circle?"

Scott shook his head. It's discouraged. But, then, who could we trust? Gordon's recent nightmare had shaken them all.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure." I can't see how I could do it. How could I go or send one of my brothers into impossibly dangerous territory when a life partner or children waited at home for our safe return?

"How long has it been since you had an on-going relationship?"

Scott shifted uncomfortably. "A couple of years."

"What might stop you, you think? You appear to have a lot going for you. You're accomplished, intelligent, good-looking."

The compliment was unexpected. And the sudden memory of his last relationship before commencing the rescue service waylaid his thinking for a moment. Perhaps the woman had done him a favour, after all. Perhaps she'd made it easier for him to accept his isolation. Certainly, at the mere mention of her name his nether regions would contract. More effective than any cold shower. He had almost welcomed the island as a sanctuary from her efforts to capture little more than the Tracy name and what came with it. Dare he admit, a safe house? Certainly not to any of his brothers. He had a reputation to maintain.

What he said was - well aware of the almost schizoid conversation he was having with Nelson and with himself - "Too busy, I guess. Look. I pick up sex when I can. I do have needs if that's what you want me to say."

"If you believe the tabloids, no-one would doubt it. What's it like to work for Tracy Corporation?"

"Hard. People seem to think because we're wealthy we sit around and do nothing. We carry a lot of responsibility. I carry a lot of responsibility."

"Your medical record testifies to some pretty hard living. Tell me about being a pilot? I saw the expression on your face, just now."

"Oh yeah." Scott looked out the window, remembering the thrust of his precious Thunderbird One against his back. He grinned. "The best there is. I live for it. It's my life." And I couldn't even begin to consider life without it. There are times when I wish I was a poet like John. Just to find the words.

Nelson looked at his injured arm. "The future must seem pretty scary for you at the moment."

Scott stared at the pillow that was hiding it. He didn't answer. So terrified, I can't even allow myself to think about it.

"Do you want to talk about what's happened? How your arm came to be like that?"

"No."

Nelson nodded in acceptance. "Tell me about the responsibility, then. What's your most important one?"

"To get the job done with minimal risk. That means to look after my brothers. To protect them. That's my priority." Number ONE. Since mom died. We couldn't bear to lose another family member.

"They're grown men. Can't they look after themselves?"

"What we do is dangerous. I'm the team leader. My responsibility is first to those under my command."

"Your command, Scott?"

"I can't go into details of our structures, operations or actual projects. They're highly classified. All I can say about what I do is that I'm the boss in the field. They do as I say and I bear full responsibility for them."

"And if they don't. What do you do?"

"Well...what works." Scott hesitated, checking for any traps in the question he might stumble into, and relaxed when his visitor didn't pursue it.

"What do you do to unwind? What do you like to do? Hobbies?"

"I work. I fly. Sport. That's it." I don't unwind. I can't afford to. There's too much I need to hold together.

"I admire your commitment, Scott. You work and sacrifice yourself for your family. You give everything. How does that make you feel?"

Scott frowned, not sure what to answer. He didn't really think about it. He'd done it for so long, he accepted it as part of his duty, as his lot in the world. Even after being away in the Air Force, he naturally took up the role again for International Rescue. After all, being at home wasn't much different from being in the armed services.

"Do you resent all these impossible responsibilities?"

Scott's head came up. "They're not impossible."

He heard the sound of his own voice. It was deep and angry.

He was being peeled like an onion. He could feel it. The man was paring off a layer at a time. Rubbing the sore places. He had to stop this. He had to get out of there. He had to fix this mess so everything was right again. Father would be smiling. His brothers would be safe. Amber would be back in her own bed and the world would go on normally again.

Scott fidgeted.

"So, how do you cope? Must be difficult to control a world that has a mind of its own. Must take a lot of effort. So many responsibilities. So many secrets. Secrets are heavy burdens, aren't they?"

He didn't agree or disagree. He stared at the pillow in his lap while the fingers of his left hand assaulted its edge.

"What do you do when you're not in control? Must be hell in here. Tell me about being in here."

