CELEBRATION CHALLENGE by PURUPUSS RATED FRC

IR is preparing to celebrate an anniversary, but must deal with some challenges before the party can start. You, the reader, are also faced with a challenge. How well do you know your Thunderbirds? Are you up to the challenge? Answers to follow...

Prologue

The 30th September 1965, was a red-letter day in the annuals of television. It was the date that Thunderbirds was first broadcast to the viewing public.

In order to mark 40 years since this historic event I, with Quiller's help, have written the following story. In it I have tried to incorporate references to each television episode, the two Supermarionation movies, and even the 2004 live action movie. My challenge to you is to try and find these references. But be warned, while some are obvious, (perhaps a direct mention of the events and scenarios), others are more subtle (a character may do something that was done by another character in an episode, or mention an individual or place), and some are downright obscure. Sometimes, both intentionally and unintentionally there are two or more references to one show. And there are also a few bonus references of things not directly related to the TV episodes or movies.

Scoring: Score two points for every episode or movie reference. Score one point for every bonus reference. For instance, should someone make the comment that something was 'minty', you would know that that reference came from the episode 'Ricochet' and score two points.

Quiller and I are curious as to how you get on, so rather than leaving your answers as reviews (though we'd still like reviews), send your answers through to here.

And so the challenge begins...

How well do you (and I) know our Thunderbirds?

Most of the people, places and machines mentioned in this story do not belong to me; more's the pity. I thank those who own them (currently Granada), for allowing me to 'play' with them, and I thank those who originally created them for giving us all 40 years of wonderful escapism and a fantastically stimulating hobby. I would also like to thank Quiller for her assistance, Thunderbirds knowledge, and proof reading skills.

Enjoy.    ~Purupuss

Here is the list of episodes and the three movies for your reference:

Trapped In The Sky
Pit Of Peril
City Of Fire
Sunprobe
The Uninvited
The Mighty Atom
Vault Of Death
Operation Crash Dive
Move And You're Dead
Martian Invasion
Brink Of Disaster
The Perils Of Penelope
Terror In New York City
End Of The Road
Day Of Disaster
Edge Of Impact
Desperate Intruder
30 Minutes After Noon
The Impostors
The Man From M.I.5
Cry Wolf
Danger At Ocean Deep
The Duchess Assignment
Attack Of The Alligators
The Cham Cham
Security Hazard
Atlantic Inferno
Path Of Destruction
Alias Mr. Hackenbacker
Lord Parker's 'Oliday
Ricochet
Give Or Take A Million
Thunderbirds are Go
Thunderbird Six
Thunderbirds 2004

Are you ready for the challenge?

This chapter starts with a really obvious reference, but be warned some are much harder. See if you can score all 21 points available in this chapter.

Now let the fun begin...

Plans and Actions

The setting sun was colouring the Pacific Ocean a brilliant orange.

As he ticked off another day on his calendar, Jeff Tracy's eye caught the date. It was hard to believe that in a week's time International Rescue would have been fully operational for five years.

Five years! As he looked back over those years, even he was amazed by what his family and friends had achieved. They'd created a top-secret organisation with equipment admired by many and craved by a few. And then, almost five years ago, they'd launched themselves onto an unsuspecting world and saved the Fireflash on its maiden flight.

Since then International Rescue had rescued hundreds of people from disasters that the regular services had been unable to cope with. There had been failures too, but these had been few and far between.

Jeff felt a sense of pride growing within him.

A harsh piano chord brought him back down to earth. Virgil was getting some sheet music out from under the piano stool and had inadvertently leant on the keyboard. He looked over at his dad. "Sorry, Father," he said, as he settled down at the piano.

"You're back from Mateo Island early. How's the Mark II coming along, Son?" As he asked the question, Jeff thought he detected a slight hardening of Virgil's jaw.

The young man's reply was abrupt. "Fine. Only cosmetic stuff and some programming to do," and then, to his father's surprise, Virgil stood, left the piano, and disappeared outside.

Jeff had no time to ponder his son's actions as his oldest boy entered the room.

"Have you seen Virgil?" Scott asked. "I wanted to check something with him before he started practising."

"He sat down at the piano and then, without playing anything, headed outside."

Surprised, Scott looked at his father. "Without playing anything?"

"Yes," Jeff's bemused expression was a mirror image of his son's. "He sat down... I asked him about the Mark II... he said it was fine... and left!"

"Ah!" Understanding passed over Scott's face.

"What!"

"It was the Mark II bit that did it."

"Did what? Scott! Is there something I should know about?"

Scott looked at his father thoughtfully. "Something you should know about? Probably not. I'll go talk to him."

Jeff watched another of his sons leave the house and wondered what he'd done wrong...

Scott found Virgil on the beach skimming stones over the darkening waters. He watched as his brother spun one out over the Pacific Ocean. It skipped five times before sinking beneath the surface. "Not bad, but you haven't bettered my record."

Virgil turned. "I didn't see you there."

"I didn't think you did. I thought you were going to have a practise. What's happened? Lose the piano?"

Virgil didn't laugh as he threw another stone and watched it sink without trace. "No. I didn't feel like playing."

"That's not like you."

"So! Aren't I allowed do something different occasionally?" Virgil asked sharply, and then checked himself. "Sorry, Scott."

"That's okay." Scott thought for a moment, trying to decide on the best way for broaching what was obviously a touchy subject. "So... Virg... Looking forward to flying the Mark II?"

"I guess," Virgil mumbled.

"Not going to be the same as Thunderbird Two though is it?"

"No," Virgil admitted. "Not even close." He sat down on the golden sands and looked at the pebbles in his hands.

Scott joined him. "Give it time. You'll grow to know her just as well as you do the Mark I. After all, there's not a lot of difference between the two."

"I hope so."

"Of course you will. Before you know it, you'll be so tuned in to her you'll forget you're flying another 'plane. And you'll wonder what you were concerned about."

Five years wasn't old for an aeroplane, but Thunderbird Two wasn't an ordinary 'plane. She was the workhorse of the International Rescue fleet. She had been involved in nearly every rescue and had performed almost flawlessly in every one. She had flown thousands of miles in environments that would have knocked most other craft out of the sky. She had taken a battering and kept on going.

Her very design, while one of her strengths, was also one of her flaws. The detachable pods meant that the wings and side supports had to withstand greater forces than it was reasonable to expect. The hydraulic legs too, placed great strains on perhaps the weakest parts of the 'plane. That Thunderbird Two had lasted five years was a testament to her design and construction. Brains had been the principal designer, but Virgil had had a large input too. He'd fully utilised his Denver School of Advanced Technology training in dreaming up what Thunderbird Two would do and how they would achieve it.

Now Jeff had decided that it was time to retire the old Thunderbird Two and build a new one. The new one was to be, to all intents and purposes, the same as the old, but made with new and improved materials and with additional features.

At first Virgil had been excited by the prospect. This time he had a better idea of what the new craft should and would be capable of. Technology had moved on in five years, and he had five years under his belt learning Thunderbird Two's idiosyncrasies and devising how to improve on them. It was only now, within days of launching the new and improved Thunderbird Two, that he was beginning to feel doubts.

"What if I can't fly the Mark II as well as Thunderbird Two? I rely as much on the sound and feel of things as on the instrumentation. You're probably the same. It's what makes us so good at flying our craft. What if I can't tune in like that with the Mark II?"

"It's almost as if she's talking to you, isn't it?"

Virgil looked at his brother unable to believe how astute he'd been. "Yeah. Talking to me. Yes, Scott, that's it exactly." He paused. "How'd you know?"

"I guessed... and I guess I'm the same. If we were replacing Thunderbird One, I'd feel pretty cut up about it too. But remember; you'll 'tune into' the Mark II. It'll take time, but you will. It took you a while to get used to flying the Mark I. I remember having to replant a couple of palms, just because you got too close to the edge of the runway."

Virgil gave a slight smile at the memory. "At least I never set fire to the diving board!" Then he became serious. "But this time I won't have the time to get used to her. We could be straight off on a rescue as soon as she's been launched. And another thing, Thunderbird Two's looked after me. Even that time when I was shot down by the Sentinel, she got me home, more or less in one piece. I don't know how, I think she flew herself."

"I remember," Scott reflected. "I felt so helpless. All I could do was watch and keep yelling for you to pull out of that dive."

"Yeah. I remember that. I remember thinking 'what do you think I'm trying to do!' Partially wishing that you'd shut up, but at the same time being glad that you were there."

Scott leant back on his arms and gazed out over the Pacific Ocean. "Yeah, I was glad she was built so strong that day."