Scott's eyes darted about him. He couldn't think anymore. He couldn't allow himself to think. Thinking leads to feeling. He needed numbness. Containment. He must have containment.

"You okay, Scott? You look distressed."

"I'm fine," he snarled, before he could stop himself.

"Tell me about the accident."

Scott shook his head. "I can't."

"Then tell me about your father. From what I've read, he sounds an amazing man."

"He's..." Disappointed. Words immediately failed him, choked off by a suffocating surge of physical reaction. Scott pressed his good hand to his forehead.

"Your father's a famous astronaut, a self-made billionaire. Must be hard to live up to his record. Pressure to conform, to succeed - just like your good old dad. He must be a charismatic fellow to have all his sons still at home, all single, all working for him, totally under his control."

There was silence. Scott was aware he was being scrutinised, watched for every little reaction. Seconds passed. The sound of his rapid breathing and thudding heart seemed magnified in the room.

"But you like to be in control, too. Don't you? How do you get along? Did he ever beat you, Scott? To get you to do what he wants?"

The suggestion shocked him and he raised his gaze to look the psychiatrist squarely in the eye. "My father never hit anyone."

"You're angry. Full-blown anger. I can hear it. Where's this coming from? This is not quite the reaction I'd expect from someone's who's just been involved in a major accident. Maybe you blame the young woman for getting in your way? Causing all this trouble for you?"

A glimpse of Amber's hand striking the windscreen stuck in his throat but Scott swallowed it. "Definitely not."

"Did your father beat your mother?"

"Never."

"Did you ever hit your mother?"

"That's unthinkable."

"Perhaps he did even worse than that? Perhaps he-"

Scott was on his feet, his fist clenched. "If you so much as...so help me-"

"Is this what you do when you can't control things? Hit out? Strike out at a threat?"

Scott advanced on him. "Get out."

The man didn't move. "Sit down, Scott. This is obviously painful for you. Tell me how it is for you."

"You're talking absolute bullshit. I will not listen to any of this shit. My family is the best-"

"You're upset. I can hear it. I want to listen to your side of the story. Your privacy is respected. Sit down and we'll talk."

Scott didn't sit down. He took another step forward and grabbed Nelson by the front of his shirt. "Get out."

"Sit down. Please. You'll regret it if you touch me." There was a momentary clash of wills before Scott saw him press a button on his belt pager.

"Get out!"

"Scott. Tell me exactly what you're thinking."

"I do not have a problem. You hear me? You've got it wrong. There is nothing wrong with me. Or my family. Nothing. We're decent, hard-working people. Now, get out before I..." Scott started to shake violently and he looked up to see people rush into the room at him. "Virgil! Virgil!"

Virgil was already on his way. He could hear what the lunatic was saying and he could hear the tone of Scott's reaction. Scott was furious and Virgil didn't blame him.

He was off the bed and into his brother's room just as the nurse Deirdre and a security guard rushed into Scott's room. Trembling with rage, Scott loomed large over the psychiatrist's chair, his left hand drawing the edges of the man's shirt tighter around his fingers that was, in effect, tightening around the man's throat.

"Scott. Let him go!" Virgil shouted.

At Virgil's shout of alarm, the psychiatrist held up his hand to keep them at bay, his eyes never leaving the cobalt blue ones of the man who was holding his future literally in his hand.

"You have a decision to make," Nelson said evenly to Scott. "If you hurt me, you will be charged. No question. Your future will be sealed. But...if you stop now, if you pull back and let me go, the future will be in your hands. I believe you're still capable of making that decision. Pull back, Scott."

There was a momentary silence in the room. Virgil held his breath. The nurse and the guard, with baton drawn, stood on their toes ready to intervene.

Scott slowly unwound his fingers from the fabric. Then stepped back.

Everyone breathed.

"Thank you," Nelson said. "Well done. A wise decision."

Virgil was the first to move. He scampered around Nelson's chair and grabbed Scott by the shoulders. Scott retreated, turning his back on them, his hand outstretched to keep his face from impacting the wall.

Virgil watched as Scott's fingers alternately made a fist then uncurled.