Virgil traced a pattern in the sand. "And here we are launching the new one on our fifth anniversary... I know it sounds silly, Scott, but I feel as if I'm betraying Thunderbird Two. We should be celebrating what she has achieved, not putting her on the scrapheap!"

"I understand," Scott acknowledged simply.

"Do you?" Virgil looked at Scott for any signs that his big brother was laughing at him. There were none. "You do, don't you?"

"I wish I could help. You know that for purely safety reasons Thunderbird Two has got to be replaced..."

"I know."

"...and that there'll be so many improvements to the new one, that you'll wonder how you managed to get along with out them."

"I know. I helped design them."

"Then keep thinking of those positives. You know what they say – time heals all wounds."

"I know," Virgil repeated again and sighed. "It'll be all right, won't it? It'll just be a matter of getting used to it."

"That's right."

Virgil grimaced. "I'm worrying about nothing, aren't I?"

"I wouldn't say nothing," Scott cautioned. "Just unnecessarily. You'll be all right. You both will." He took a stone from Virgil's hand, stood, and skimmed it out across the Pacific's waters. It bounced seven times and disappeared. "Too much chop."

Virgil dropped the last of his stones on the beach and rubbed his hands on his trousers. "I guess I'd better get back to my practise." He stood and started walking away from the water's edge.

"Virgil..."

Virgil turned back to his brother. "Yes?"

"When the time comes that we replace Thunderbird One, will you come and give me this pep talk?"

Virgil managed a laugh. "Sure! I'll start practicing now. What were the clichés again?"

Scott pretended to count them down off his fingers. "Time heals all wounds... Keep thinking of the positives... You'll wonder how you managed to get along without the improvements..."

There was a shout from the balcony. It was Gordon. Always boisterous; he rarely saw the need to use their wristwatch communicators if a yell would do it. "Hey, Fellas! We've got a call out."

Scott slapped Virgil lightly on the arm. "There you go. One last chance to fly her."

"Yes!" Virgil's face lit up as he ran back to the house.

Jeff was in conversation with Alan up in Thunderbird Five. "... And there's no other way of getting to them...? Hang on, Virgil! Hadn't you better find out what you're up against?"

Virgil pulled up short. In his excitement at the thought of flying Thunderbird Two one last time he already had his back to the painting of the spaceship. "Sorry, Father," he said, and looked at Scott, who winked back.

"You're up to the Arctic, Boys. There's a research sub gone down under the ice. It's lost power and there's three men on board. You'll need the arctic recovery gear and Thunderbird Four. John and Gordon, you go with Virgil. Scott, you'd better get up there and keep us appraised of the conditions."

"F-A-B, Father." Scott went to his section of the wall, grasped the twin lamps and rotated out of sight.

"Okay, Virgil, get going..." but his third son was already sliding off the painting and down the chute to his Thunderbird. Jeff shook his head in bemusement. 'He's keen today.'

"Are you comfortable, Parker?"

"Yes M'lady. H-I must say these seats are most comfy."

"Did you have any problems with FAB1?"

"A cop was nosin' round. Said 'e was checking the tax discs," Parker said huffily. "H-I told the young scallywag to learn 'is road code. H-I 'ad great pleasure in reminding 'im that cars of that year are not required to pay tax. H-I quite took the wind out of 'is sails," he finished in satisfaction.

Lady Penelope regarded her loyal butler fondly. Dressed in striped blazer, cream flannel trousers and with the ensemble topped by a straw boater, he'd made an effort to blend in with the other passengers in the Fireflash's first class cabin. He'd failed miserably, but, Lady Penelope mused, at least he wasn't wearing the gaudy outfit he'd chosen when he was on holiday in Monte Bianco. She didn't think her eyes could have withstood two hours of looking at that bright orange floral shirt.

"H-It was most kind of Mr Tracy to stand me the tickets," Parker was saying. "H-It's not often that I get to travel with the nobs... 'Scuse me," he added in horror, frightened that he'd caused offence. "Excepting you of course, M'lady. Not that you're a nob. You're diff'rent. You're a lady like..."

"It's all right, Parker. Just relax and enjoy yourself. This is meant to be a treat for us both." Lady Penelope picked up the pamphlet and began perusing it, giving her travelling companion the opportunity to compose himself.

'Fireflash,' the brochure began. 'Now, as at the time of her launch, is regarded as a state of the art technological marvel. Her speed and comfort is without peer in the world of public transport.'

Lady Penelope skipped over many of the self-congratulatory paragraphs, stopping only when two words caught her eye. She began reading again at the beginning of the paragraph.

'The Fireflash has had its share of setbacks, each of which has added to the mystic of this fabled craft. The most notable and well publicised being the dramatic events surrounding her maiden flight five years ago. As has been thoroughly documented in other publications, a bomb had been placed in the Fireflash's undercarriage, thereby preventing the lowering of the landing gear. If it were not for the heroic actions of International Rescue, the plane would have exploded, or her passengers and crew would have succumbed to radiation poisoning.'

Lady Penelope mused that if the author of this particular missive was trying to be positive about the craft, he was failing miserably.

'Later events, such the sabotaging of subsequent models of Fireflash, have ensured that the current security measures are the most stringent in the world. Each passenger, each vehicle, each piece of luggage, and the aeroplane itself, is checked and re-checked many times by many means. It is now virtually impossible for a craft of the Fireflash fleet to be targeted by those who wish her harm.

'The radiation shield has been boosted so that now not only can the atomic engines allow the Fireflash to remain airborne for six months, but there is also no danger of radiation poisoning to the craft's occupants. By choosing to travel on the Fireflash airliner you have chosen to fly on the safest, most reliable aircraft in the world's skies.'

Lady Penelope lowered the brochure and placed it back on the table in front of her. She disliked self-congratulation in the press. She looked at Parker who was pretending to be engrossed in the latest issue of 'The Times' and reflected that in a short time they would both be in the presence of aeroplanes that truly deserved the title of 'the safest, most reliable aircraft in the world's skies'. She smiled a little smile at her secret knowledge and looked past Parker to where a thickset man, with astonishingly bushy eyebrows and moustache, appeared to be regarding her from above his newspaper. Lady Penelope broadened her smile slightly and nodded in a gesture of acknowledgement.

The man hastily raised his paper again...

Virgil slid down the chute and into the cockpit of Thunderbird Two. The controls of his craft were laid out before him, as familiar as old friends. He caressed the control yoke briefly before selecting Pod Four and then leaving his seat to get changed. He completed this task in near record time and was waiting impatiently when his two brothers arrived.

"One last trip, huh, Virg?" John said as he buckled up.

"Yep," Virgil acknowledged briefly, before concentrating on steering Thunderbird Two out of its hangar and down the palm lined airstrip. In reality he could have done this with his eyes closed, but he was determined to make the most of this last trip. And he wasn't about to mark the end of Thunderbird Two's life by shearing off a couple more palms.

They reached the end of the runway and felt their centre of gravity change as Thunderbird Two's nose was tilted skywards. One final check of the radar and they were powering up into the darkening sky. Virgil felt the vibrations and listened to the sounds that his ship produced. It WAS almost as if Thunderbird Two was talking to him; he knew what each and every sound meant. And it meant that all was well.

They levelled off at a safe height and began cruising at a speed of just under 5000mph.

"How's the Mark II coming on, Virg?" Gordon asked innocently.

"Fine," was the short answer.

"Are you writing a piece of music for the celebration?" John asked.

"Yep."

"How's it coming?"

"Fine."

John and Gordon looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Deciding that Virgil was not going to be very communicative on this trip, they began to talk to each other instead.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. Please fasten your seatbelts," a female voice intoned. "We will shortly be landing in Los Angles Airport."

Parker wrestled with his restraint briefly before hearing the satisfying click as it slid home. "Nearly there, M'lady."

"Quite so, Parker. I wonder who Jeff will send to meet us?"

"Didn't 'e mention h-it to you?"

"No. I suppose it depends on, ah... events and who he can spare."

"Yes, M'lady. 'Ave you decided on what you are going to do while in Los Angeles?"

"I was thinking of visiting Carole Hampton."

"The 'Ollywood actress, M'lady?"

"The same. She lives in a Hollywood villa that makes Creighton-ward mansion look positively poky in comparison."

"H-I read 'ere," Parker indicated his reading material. He'd discarded 'The Times' and had eventually settled down to read a glossy magazine that had been handed to him to the Flight Attendant. "That she 'ad taken up with Mr Chip Harrison."

"Is that the man voted the third most eligible bachelor in the world?"

"The second, M'lady," Parker corrected gently. "But it sounds like 'e's gonna lose that status."

"Indeed," Lady Penelope mused. "I wonder if Mr Harrison is aware that when Carole left England she suffered from prominent teeth, extreme myopia, and a lisp? Not to mention a rather large," she glanced at her travelling companion as she said this, "er, nose."

"H-I always see that as a sign of character," Parker said with dignity.

"Quite," Lady Penelope agreed. "Carole has worked very hard to make it to the top of her profession, helped in no small part by an inheritance from her father. She and I got up to little bit of mischief while we were at boarding school."

"H-Indeed, Madam," Parker grinned. "H-And, 'scuse me askin', but what mischief would that be?"

"Never you mind, Parker," Lady Penelope scolded him gently, but with a certain degree of affection. "Suffice it to say that the Headmistress never did discover who wrote several, ah, shall we say, 'unladylike' words on the lawn in fertiliser. By the time it became apparent that some mischief making had occurred, it was summer and we had finished for the term."

They'd been flying for well over an hour when Scott reported in. "It's a howling gale and the snow's falling horizontally. The temperature's about 40 degrees Celsius below zero. We've got 'white out' conditions, Fellas."

"Gee, and I forgot my sun block and swimsuit," Gordon quipped.

"There's already an access hole in the ice that you can utilise, Gordon," Scott told him. "It's a little small for Thunderbird Four at the moment though. We'll have to enlarge it."

"By how much, Scott?" Virgil asked.

"Not much. Couple of metres should do it."

"Or one burst of the VTOL jets," Virgil said in satisfaction.

Through the video screen he saw his brother grin. "You got it!"

"Better make sure the rest of the research team are standing well back then. Don't want to barbeque them as well."

"F-A-B."

John and Gordon grinned at each other. It looked like Virgil was finally starting to relax.

They arrived at the rescue zone and discovered that, as usual, Scott had been 100 correct. With the white out conditions it was nearly impossible to see out the windows and Virgil came in low relying totally on Thunderbird Two's sophisticated scanning equipment.

John strained to see anything outside. The scene was blank – a white canvas waiting to be drawn on. "This is weird. I can't see the horizon, or the sky, or the ground, or anything! If it wasn't for Thunderbird Two's instruments, and gravity, we wouldn't know which way was up. How far are we off the ground?"

"About ten metres," Virgil was concentrating on his controls. Gordon had already headed down into Pod Four to ready Thunderbird Four.

"Whew – that's close. Are you sure we're in the right place?" John asked.

"You want to pop out and double check?" Virgil queried, his eyebrow raised in merriment.

John looked back out into the eerie whiteness. "Ah, no thanks."

"Thunderbird Two. Good to see you – so to speak," Scott greeted them.

"Are you actually out there, Scott?" Virgil asked.

"I'll bet you've nipped home to get warm and left us to do the dirty work," John added.

"I'm 350 metres to your right, as you well know. Have you got a reading on the access hole?"

"F-A-B," Virgil was suddenly all business. "Do we know how thick the ice is?"

"Would you believe three metres?"

"Three metres! I'll give it a 10 second burst with the VTOL jets and then get another reading."

"F-A-B. Good luck, Virgil."

With pinpoint accuracy Virgil lined up the great craft so that the right front Vertical Take Off and Landing jet was positioned over the edge of the hole that was their only access to the frigid waters below. "John will keep an eye on the timer. I'll control the jets."

John was already in front of the scanner, the readouts telling him their position relative to the hole. "Ready when you are," he stated.

"Right!" As Virgil activated the VTOL jets and a burst of superheated flame shot out of Thunderbird Two's undercarriage, he briefly remembered previous times when the jets had been a hindrance, rather than a help. Such as the time they had to rescue Eddie Houseman from the side of that mountain. If it hadn't been for some slick flying on Scott's part, Eddie would have been a gonna for sure. That problem had been rectified with the Mark II. But then would he be able to complete the operation he was undertaking now with the Mark II?

"Ten Seconds!" John stated.

Virgil shut down the rockets. "How's it look?"

John was squinting into the scanner. "The diameter's right, but it's not deep enough."

"How far are we through?" Virgil asked.

"About 2 metres."

"We'll go another five metres lower."

John looked at Virgil. He had to admire his coolness. "You sure? We'll only be five metres off the ground."

"That'll be plenty." The great craft inched its way closer to the ice below.

"How's it going, Fellas?" Gordon had finished his preparations and was waiting impatiently at the controls of Thunderbird Four.

"The hole in the ice still isn't big enough for Thunderbird Four," John told him. "Just chill out until we're ready for you."

"Chill out! It'll be chilly enough when I get down there!"

"Ready, John?" Virgil asked.

"Ready!"

"Start countdown – now!"

"Five – Four – Three – Two - One – Shutdown!" John checked the scanner again. "Perfect! Scott could fly Thunderbird One through there!"

"I'd like to see you suggest that to him!" Virgil chuckled. "Okay, Gordon, we're coming in to land. Are you ready?"

"I've been ready the last ten minutes."

It was another minute before Virgil had safely landed Thunderbird Two and the great craft had risen up onto her hydraulic legs, revealing Pod Four. Not that anyone could see it in the blinding snow – most of which seemed, to Gordon, to be joining him in the pod.

He launched himself, and Thunderbird Four, into the Arctic Ocean. It was pitch black and he switched on his halogen lights and dove deeper, searching out the research sub's last known position. As he peered into the gloom he remembered something. "Hey, Virgil."

"Yes, Gordon?"

"Can you shut the pod's door, please? I don't want to come back to a refrigerator."

"Already done. The wind's getting stronger, so we've lowered back down to reduce the resistance. Two's still rocking a bit though."

"Okay, I'm starting a search pattern."

John and Virgil were watching Gordon's progress on the radar. "How deep are they supposed to be?" John asked...

Back on Thunderbird One, Scott was watching the wind gauge. He gave a long low whistle. "250km/hour. I'm not going to be able to hang about here much longer," he muttered. Even as he spoke a particularly vicious gust of wind sent Thunderbird One rocking violently. "Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird One!"

He heard Virgil's voice reply. "Thunderbird Two. What's up, Scott?"

"The wind! If it gets any stronger I'll be rolling around the Arctic Circle. I'm going to take off and gain some altitude. I SHOULD be able to reduce the wind resistance that way."

"F-A-B. Be careful."

Deep beneath the ice pack, Gordon had managed to locate the research submarine. A quick circuit confirmed that there appeared to be no external damage to the sub. "Thunderbird Four to Thunderbird Two. Visually the sub appears to be in one piece. I'm going to scan for cracks now. If there's none I'll use the magnetic grabs and bring her to the surface."

"Understood," Virgil replied. "Any sign of the crew?"

"Negative. The sub's totally blacked out. I can't see inside. The fresh water from the ice is mixing with the sea water and making things pretty murky."

"If they haven't got power, what would their oxygen levels be, Gordon?" John asked.

"I don't know. It would depend on so many things. How the oxygen tanks operate. What the level of damage is, where it is, how many of the crew are still..." Gordon didn't finish his sentence. He didn't need to. John and Virgil both knew what he was thinking.

"How about decompression?" Virgil asked. "How fast are you going to be able to get her back up here?"

"That depends too... Okay, guys, I've finished scanning. No sign of any degradation of the hull. Before we move the sub I'm going to try to contact the crew."

As Gordon lined up his own submarine so that it was facing the windows of the research sub, John once more opened the communication lines. "What's the temperature like down there?"

"Warmer than where you are. At least the water isn't frozen!"

John and Virgil looked out of Thunderbird Two's windows. Gordon was right. Up here on the frozen pack ice there was no liquid water, only snow and ice.

Gordon double-checked his position and then pressed a button on the console.

A probe extended from above Thunderbird Four's light trough. It made contact with the research vessel, effectively turning the hull of the stricken craft into a giant sounding board. Gordon made sure the setting was at its lowest and then spoke into a microphone. "This is International Rescue. We are here to help you. Can you hear me?"

He waited.

He turned the volume up a notch. "Arctic Research Submarine Three. This is International Rescue. Do you read me? Say something and I'll hear you."

Still no response.

"Anything, Gordon?" Virgil asked through the intercom.

"No," Gordon sounded deflated. "No! Wait a moment! Something's moved"

It was like a distant recording. "...R-R-Roy. C-can you hear something?"

"W-What..."

Gordon turned the volume up slightly. "This is International Rescue. I can hear what you are saying. Are you all right?"

"Inter-na-tional Res-cue?" The voice sounded thick with sleep, and Gordon was concerned about what was causing that reaction. But then, as if he'd been jolted awake the voice came through clearer, alive with excitement. "International Rescue! We can hear you... Hurry! The oxygen's getting low."