"Let it go," Virgil whispered.

"N-o."

The catch in his brother's voice prompted Virgil to shift into protective mode. He knew Scott wouldn't want anyone to see him in an emotional state. He slung an arm across Scott's back, tentatively as he wasn't sure where his brother hurt, hoping the gesture would somehow signify a barrier between them and the outside world.

"Get out of here. Give us space," Virgil snapped at those looking on, making sure the snarl in his voice was matched by his expression. "This is not a side show."

"Nurse. Guard. Please leave," Nelson said. "Leave him some dignity. Progress, I think."

The various displays of outrage around him cooled and disappeared completely when they left.

"This is an improvement?" Virgil exclaimed.

"Mmm. He's shown an appropriate response." Nelson stood up from the chair and pulled his shirt back into place.

"You deliberately did this?"

The psychiatrist arched an eyebrow. "Creating - a certain amount of tension - is a risk, I admit, but worth it. At least he's expressing himself. Connecting. Good work, Scott. We'll be seeing you."

Nelson left, leaving the pair welded against the wall. Virgil soothed his brother's hair, tousling black waves in his fingers, and petted and reassured him.

"I have to fix this," Scott muttered.

"Right now, that's what we're for, that's what we're going to do."

Scott rubbed his face, leaving a wet smear across his upper arm. Virgil knew Scott would hold the world, the universe, on those broad shoulders of his if they'd fit.

When would he learn they just weren't broad enough? How much evidence did he need?

"For mercy's sake, get it over with. I won't look. I promise," Virgil scolded affectionately and rubbed his brother's shoulders. All Scott did was shake his head. Resolutely. Very resolutely. "Let go. Please." Virgil held little hope his words would be heeded. At least he had to try.

A minute later, Virgil was taken by surprise when Scott took him more literally than he intended. Scott's hand slid down the wall. So did the rest of him, making Scott lean too heavily into him and Virgil felt the strain in his abdomen.

"Can't hold you, buddy. Stand on your own."

"Need to...sit down," Scott said, his head dipping ominously.

"The bed. Get back to bed."

"Too far," he managed to say before his knees buckled.

Virgil did his best to cushion Scott's fall but he could only do so much without risking ending up where he'd been a few days earlier. He'd experienced pain; he wasn't a stranger to it. This, however, had been of a different dimension and he wasn't about to order a replay.

Scott didn't faint. Tracys just didn't faint. His knees gave out and he slid down the wall to the floor, his fingers clawing a vertical trail along the plaster as he went. Virgil observed wryly that even in defeat, Scott didn't go willingly and he knelt beside him, anxiously, pushing back stray curls so he could monitor his brother's face.

"At least that got rid of them," Scott murmured. "Am I still alive?"

"Seems like it."

"Shame."

"Don't talk like that."

"I can't do this anymore. I can't. Doesn't matter what...I'm caught, Virg...in the cracks. You must see it."

"You're strung out. You're exhausted. Of course you think that."

"Why did he do it? He doesn't understand. None of it."

"The psych?" Virgil tried to manhandle Scott into a more comfortable position so he didn't resemble a boneless bag of Lego.

"Father. Why did he agree to this?"

"He had to. To keep you out of jail."

"So, what's this?"

"At least they provide room service."

Scott closed his eyes tightly as if he was suffering then opened them wide. "Did you bring your piano? I want to hear you play."

"I don't think they'd appreciate us moving in. Spoil the neighbourhood. Gordon's harmonica's around here someplace. He thought it might cheer me up."

Scott's face brightened. "Hey, Virg. Do me a favour?"

"Anything. You know that."

"Pyjamas. I need pyjamas. This shirt thing is indecent. I'm practically naked."

"Didn't think you'd mind. The nurses around here aren't bad looking."

Scott's deep blue gaze slid over to meet his, the first eye contact he'd made that afternoon. "Not for what they do."

Virgil chuckled. "Blue ones?"

"Another favour," Scott said urgently. "I think - I'm going to need - that bowl."