"Is anyone injured?" Gordon asked.

"Ben's got what feels to be a broken arm. Frank took a crack to the head but hasn't lost consciousness. We all have a few bumps and bruises. But the oxygen levels are dropping fast."

"What's your compression reading?" Gordon was aware that time was of the essence, but needed to know if a rapid ascent would cause more problems than it would solve.

"I-I'll get the torch." The voice was thickening again. Oxygen deprivation coupled with carbon dioxide poisoning would soon be a major problem.

It seemed an age before there was a response. "C'mon", Gordon muttered under his breath. "Find that blasted flashlight."

"S-So hot." He heard a man say.

"D-Don't talk," someone else said.

"Gordon?" John's voice, sounding so loud and strong, made him jump.

"Yes, John?"

"What's the situation?"

"They're all alive, but running out of oxygen quickly. I'm trying to ascertain their compression reading, but they have to find a flashlight to read the meter." Gordon looked at his watch. "If I don't hear from them in one minute I'm going to have to start raising them and pray that..."

"F-Found the torch," he heard.

"I'll get back to you, John. Arctic Research Submarine Three! What's your compression reading?" as he spoke Gordon mentally ran through the sequence of events that he'd have to undertake to get the sub to the surface.

The man managed to gasp out, "S-Sea lev..." before Gordon heard a thump.

"Time for action," Gordon said, his voice being transmitted both to Thunderbird Two and down the probe to the stricken Arctic Research Submarine Three. "I'm withdrawing communications now..." Once the probe had retracted he had no way of knowing the situation of the crew. "Extending grabs..." Two magnetic arms were extended from the front of Thunderbird Four and made fast on the research sub. "Adjusting buoyancy... Rising now!"

Initially he lifted away from the seabed with care, ensuring that his craft had a good grip on its charge. As he gained confidence that the research submarine was going to neither fall apart nor fall away, he increased speed.

"Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird Four."

"Thunderbird Two. Go ahead, Gordon," Virgil replied.

"Injuries – one possible broken arm, one possible head injury – no K.O. Oxygen levels low and I think the crew may have passed out from oxygen deprivation. Compression reading was given as 'sea level', but the man passed out when giving that reading so we can't guarantee it."

"Gordon," Scott joined in the conversation. "I want Thunderbird Two to take the sub and head straight for the nearest decompression chamber. She'll get there in two minutes. I've alerted the facility and given Virgil the co-ordinates. We won't waste time with check-ups. The medical crew at the naval base can take care of that."

"What about the oxygen situation, Scott. We don't know how long they've been without..."

"I know it's an issue, Gordon. But by the time we've got it landed, opened the sub and got oxygen masks onto them, it would have taken longer than if Thunderbird Two were to head straight to the naval base. And that's without the concerns of the cold, snow and decompression. It means you're going to have to hang about here until Virgil can get back though."

"Will you need the pod, Virgil?"

"No. I'll leave it for you, Gordon, but I won't open the door until I'm leaving. We'll try to keep some of this snow out."

"Thanks. What's the weather like up there?"

"Worse!"

"Great!" Gordon said unenthusiastically "Hurry back."

Thunderbird Four had reached the hole in the ice that was their link to the outside world. Virgil and John had periodically given it a blast with the VTOL jets to ensure that it would still be big enough for both subs.

Gordon reactivated the intercom. "We're ready for the grabs."

"Okay – I'm lowering them now," John informed him.

From beneath the nose of Thunderbird Two descended a set of grabs, large enough to cradle Thunderbird Four and which would easily carry the smaller research sub. They broke through a thin layer of ice that formed over the hole and passed into the murky waters below.

Just below the ice Gordon, in Thunderbird Four, waited. When the grabs opened he carefully raised the research sub so that four claws surrounded it. "Thunderbird Four to Thunderbird Two. In position."

John confirmed this by checking sensors on the grabs and then activated them. They gently closed around the helpless submarine and Gordon moved Thunderbird Four back to a safe distance. "Okay, Virgil. Lift away."

Thunderbird Two started rising up into the air. Hanging beneath was Arctic Research Submarine Three – ice crystals forming on its exterior. John tried to adjust the monitor that would normally have given them the visual display of the grabs and their cargo, but the screen remained blank. "Can't see a thing, Virgil," he said. "But, we're carrying some extra weight, so we'll have to assume that it's the sub and not a polar bear."

Virgil gave a tight grin. "That'd give the scientists something to think about. They're expecting a submarine and three injured crewmen and instead we present them with a very angry bear." John laughed as Virgil activated the switch that reopened the door to pod four. "Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Four. Pod Four awaits you."

"Thanks, Guys." Under the ice, Gordon swung Thunderbird Four around so that she was lined up with the ramp leading through the frigid waters from Pod Four. Setting the controls so that they would automatically send his submarine up into the pod, he completed the manoeuvre. A burst of air from the pod sent a snowdrift back outside, while the ramp retracted from the water and the pod door closed behind him.

Cut off from the outside weather, the sound of the wind dropped and the inside temperature rose. Soon it was warm enough for Gordon to climb out of Thunderbird Four and begin the task of checking his craft and cleaning her down.

They'd made it through Customs and Parker was arranging to retrieve FAB1 from the Fireflash, when Lady Penelope's personal phone rang. She answered it. "Hello, Jeff!"

"Hello, Penny. I was checking your flight on the Internet when I saw you'd already landed."

"Indeed we have. It is such a marvellous craft, and so quick."

"Any problems with Customs?"

"None at all. They were perfect gentlemen."

Jeff chuckled. "If they knew you better they wouldn't be."

Lady Penelope feigned ignorance. "Why, Jeff! I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Jeff laughed again. "You know exactly what I mean, Penny."

"How are the boys?"

"That's why I rang. They're on a job at the moment and won't be able to pick you up for some time. Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all. I have an old friend I wish to call on and I know Parker wanted to do some shopping. He was moaning that autumn in Britain is not the time to purchase clothing suitable for a tropical island. Also I have one or two items I should like to purchase myself. And I would imagine that when..." Lady Penelope looked around her at the crowded airport lounge, "...the boys come home, they would prefer not to have to come and collect us. We will find somewhere in Los Angeles to stay tonight."

"You're welcome to stay in my Malibu house. I'll give Maxwell a head's up so he can have everything prepared."

"Thank you, Jeff," Lady Penelope smiled. "I think we may take you up on your offer. Do you think the boys will be away for long?"

"I don't think so, but, as you know, anything could happen," Jeff told her. "I'll warn Maxwell that there's a chance that you'll be staying for more than one night."

"Better to, 'be prepared', as my old Guide Leader used to say," Lady Penelope commented.

"Huh?" Jeff sounded confused.

"I believe you call them Girl Scouts," Lady Penelope informed him.

"You were a Scout, uh, Guide?" Jeff asked. "I can't see you selling cookies."

"We would never sell cookies. We would sell biscuits."

"Biscuits!" Confusion was evident in Jeff's voice. "Did you have to bake them before you sold them?"

"No, they were baked in a factory."

"Wouldn't they be a bit stale by the time you got them? The only good biscuits I've ever had, came straight out of the oven!"

"What you are probably thinking about now are scones. Really, Jeff, I can see that I am going to have to sit you down and teach you the King's English."

"The only member of the royal family I'm interested in, Penny, is you."

"I am not royalty," Lady Penelope sounded almost exasperated. "I am a reluctant member of the aristocracy."

"And I'm a common American, Penny. You'll never change me."

"There's nothing common about you, Jeff Tracy," Lady Penelope said with some affection. "I'd better go. Parker will be waiting for me. I heard him say to Lil, my cook, that he wants to show your sons what a 'real' man dresses like."

Jeff laughed at the mental image. "Well if any of the shop assistants give either of you any trouble, just mention my name. I have a little influence over there."

"Thank you, Jeff. I will pass that on to Parker."

The trip to the medical station did indeed only take a couple of minutes. The sub was set down, with minute precision, on the back of a flat bed arctic truck. The truck drove the sub into the warmth of a hangar where engineers and medical personnel were able to attend to her and her cargo.

Typically, as soon as the tricky bit was completed, it stopped snowing.

John and Virgil returned to Pod Four and contemplated it. It was almost completely covered by snow. "What happened to the antifreeze system?" Virgil asked.

"You know," John remarked. "All we need is a giant snowball, a really big carrot, a couple of huge lumps of coal, and we could turn Gordon into the world's largest snowman."

Virgil activated the intercom. "Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Four."

There was a moment's silence before he tried again. "Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Four. Come in, Gordon."

The intercom burst into life. "Thunderbird Four. I was getting her secured when I heard the radio. How's things going?"

"No problems getting the sub there. Scott's monitoring the scientists and will let us know. How's things going with you?"

"Fine. After all that running round, getting rid of the snow that blew in as the ramp shut, I'm nice and toasty. When are you guys going to pick me up?"

"When we've worked out how we're going to get all that snow off you."

Gordon felt a twinge of concern. "Isn't the anti-freeze working?"

"Not fully," Virgil told him. "You'd better check the thermostat."

"Okay, hang on." Gordon disappeared from the airwaves for a short time. "Something had gone wrong with the thermostat," he said when he arrived back. "It was on desert setting. I've adjusted it manually."

"Yes, we can see that," Virgil told him. "The snow's begun to melt."

"Aww. No chance to make a snowman," John moaned theatrically.

"Huh! What's that John?" Gordon had heard the comment, but had not understood its implications.

"Oh, nothing. Just be grateful we're not near a supermarket or a coal mine."

"You sure the anti-radiation protection on Thunderbird Five is still working, John? I think something's fried your brains." Gordon's comment had both John and Virgil laughing.

"Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Two."

Virgil ensured that the link to Thunderbird Four was still open and then replied. "Thunderbird Two. Go ahead, Scott."

"Is Gordon listening?"

"Sure am, Scott. Why? Do you want to go to the supermarket too?"

There was a bemused silence from Thunderbird One for a moment, punctuated by more laughter from John and Virgil. "I'm sure I'll be told what you're on about sometime," Scott said, "But in the meantime I thought you'd appreciate an update on the crew you just rescued."

"We're all ears."

"They look like they're going to be fine. There were no decompression problems, and while the oxygen level in the sub was low and the level of carbon dioxide higher than normal, it wasn't critical. So apart from the broken arm and a few bumps and bruises, they're going to be okay. They send their thanks, Gordon."

"Always a pleasure."

"So now, Guys," Scott continued on, "we can head home to our nice, warm, tropical island."

"Sun," Virgil sighed.

"Sand," John echoed his brother's tone.

"And water warm enough to swim in," Gordon added. "Has the snow melted yet?"

Pod Four was a green jewel nesting in a cushion of white snow. With the ease that comes with many hours of practise, Virgil deftly positioned Thunderbird Two until she was directly above her precious cargo. Out of habit and as a result of his natural sense of caution, Virgil glanced at the sensors that told him when the great plane was in position. But if they had failed he still would have been able to position the plane accurately, so in tune was he with Thunderbird Two.

All was well. They started descending. The pod slipped into its designated cavity as easily as if the sides had been greased. The manoeuvre, as usual, was going smoothly.

The jolt was unexpected, sudden and brief. John looked at Virgil. Virgil looked at Thunderbird Two's control panel. Gordon called up on the intercom. "Hey, Guys. Did you feel that?"

"Yeah," Virgil acknowledged, his eyes darting back on forth over the control panel, searching for any red warning lights. There were none.

"What was it?"

"I don't know, Gordon. Everything seems fine."

"I wouldn't swear to it, but from here it seemed to come from the upper right quadrant of the pod."

"That's the impression I got," John agreed.

"I'll run the diagnostics programme." In reality Virgil wanted nothing more than to go outside and have a good old-fashioned look at his Thunderbird, but knew that was impossible in the wind and cold.

"Okay, while you're doing that I'll come on up."

Virgil was punching the necessary numbers into the onboard computer when he heard a noise behind him. John was securing their three arctic survival packs to the bulkhead by the emergency exit. Seeing his brother looking at him John shrugged. "Better safe than sorry." He hung polar suits above each pack.

Gordon arrived in the cockpit and saw the survival gear. "Hey, this looks serious."

"They probably won't be necessary," John said. "Just being prepared."

"Those years in the Boy Scouts came in handy then," Gordon grinned.

The computer was spitting out the numbers and Virgil read them twice. "Nothing's wrong according to this. The pod's locked securely into position. There's no damage anywhere." He frowned. "I guess this means we're safe to take off."

"So what happened?" John asked.

"I don't know. Maybe it was just an extra strong wind gust." Virgil didn't sound convinced. Neither was John or Gordon. It would take a mighty big gust of wind to move the bulk of Thunderbird Two like that.

"Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird One..." Virgil made contact with Scott and let him know what they knew.... which wasn't much. "There's no evidence of any problems, so I'll try lifting off and take it easy heading home."

"Okay, Virg. I'll keep within monitoring range. Good luck."

"Thanks, Scott."

The lift off was trouble free. No warning lights came on. No red alerts starting blaring. As Virgil gained in confidence he increased Thunderbird Two's height and speed. Gordon and John felt relaxed enough to undo their safety harnesses and look out the windows at the arctic landscape speeding below them.

Another snowstorm came up apparently out of nowhere. The wind velocity increased tenfold. Once again they were experiencing white out conditions.

"Boy, I'll be glad to get back home," Gordon grumbled. "If for no other reason than to be able to actually see some landscape."

"These are not the conditions to be attempting a little stargazing," John agreed. "It's almost like some kind of sensory depravation! Right, Virgil?"

But Virgil wasn't listening to them. He was listening to Thunderbird Two. She was talking to him and he didn't like what she was saying.

John walked up to the pilot's seat so that he was standing at his brother's shoulder. As he looked out of Thunderbird Two's windows he still could see nothing but the never-ending whiteness. "Any improvement?" he asked.

"Sit down and buckle up!" Virgil said tersely.

John glanced at the instrument panel. There were no warning lights indicating further deterioration in the weather and, to him, all seemed well with Thunderbird Two. "But why...?"

"Just do it! You too, Gordon."

With a mystified look at each other both brothers complied. With one hand, Virgil tightened his own safety harness.

"What's wrong, Virg?" Gordon asked.

"Something's not right with Thunderbird Two, I'm reducing height."

"But why?" John repeated. "Instrumentation seemed okay."

"I don't know, but..."

Thunderbird Two gave a sickening lurch and spun around. To those inside it seemed that she completed a full 360-degree turn. They felt as if their stomachs were trying to reach out of their mouths as they rapidly lost height. Virgil tried to stabilise his craft, but she was not responding. He watched in horror as the altimeter showed their rapid decent. For Gordon and John, strapped into their seats, they had no visual representation of their height and position; only the forces on their bodies told them that they were dropping from the sky.

There was another lurch and Thunderbird Two tipped nose forward. Virgil gripped the control yoke tightly, though by now he'd given up any pretence that he was able to do anything in the way of directing the great plane. He had no power over Two's horizontal and vertical movements and was beginning to think that the three of them were done for, when suddenly Thunderbird Two ploughed into a giant snow bank. A fountain of snow hammered past the windows and cascaded down the sides. Thunderbird Two teetered for a moment, completing a nose stand, before falling back to Earth with a jolt, coming to rest in an approximation of her normal orientation.

Silence descended....

So... How many references did you find?

Did you find the hidden references in the last chapter?

See how you go with this one.

Double Trouble

"Penny!"

Lady Penelope turned when she heard her name. "Bucky! Why are you here?" Both women embraced, Carole Hampton, a.k.a. Bucky, giving an exaggerated, Hollywood style kiss.

"Shhh. No one uses that name now, Penny. Except very OLD friends!"

"If I'm old, then I'm too old to change my ways," Lady Penelope rejoined. "I can't begin to think of you as anyone else, Becky Hampton... Especially as, Carole Hampton, the glamorous Hollywood star."

Lady Penelope's old school friend was tall, blonde, and showed no hint of the dental 'defect' that had earned her her nickname. A popular movie actress; she was wearing little makeup, had tied her hair back under a scarf and was wearing thick spectacles, all of which offered her a modicum of anonymity. She was also overly enthusiastic about everything she did. "I couldn't wait to see you, so I got Chip to run me over," she indicated a handsome, well-built man, wearing a Stetson, who was signing autographs for dozens of goggle-eyed teenagers. "How was the flight?"

"Boringly uneventful," Lady Penelope said.

"What? No hijackings or bombs?" Carole asked. "You must have found it deadly dull. Is your man with you?"

"Do you mean Parker? He's retrieving the Rolls Royce from the hold of the Fireflash. He always worries that someone may leave their fingerprints on the paint work."

"Is it still that garish pink colour? You must tell me everything you've been doing these last few years. Let's sit down in the lounge, Chip's going to be simply hours."

"So is Mr Harrison the new man in your life?" Lady Penelope asked rhetorically.