Jeff could almost feel the pulse of the shower water on his skin as they reached the Tracy Corp car park. They'd worked hard that day in the Pacific sun. All of them were tired and dirty but the job was done and the way was clear to bring those Thunderbirds home where they belonged. Now he needed a shower. And such was his desire to feel clean again, he hesitated to answer his com-watch when it vibrated on his arm.

Jeff marshalled his forces before he answered. "Yes, John?"

John's usually deadpan face looked harried. "How far away are you, Father?"

"A couple of minutes. Got back to Tracy Corp just now." He was weary. He admitted it.

"There's -ah- a bit of a stand-off at the hospital. It seems Scott's been throwing his weight around. He had an altercation with one of the psychiatrists."

Give me strength. "Did he hurt anyone?"

"Don't think so. Virgil broke it up, apparently, I don't know. I'm not allowed in. Everyone's been ordered to stay out, let him calm down. The staff are too scared to go in. There's talk of moving him to a psych unit. I need your help here."

Jeff left everyone in the penthouse on the pretext of urgent Corporation business and went straight to the hospital.

At the hospital entrance, he was met by Ms Gleeson, who was dressed in her red ensemble, and she didn't look happy. "We're in final negotiations with the Australian government over the new homing missile defence project," she snapped. "We need that contract to justify our presence in this country. Your son is not helping the Tracy Corporation image, Mr Tracy. A-Tech Industries' bid will be looking more inviting by the day."

He turned on her. "You repeat those sentiments, Ms Gleeson, in my hearing or anyone else's and I'll look at your contract. You hear me?"

Her face closed up in rebellion.

Penelope caught him in the foyer. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Jeff, but public opinion is turning against International Rescue. The media has gone with the article on the People's website. Scott's image is all over the news."

Jeff rubbed his face. "One thing at a time, Penny. Family business first. A wayward son to bring into line. But thanks."

John waited anxiously for him outside the door to Scott's room.

"Right. Let me through," Jeff growled at the huddle in the corridor, to which someone warned him to be careful. "If he tries anything with me, he'll see what he gets."

When he threw back the door and strode in with John, he wasn't prepared for what he saw. Scott lay on the floor, his forehead resting on the vinyl, a pillow rammed into his stomach and Virgil sat beside him, stroking along Scott's exposed back like he was a kitten. Both boys looked up when they entered and Virgil pulled Scott's gown to cover him. Jeff saw Scott's expression turn from hostility to shame.

"Mother of..." John breathed beside him.

John went to rush forward but Jeff stopped him with an outstretched arm.

"John. Give us a minute."

"But they need-"

"John. Out."

John complied and shut the door quietly. Jeff looked over his sons and took two deep breaths.

"Get up. Both of you."

Virgil was the first to move. "He can't."

"Scott. Get off that floor. Where's your self-respect. Remember who you are. You're Tracy men. What the hell are you thinking!"

Scott silently complied with his demand, struggling to get upright. As much as Jeff wanted to help him, he held his ground, fearing to concede at this point would rob his words of impact. Virgil leaned over stiffly and they stood up together. Scott clutched Virgil's upper arm, whether for support or as a shield from him, Jeff couldn't tell.

"What in damnation is going on?"

Virgil spoke first. "The psych said despicable things about our family."

"And that's an excuse for violence? You were taught better than that," Jeff's voice was barely above a whisper but it still resonated with his usual authority. "I don't care what anyone says about us. We know who we are. Because someone says something we don't like, doesn't give us the right to use violence. You are International Rescue operatives and you do that not by right of being a Tracy but because each and every one of you has proven your ability. Nothing and I mean nothing anyone can say will change that. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, Dad," Virgil said.

"Scott, there's a chance I can get you released on a substantial surety into Penelope's care. That may mean you won't be on remand. But that's on the proviso you conduct yourself properly. They won't grant it if you carry on like this! I want you to spend the time here constructively. You've got a chance. Work out your problem and we'll see about the future. You'll be grounded until you prove to me you're worthy of my trust. I will not let you jeopardise the lives of your brothers or those we help until I'm satisfied. Clear?"

"Dad, go easy," Virgil breathed. "He doesn't have a-"

Jeff spoke solely to Scott. "Son, if you have a problem, you need to ask for help."

"That's not fair," Virgil said.

Jeff held his peace, waiting to see his eldest son's reaction. Scott straightened.

"Yes, sir," he croaked.

Jeff saw resolve pass across his son's face. Scott had made a decision and Jeff prayed it was the right one.

Chapter Eleven

The following morning, John was back before the bank of computers in the Tracy penthouse.

"Not again," Alan groaned as he came into the dining room and shoved a breakfast bowl across the counter towards the sink. "Surely if there were any sordid secrets in Miss World Aid's locker you'd have found them by now."

John agreed grumpily.

"Hey, you see Penelope and Father have been in a huddle for over an hour. What do you think that's about?"

"Probably this." John took a newspaper from his lap and tossed it to Alan. "All the latest good news."

Alan frowned as he read the front-page article. 'This paper believes International Rescue members are none other than the womanising, playboy sons of multi-billionaire former astronaut Jefferson Tracy. Mr Tracy is the founder of Tracy Corporation known world-wide for its ruthless pursuit of its own and US interests in major countries across the world to the detriment of the environment and local economies.' Alan stopped reading. "What? That's bullshit."

John stretched back from the computer. "Well, maybe they got some of it right."

They glanced over their shoulders guiltily when they heard someone come in. It was Gordon, dressed only in his pyjama bottoms.

"Ah, Squirt," John said. "Female at six o'clock."

Gordon ignored him and leaned on the glass with his hands, looking at the ocean.

"We have got to find him water," Alan said. "He just has to have water. What's say about the pool, here?"

"Al, be imaginative. Use the American Express card."

Alan liked that idea and so did Gordon. They left with an armful of towels.

John leaned heavily on his elbow. He was getting edgy. The family was getting edgy. It was one thing to live under the one roof where they had separate accommodation quarters with an expansive tropical island at the front and back doors. It was another for all of them to live on the same floor of a medium rise building where their movements were restricted by heavy security. They were virtually living in each other's air space. He had more room to himself in Thunderbird Five.

Now they couldn't even go for a walk in the city to get some air and the tension showed between them each evening as they fought for a private space in the bed. Alan was the worst, going ballistic if anyone touched him and Alan finally agreed to sleep up the end where there was no danger of one of them accidentally rolling into him. Naturally, the temptation was too much not to give him a shove with a foot, Alan on more than one occasion ending up in a heap on the floor. It didn't help Alan's temper but it did give Gordon and John something to laugh about.

John was also beginning to think his pre-occupation with researching that young woman was due to the tension he felt. He knew he wasn't getting anywhere.

Deirdre Stewart emigrated to Australia with her parents from Ireland when she was ten. They bought a house on the Central Coast, where Deirdre had attended Gosford state schools, going onto nursing at Newcastle on completing her HSC. Her parents were also in the medical field; her father a dentist, her mother a nurse. Deirdre was not a member of a political party, mainstream or otherwise or any other group he could find. Not her, not her parents or brothers. She volunteered for four months every year with World Aid Services, a totally humanitarian project.

So, why do the hackles stand up on the back of my neck when I hear her speak?

"John?" Jeff strode into the dining room with Penelope a step behind him. "How long would it take to configure full communication systems to Thunderbird Five?"

John stood up in surprise. "Well, not long. Align the mobile dish. Test the pick-up. Boot up the remote relays."

"Good. Get on it. Get Brains. A family meeting in an hour. International Rescue must show itself or be damned. We can't afford to give our enemies the idea our absence has anything to do with this. Spread the word."

John punched the air. "Yes!"

Jeff went to leave then turned back to him. "And John, I haven't forgotten we need to talk about the other night."

"Yes, Father," he muttered but the thought dampened his new-found enthusiasm for only a nanosecond.

Thunderbirds are Go!

It was what they lived for. And in his excitement, John immediately put aside his interest in Deirdre Stewart.