Carole sighed. "He's wonderful! Everything a girl could want. Tall, dark, handsome, and with a career that's heading into the stratosphere. I'm hoping he'll take me along for the ride."

"Your career seems to be progressing quite nicely on its own, Becky dear," Lady Penelope said. "I'm forever seeing your face on the cover of one publication or another."

"Isn't that a hoot," Carole giggled. "My mother has scrapbooks devoted to my career... Which reminds me, if my autobiographer calls on you..."

"Don't you mean biographer?" Lady Penelope corrected.

"No. Maurice is my autobiographer. You see I'm writing my autobiography. I'm going to be terribly witty, and charming and provocative... at least Maurice tells me I will be when he's finished writing it. I'm going to tell all about how I was shunned by English High Society, and left Old Blighty to seek fame and fortune in America. A poor starving waif with nothing to my name..."

"Apart from a title and several million pounds," Lady Penelope commented dryly.

"Shh. That's a secret," Carole said in a dramatic fashion and laughed.

"Becky? Why are 'you' writing these lies?"

"Maurice tells me they will sell. I'm already a star here so the Americans will read the book and believe every word of it. The Brits will read it and write angry letters to the tabloids about how it's not true. Either way I'll get publicity and the book will sell like hot cakes..." Carole gave one of her famous, disarming smiles. "Anyway, as I was saying, when Maurice comes to call he'll ask you for some photos of me as a child, and since all my childhood photos were lost when the family home was tragically destroyed in the fire..."

"Bucky!" Lady Penelope scolded. "The Hampton homestead is still standing."

Carole Hampton continued on as if she hadn't heard the admonishment, "...and I know you'll want to help him, so please be a dear and tell him you don't have any?"

"I have that one of you at the masquerade ball," Lady Penelope offered. "You can't see your face at all." She appraised her friend's features. "Your, er, 'new' nose suits you."

"Thank you. The old one was rather... shall we say prominent? I met this charming surgeon who..." Carole's attention wavered.

Well used to her friend's sudden changes in concentration, Lady Penelope waited patiently. Then she realised that Carole was listening to a rather interesting radio report.

"Sorry, Penny dear," Carole eventually apologised. "I heard them mention International Rescue and I simply had to listen to what was happening."

"Did I hear correctly? Are they are up in the Arctic?" Lady Penelope queried.

Carole nodded. "Some scientists have got stuck under the ice or something. Have I told you about my latest role?"

Lady Penelope shook her head.

"Do you remember when the Thompson Tower burnt down, and that family was trapped?"

"It is not something that one is likely to forget," Lady Penelope reminded her friend. "One of the tallest buildings in the world, destroyed by fire days after it was opened. The world's media were filled with nothing else for weeks!"

"They are making a movie about it, mainly about that family that was trapped. And I am playing the mother, Blanche Carter," Carole said proudly. "That's how I met Chip. He's playing one of the International Rescue men." She looked over to where the actor was swamped by fans of all ages. "You know how I like to research each role I get..."

Lady Penelope nodded. It was well documented that Carole Hampton would always research a role to death. On one famous occasion, when Carole had been playing a doctor, a member of the crew had complained of abdominal pains. Carole's diagnosis had been appendicitis. It was in fact indigestion, but the poor man had been so unnerved by Carole's assured manner and demands that he seek help, that he'd driven himself at speed to his real doctor, crashing his car on the way and ensuring a genuine stay in hospital.

"...That's why I had to listen to that radio story," Carole continued on. "I'm simply absorbing every piece of information about International Rescue that I can find."

"You could always talk to Deborah," Lady Penelope suggested. "I believe she had the misfortune to require their services."

"Really! I must give the dear woman a call."

"Tell me, Becky, how did you get the role?" Lady Penelope asked.

"Oh, it was easy. When I told them I was there when it all happened and had met those dashing men from International Rescue..."

"And had you?"

"Had I what?"

"Met 'those dashing men from International Rescue'?"

"Well..." Carole Hampton gave Lady Penelope a sideways grin. "I was there, opening one of the shops when the building caught fire, and I had to be evacuated, which was terribly exciting. So I didn't lie about that..."

"And meeting International Rescue?" Lady Penelope pressed.

Carole looked sheepish. "I heard their aeroplanes fly overhead," she admitted.

"Becky!" Lady Penelope admonished again.

"What! In this world you do what you can to get what you want, and I wanted that role. The problem with you, Penny, is that you don't get out of your social circle. What happened to that feisty girl I was at school with? The one who rode her pink motor scooter into the school hall one morning during assembly, and drove right round the hall and out again before any of the staff could catch her?"

"I don't feel the need to lie about meeting International Rescue," Lady Penelope told her.

"But wouldn't you like to meet one of them? I would! In fact I know so much about them that I would guarantee that if a man from International Rescue, in disguise, were to stand beside me I would know straight away who he was. He wouldn't be able to hide from me!"

Parker chose that moment to arrive. He doffed his cap differentially. "M'lady."

Carole didn't notice. With only a glance at the chauffeur she continued on with her recitation. "One look and bam! I'd be thinking, 'I know who you are, Mister'. And it would be bye-bye Chip. Who'd want a celluloid hero when you could have the real thing? I'd make Mister International Rescue sweep me up in his big strong arms and carry me away to wherever it is they hide out!"

It took all of Lady Penelope's self control to not burst out laughing as she said, "And you think you would recognise one of the International Rescue men as soon as you saw him?"

"Of course," Carole said confidently.

Lady Penelope managed to conceal her amusement at the irony of the situation, which was even funnier as her friend was totally unaware of it. "Parker. Er, this is Miss Hampton."

"Ma'am," Parker said.

"Parker," Carole acknowledged.

Parker turned back to his mistress. "Beggin' your pardon, M'lady, but the car h-is ready."

"Is all well?" Lady Penelope enquired.

"Yes, M'lady. The Rolls Royce 'as sustained no damage on the flight h-over."

"Perhaps you will lead the way," Lady Penelope suggested. "Miss Hampton will want to ask Mr Harrison to join us."

"Of course, M'lady." Parker began walking out of the lounge.

Carole giggled. "He sounds a character. Is he as much fun as old Jenkins?"

"More so," Lady Penelope admitted. "He has one of two little tricks up his sleeve that Jenkins would never dream attempting."

"Chip!" Carole called.

Chip Harrison returned the piece of paper he'd been signing, along with the owner's pen, and strode over to catch up with the two women. "Yeah, Honey," he drawled.

"Chip, this is my friend, Lady Penelope. Penny, this is Chip Harrison."

Chip Harrison seemed quite unconcerned as a posse of teenagers tagged along after the little group. "How do, Lady P."

Lady Penelope disliked her name being shortened in that way by strangers; nevertheless she remained polite. "Ah... Very well thank you, Mr Harrison."

"Glad to hear it. Carole here has been tellin' me all kinds of stories about what you two got up to at school."

"Indeed," Lady Penelope said as some over zealous teenager pushed her in the back. "I should take whatever Bec... ah... Carole says with a grain of salt, Mr Harrison. Shall we go? I should like to freshen up after my flight."

"Sure thing," Chip drawled. "Let's mosey." He gave a winning smile and a wave to his fans and swaggered to the door, followed by Carole and Lady Penelope.

The man who'd been reading the paper on Lady Penelope's flight watched their departure closely...

All was silent.

All was still.

The snowstorm stopped.

Virgil, amazed that they were still in one piece, forced his fingers to let go of the control yoke. That task successfully completed he turned to check on Gordon and John. They were white and green respectively.

"You all right?" Virgil tried to say, but it came out in a squeak. He cleared his throat and managed a more normal, "Are you both okay?"

John nodded slowly as Gordon found his voice, which wasn't quite steady. "Yeah... What happened?"

"I don't know..."

"Calling, Thunderbird Two. Come in, Thunderbird Two!" They could hear what might pass for panic in Scott's voice.

"Well, at least communications are still functional... This is Thunderbird Two," Virgil acknowledged. "We're okay, Scott. A little shaken, but okay."

"Thank heavens." He could see relief on Scott's face. "What the heck happened, Virgil? One minute I had you losing height on my radar screen and the next you're breaking up into three pieces."

"Breaking up into three pieces?" Virgil echoed in amazement, as Gordon and John leapt out of their seats so they could see Scott on the telelink.

"What does the instrumentation say?" Gordon asked.

Virgil cast his eye over the control panel. "I'm getting no readings from the pod back."

"So we could have lost the pod," John hypothesised.

Gordon had managed to get much of his colour back, but now blanched again. "What about Thunderbird Four?" he asked faintly.