Scott found he was getting used to the idea of having nothing to do and nowhere to go. He usually couldn't sit still for more than a few minutes but being medicated to the eyeballs wasn't so bad. After his run-in with the psychiatrist, they'd seen fit to knock him out with another injection. He'd slept through the previous night and now most of the morning, being woken up briefly to take care of the basic needs and to reassure family members he was still sane. He'd even kept down some soup.

Over the last couple of hours he'd figured out a way to stay in bed without going crazy. He partially closed the blinds so he couldn't see the planes taking off. Now, he lay flat-out on his stomach, his head turned so he didn't have to stare at the ceiling. The apparatus on his arm was a problem but he just let the limb hang in mid air over the side of the bed. It hurt but pain was a good thing, right?

There was, after all, no reason to get up. The great Tracy disappointment was now officially grounded. The gears of the justice and health systems were grinding their inevitable workings on his behalf whether he wanted them to do or not. All he had to do was lie there passively and everything would happen around him.

He had turned his Thespian mask flip side. He was polite, co-operative and even made the effort to smile, not because his problems had been miraculously solved but because he'd made a decision. He'd tidy up this mess. He'd take what was coming. No hesitation. All in a manner that wouldn't humiliate his family like this again.

And he knew of only one way to do it.

He felt he'd already lost the respect of his younger brothers. One by one they'd filed past him last night, to sit in that chair Virgil had occupied, looking like they wished they were anywhere else but making meaningless small-talk with their fallen leader. Alan was always fidgety, maybe that wasn't so unusual. John sat passively, his face difficult to read, the content of his conservation non-existent. Gordon was the worst. He squirmed and grinned like he'd been called to the headmaster's office as the visit went something like this.

"How are you, Gordo?"

"Fine. No problems."

"We haven't had that talk."

"S'okay, Scott. It doesn't matter, now."

"Sure it matters. We had a shit day and you were cut about it. We haven't debriefed. Of course it matters."

"It can wait until you get home."

"That might be awhile."

"You get yourself right. That's all we want."

"Thanks. How's it going with Amber?"

"Good," he chorused.

"Bullshit, Gordo. It must be hell. You must be re-living what you went through."

"It's okay," he said and was gone like a shot out of a gun.

So, big brother was left to doze numbly in this nebulous, free-floating state.

Some time in the morning, Virgil shuffled in. Scott didn't open his eyes but he could hear the rustle of the fine fabric, the scuff of slippers, the screech of the chair legs on the floor.

Then Virgil played the harmonica. Quietly at first as if Virgil wasn't sure he was awake. Scott listened as he played a retinue of tunes, some sad, some lively. It did his soul good. He listened to the soothing strains of the instrument for some time. Scott knew Virgil was great on the piano and there was nothing better after a rescue to hear Virgil play in the living room at home but how could he make the little mouth organ speak to him like that?

He smiled until the last number touched him more deeply than he cared to admit. Reassurance of the family's care was littered around his room in the form of cards and balloons but they'd failed to move him. Even Tin-Tin's effort to ease his soreness from the extensive bruising by massaging him was only physical comfort. As the doleful notes floated around the room, he covered his face to resist the emotion he felt. Before the mesmerising tune finished, catches of the lyrics came unbidden to his mind: about being concerned for his welfare, about being no burden and about being reassured they'd make it together.

Scott knew that song. It was in Gordon's golden oldies collection. And long after Virgil stopped playing, the title circled his mind.

"He ain't heavy, he's my brother..."

Scott was aware Virgil stood over him. He opened his eyes to look into that soft, liquid expression of his. So like Mom it took his breath away, only Mom wouldn't be smiling at him the way Virgil was now.

Scott raised his good fingers towards him and Virgil's strong, callused hand reached out to take his.

"I'm sorry, Virgil."

"We'll get through this, Scotty," he whispered. "You'll see."

"Good morning, Amber," Gordon said, leaning over the dark-haired patient. He took her hand to hold it and this morning she didn't squeeze back.

Her eyes slid open. She looked at him with tense, hazel eyes that immediately filled with tears.

"Uh-oh, someone's had a tough night," Gordon said. And he knew now the real work would begin.