"Had you secured it?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, ah, I think so... yeah I had."

"What was your height when you lost control?" Scott asked.

"Approximately 500 metres," Virgil told him.

"If it can survive a drop into the ocean, there's a good chance it survived a landing into a snow bank." John's attempt to comfort Gordon didn't have the desired effect.

Another voice came out of Thunderbird One's radio. "Scott!" Alan sounded anxious. "What's happened? Thunderbird Two's emergency locator beacon has been activated."

"They're okay, Alan," Scott reassured his youngest brother. "Thunderbird Two's down though."

"What happened?" Alan repeated.

"We don't know. Thunderbird Two just broke into three pieces."

"And you're sure everyone's okay?"

"We're fine, Alan!" Virgil cut in. "All three of us."

"Do you want me to let base know?" Alan asked.

"Yeah, you'd better. See if Brains has any suggestion as to what happened." Suddenly Scott let out a long low whistle. "Boy... look at that!"

"What!" He received simultaneous communications from both Thunderbirds Two and Five.

"Thunderbird Two's tail section. It's sticking out of the snow like a couple of chimneys. The left one's still firing... no, it's stopped now. I'm not getting any radiation readings so the reactor's still intact."

"Any sign of the pod?" Gordon asked anxiously.

"Negative. It's probably the section that I'm getting a reading on a couple of k's nor-west of here. I'll swing over and check it out... Hey, Virg..." Scott added as an afterthought. "...I'm getting pictures. Want to see them?"

"No thanks," Virgil sounded dour. "I'll wait 'til we get home."

"I'm not going to wait," Alan said impatiently. "Send them up here and I'll transmit them on to base. It'll give Brains something to work from."

"Okay," Scott acknowledged. "I'll see what else I can find." There was silence for a moment as he cruised across the white landscape. "There's bits everywhere... Okay, there's a wing... I'm over the pod now." Gordon waited impatiently for any reports of damage. "Boy, that's got to be the biggest igloo I've ever seen! It's totally covered in snow. Guess the antifreeze system isn't working. Looks as though it's landed the right way up."

"How is it, Scott?" Gordon pressed.

"I can't see any signs of damage."

Gordon was not reassured.

"Right..." Scott continued on his tour of the debris field that marked the remains of Thunderbird Two. "There's the other wing – looks to be the right one... I've got a visual on the front section. Everything from the pod back has gone. Looks as though you've still got structural integrity though. Great bit of flying, Virg, you managed to land in the biggest mound of snow between here and the North Pole. It probably saved your lives."

Virgil said nothing. He couldn't claim the credit for landing safely. It had been luck, pure luck.

"So can you come and pick us up?" John asked.

Scott glanced at the weather gauges on Thunderbird One. "No. There's no way I could land in this wind."

"So what are we going to do?" Gordon asked a trifle impatiently.

"I'll fly home and get the Mark II, and use it to pick up both the pod and you guys. I'll be back within three hours..."

But Virgil was shaking his head. "The Mark II's not ready, Scott. Brains hasn't programmed the guidance and weather computers yet. You'd never make it back here safely."

"How long will it take for him to do the programming?"

"Well... If he's been working on it while we've been on this rescue, it shouldn't take him long. Maybe four hours, depending on how the debugging goes."

"Okay, so I'll be back in just over six hours..."

But Virgil was still shaking his head. "You won't be able to, Scott. The Mark II hasn't been painted yet..."

Gordon had heard enough. "Oh for Pete's sake, Virgil! Is that all you're worried about? I swear sometimes that you've got oil paint in your veins. Scott - if Virgil wants to stay here in his precious, broken Thunderbird Two just because he doesn't like the Mark II's paint job, fine! Me – I want to get home, get a little sun, and check out Thunderbird Four. And I'm sure John's the same."

"That's not what I mean, Gordon!" More than a little anger was evident in Virgil's voice. "You know full well what our paint is capable of. Without it the friction will slow down any trip by at least 10 percent. That's on top of the resistance that the Mark II will experience flying without a pod. AND..." he shook his finger at Gordon for emphasis, "that paint also protects our sensors. In these conditions they'll be damaged before we even get the Mark II in full commission."

Gordon had the famous temperament often attributed to redheads. "Don't preach to me, Virgil Tracy! I know as well as you what our equipment is capable of, and if our sensors can't stand a little snow..."

"Guys, guys!" John said soothingly. "Calm down."

"Calm down?" Gordon yelled. "I have no idea what state Thunderbird Four is in and you are asking me to calm down? At least Virgil has the luxury of knowing that Thunderbird Two is history!"

Scott attempted to diffuse the situation. "Gordon – Virgil – Before you say anything else; count to ten!"

He was ignored by his brothers.

"Luxury!" Virgil yelled, jumping to his feet. "We were nearly killed! We don't know why! Thunderbird Two's in pieces! International Rescue is temporarily out of action! And you call that a luxury? Are you nuts?"

"Guys, we're alive," John said. "Nothing else matters."

He received a twin chorus of, "Shut up, John," from his younger brothers.

"D'you think that Thunderbird Two is the only craft in the International Rescue fleet capable of doing anything useful? Well let me tell you..." Gordon seemed about to continue on his rampage when a totally unexpected voice interrupted him.

"Boys! What's going on?"

All three of them looked back at the video radio link.

Their father's face was frowning at them. "Sounds like you were having an argument."

"Ah, just a discussion, Sir," Virgil said meekly.

"Yeah on the merits of International Rescue's paint," Gordon added, with pointed emphasis.

Back on Thunderbird One, Scott deactivated his links with Thunderbird Two and home, and contacted Thunderbird Five. "That was a good idea, Alan, getting Father to diffuse the situation."

"Yeah, well it sounded like it was getting out of hand. I didn't want them killing each other after surviving the crash."

Scott grinned. Every now and then his youngest brother would surprise him by actually coming up with a good idea.

"That car of yours is a monster, Penny," Carole commented as Chip went to get his vehicle. "I don't know why you don't get something nippier. Trade it in for an Aston Martin or something."

"FAB1 serves my purposes," Lady Penelope informed her. "There are some little luxuries that only the Rolls Royce can provide. I do like to arrive at a destination fully refreshed."

There was a toot and a red Ferrari convertible pulled up behind the shocking pink Rolls Royce. Chip grinned and reached across the passenger seat to push open the door. "You comin' with us, Lady P?"

It was being referred to as 'Lady P' by this loud American, as much as anything, that caused Lady Penelope to decline his invitation. "Thank you, Mr Harrison, but I am afraid that my hair would not survive a trip in your car. Marcel would not be impressed to know that I had ruined his latest masterpiece. I will travel in the Rolls Royce and we will follow you."

Chip seemed unfazed by the rejection. "Sure thing, Lady P... Hop in, Sweetheart," he said to Carole.

"Isn't he just so masterful," Carole gushed, and slid into the seat beside her beau. "See you up at the house, Penny."

"Masterful?" Lady Penelope mused under her breath as the convertible slipped into the traffic. "I have no doubts that he is full of something, but of what I am not sure... Thank you, Parker," she acknowledged as he assisted her into her car.

Parker had almost claimed his seat when someone else jumped into the back seat beside Lady Penelope. "'Ere! Wot's your game!" the cockney demanded.

It was the man with the luxurious eyebrows and moustache who'd been reading the newspaper on the plane. "You will take me to where I want to go," he said. His tone made it clear that he considered it to be an order and not a request.

"I wasn't aware that we were picking up hitch-hikers, Parker," Lady Penelope said calmly.

"We're not. So h-if you wouldn't mind..." Parker turned in his seat to confront the man... and froze.

The stranger had removed a gun from his pocket. He pointed it at the chauffeur. "Start driving... Parker."

Lady Penelope reacted as if she were being held captive by nothing more dangerous than a water pistol. "Dear me... I do hope that thing isn't loaded. I simply can't bear loud noises."

"It is loaded and it is ready to fire," the stranger informed her. "Now instruct your man to drive on."

"I detest guns." Lady Penelope explained, fiddling with her bracelet. "They tend to make such an awful mess of one's surroundings."

The stranger knocked her hand away from her wrist. "Forget your tricks!" he ordered. "They won't work this time, My Lady, for I am more powerful than your toys!"

"Toys? What to...?" Lady Penelope found herself memorised by the stranger's eyes, which had taken on an eerie glow. "Such... fac...in...ate...ing..."

Lady Penelope's mind was strong, and she fought against the man's hypnotic stare. But even her cast iron will was not enough to defeat him. She slumped back against the Rolls Royce's leather seats.