A/N: He ain't heavy, He's my brother Copyright 1969, Bob Russell & Bobby Scott, Producer Ron Richards UK parlophone R5806. Vinyl recording. Special thanks to LMC for bringing it to the TBs

Chapter Twelve

John listened with satisfaction as the penthouse filled with the familiar cacophony of sound he heard every day in Thunderbird Five. The space station monitored every frequency on the planet in all places and in every language. Here on earth, it was only possible to hear a few at a time, the computer sampling randomly across the range then broadcasting it digitally. Five's mainframe was programmed to forward any message with words such as 'International Rescue' and 'emergency' and translate it into English. They were given priority download to display on John's monitor.

But his satisfaction was short-lived. It seemed everyone was talking about International Rescue. The airwaves were crammed with speculation and theories, everyone talking about the rescue system that most took for granted, and it was crashing the system.

"It's bedlam! I'll never be able to pick out a distress call!" John cried, re-booting the system for the tenth time in as many minutes.

"We need to -uh- change the sampling criteria," Brains said, also listening to the scramble of voices.

"How long?"

"Well, the trick is not to -uh- make the width too narrow so we don't miss a -uh- call and too wide to -uh- let all this unimportant matter through."

John rubbed his hands over his face. But as the computer jumped back to life after the boot, they heard the phrase that got their blood pumping.

"Calling International Rescue."

"Mr Tracy. How many times!" Scott was jolted awake as his injured arm was moved. "The circulation'll be cut-off if you just hang it over the side like that. Come on. Turn over. Sit up. Come, now. This won't help."

He reluctantly turned over in the bed onto his back, shielding his eyes from the bright light coming in through the window.

"Time for your exercises. Then you can think about what you might like for lunch. Your grandmother's already seeing to your brother's order. Let's see. You've kept down flat Coke and soup. Feeling adventurous? How about some dry biscuits to go with it? You can have an electrolyte drink for afternoon tea or something like Ovaltine or Milo. They're milk drinks if you're not sure what they are."

He shook his head. There was only one thing he wanted. Only one thing he cared about.

"Your grandma says your favourite foods are steak and the pies that she makes and wondered if that might tempt you but I think we still may be a ways from that."

Deirdre chatted on, Scott watching her as she did what she needed to do. He watched her intense focus as she concentrated on her duties, the bob of her overlong fringe in thick eyebrows as she rebound his arm with a clean bandage. When she'd finished, she stopped to lean on the sheets.

"What? What are you thinking? You haven't said much."

"Do me a favour, would you? Call me Scott. Mr Tracy is my dad."

Her smile loosened. "How would you like to go for a walk this afternoon?"

Scott's gaze moved to the door. "Out there? Am I allowed?"

"Nelson has given his approval. He seems to think you're coherent and that it might be good for you. But just to let you know, you can't get off this floor without me."

He was surprised he hesitated. He hated being cooped up but then out there people would stare at him, the Great Tracy Disappointment.

"Like on a leash?"

"Not if you behave yourself. You know how hard they'll come down on you if you don't. Just a stroll. Lunch is next then your appointment with Nelson. After that we could."

"What's the bet he's armed with a whip and a chair this time?" Scott said lightly.

She chuckled. "Oh, wow, Virgil's right. You can do that well." She sat on edge of the bed and became serious. "Scott, there's something I want to discuss with you. I think I might have found someone who can help you."

Scott covered his face with his good arm. "Not more help. Please. No more help."

"Not medical help. Help of a different kind. I think I may know of a witness. To the accident. Someone who saw what happened and you might be surprised by what they want to say."

Jeff responded to the vibration coming from his com-watch immediately. There were different vibration sequences for different codes. He could feel it was the emergency code. An International Rescue emergency.

Ms Gleeson had him bailed up in the Tracy Executive boardroom, outlining her plan to stop these protesters. He listened impatiently to what he considered to be a public relations disaster. His mind was elsewhere, worrying over Scott and the bigger organisation given this latest tragedy, and he could tell she took his silence to mean agreement.

Later. All this later.

As soon as the call registered, he stood u