"M'lady!" Parker attempted to clamber back over his seat to assist his mistress, but stopped when he felt the gun press into his chest. "Wot 'ave you done to 'er?" he demanded. "'Oo are you!"

"She merely sleeps," he was informed. "As for my name; that is not important. There are those who know me only as 'The Hood' and that is all you need to know. Now you will do as I say and your lady may live. You will drive west."

Parker stared the gun down. "No!" he said stubbornly. "H-And you can't shoot me, 'cause you'll never be able to drive this car yerself. I'm the only one who can start h-it!"

The Hood thought for only the briefest of moments. "Very well," he acknowledged with an evil smile. "In that case, since you are so fond of this car," the gun swung back and rested against Lady Penelope's temple, "I am sure you would rather not have to clean these elegant seats. It would be a shame if I were to make a mess. And so easy to do..."

Parker swallowed as he heard a sound not dissimilar to the cocking of a gun. He turned back in the driver's seat and, without a word, started the engine.

There was a knock on the gull-wing canopy. "Penny!" Carole Hampton called. "I forgot to tell you about the road works on..." She saw the gun but had no time to react. She swayed as The Hood's hypnotic gaze took effect and crumpled to the ground.

"Weak!" The Hood sneered and prodded Parker in the back with the gun to force him to pull the car out of the car park. "Unlike your lady here..." he turned his attention to the unconscious woman beside him and ran a strand of her blonde hair between his fingers. "She is unusual. She is of a stronger makeup than others of her kind..."

"Don't you touch 'er," Parker snarled.

The Hood laughed. "Such touching devotion. And so wasted. Do you think she would be as loyal to you as you are to her, my friend? To her you are nothing but a servant. A common slave. Drive on!"

"She's not like that," Parker protested.

The gun swung back in his direction. "I said 'drive on'!" The Hood reminded him before turning his attention back to Lady Penelope, once again touching her hair. "I would like to know more about this lady. She could be of use to me..."

Parker felt a shiver of fear crawl up his spine.

John sighed. He looked at Gordon. The redheaded Tracy was staring out the window, arms crossed in anger. "Any change in the weather, Gordon?"

No reply.

John looked over to where Virgil was still seated in his pilot's seat. All he could make out was some chestnut coloured hair, poking up from behind the high-backed chair. "What's the weather forecast, Virgil?"

The reply was blunt. "No change."

John sighed again. If it was cold outside, the atmosphere in here was downright chilly. They'd been sitting for at least an hour and neither of his brothers had said more than two words.

John decided to do something about it. "You know, it's not very often that the three of us have some time to just chat."

By the silence that greeted his announcement it sounded as though this wasn't going to be one of those times either.

"I'm usually stuck up in Thunderbird Five..."

Not a murmur.

"You're back on Tracy Island, or out on a rescue..."

The snow fluttered against the windows.

"And when I am at home we're always too busy doing other things."

There was a quiet drone from some bit of equipment.

"Now would be a good time to just chew the fat..."

Something beeped on the control panel.

"...and talk. Just the three of us. You know, as brothers."

Virgil levered himself out of his seat and left the flight deck.

'Well, that didn't work,' John thought, and sighed again.

"For Pete's sake, John. Will you cut out the heavy breathing?" Gordon said irritably. "You've been doing nothing else for the last hour."

"What else is there to do?" John asked. "You two aren't exactly a barrel of laughs. I'm the only one talking and most of the time that seems to be to myself. I'm beginning to think that the only person who wants to talk to me, is me."

"Well at least you're not pining for Thunderbird Five."

"Be fair. You'd be the same as Virgil if we were going to de-commission Thunderbird Four. And look at the way you're carrying on! For all we know Thunderbird Four could be perfectly all right and you've been worrying yourself into a lather over nothing. As soon as Scott gets back in the Mark II, he'll pick up the pod, then us, and you'll be able to see for yourself that Four is okay."

Gordon pouted as he mulled over his brother's words. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right! In the meantime, how about cutting Virgil some slack? You know how he feels about Thunderbird Two. It must be killing him seeing her like this."

"Okay..." Gordon's sentence was cut off by the sound of the door to the cabin opening.

Virgil came in carrying three mugs of coffee. He handed one to John. "It's always easier to talk over a warm drink," he explained, before tentatively holding one out to Gordon.

Gordon took the proffered drink with a small smile. "Thanks, Virg. Nothing like a warm cup of coffee on a cold day to make you feel better."

"Except maybe a cup of hot chocolate," Virgil said with a smile of his own. "But I'm afraid this café can't oblige."

Gordon sipped his coffee. "This'll do."

Virgil turned back to his seat. He took a mouthful of coffee and looked at the back of the pilot's seat, then, setting his mug on the delicate instruments of the control panel, disappeared back out through the door again.

"Where's he gone to this time?" Gordon asked.

"Maybe he's got some chocolate biscuits hidden somewhere."

"You know, if either of us left our coffee there, he'd have a fit."

"Guess he's realised that he'll never fly her again."

Virgil came back in, carrying an array of tools. He disappeared behind the pilot's chair. Soon John and Gordon could hear the sounds of bolts being undone and a small laser being put to use.

John looked at Gordon with a questioning expression.

Gordon shrugged. "What are you up to, Virg?"

Somewhat abashed, Virgil's head popped up from behind the pilot's seat. "I'm, ah, getting a souvenir." He walked out from behind the seat, carrying the control yoke. He carried it over to his survival pack and strapped it on firmly. He then returned to his seat and undid the two rear bolts that attached it to the floor of the cabin. He swung the whole unit around so that it was facing his two bemused brothers and then re-bolted it in position, before finally reclaiming his coffee and sitting down.

"Comfortable?" Gordon asked.

Virgil smiled. "It'll do." He stretched out his legs. "So John, what do you want to talk about?"

"I dunno..."

"Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Two."

Virgil found the one drawback to having turned his seat around. He knelt on it and looked over the backrest. "Go ahead, Scott."

Scott paused. "What the heck have you done to your seat?"

"Made it more comfortable... Where are you?"

"Just coming in to land on Mateo Island now. Brains and Tin-Tin have made a start on the computer. He thinks he can get it programmed within two hours. In the meantime Tin-Tin and I are going to give the Mark II a base coat of paint. It won't be pretty, but it'll be functional. It should be dry within four hours." Scott paused again. "Ah, how's things going?"

Virgil glanced at Gordon. "Well, we haven't killed each other yet..."

To Parker, the next hour seemed to last for days. He continuously kept checking the monitor trained on the rear seat of the car to see if Lady Penelope showed any signs of wakening, or if the goon was attempting to do more to her than just look. He was disappointed to see that she still slept and relieved that the Hood seemed to have forgotten his preoccupation with her ladyship.

Although FAB1 was equipped with a number of devices designed to combat such a situation, Parker was wary of using them. While Lady Penelope was mysteriously unconscious, he did not wish to endanger her health in any way, so he decided that the best course of action was to bide his time until she awoke.

They were in the desert now and travelling down a road that seemed to be never-ending. Around them only rocks and cacti broke up the view of the hot and dusty landscape. The car's air conditioning was working efficiently, but even so Parker was aware of the sweat that lingered on his brow and top lip. It wasn't perspiration caused by heat; it was the only external manifestation of the concern that was gnawing at his insides.

"Stop here!" The voice from the rear of the car startled him and he jammed on the brakes, hearing the sound of two bodies slither on the back seat. "Fool!" The Hood spat.

"Well, you said stop!" Parker responded. He checked the monitor again. His mistress would have slipped off her leather seat if she hadn't been securely held by her safety belt. "Where are we?"

"Where we are is not of your concern." The Hood had an electronic box in his hands and was pushing a multitude of buttons. "Drive towards the cliff on your right."

"But there's nothin' there!"

"I said drive!"

Parker decided that it was better to humour the man. He turned the Rolls Royce off the road and bumped the car across the uneven surface that was the desert sands. "'Ow far?"

"Until I tell you to stop," The Hood snarled.

"Okay, okay, keep yer 'air on," Parker muttered under his breath. They were drawing close to the wall of the cliff. "Now where?"

"Keep driving."

"Which way?"

The Hood's tone showed that he would not stand for any arguments. "Straight ahead!"

Parker decided to argue anyway. "Straight ahead! There's a blimmin' rock wall straight ahead! 'Ow am I supposed to...!" His jaw dropped as the wall of the cliff opened outwards. "Strike me!"

"If you don't obey me I will. Drive in!"

Powerless to do otherwise, Parker obeyed, driving forward into an unlit bunker. As the door behind them closed, an oppressive darkness surrounded the car before the sudden beam from a spotlight lit up the occupants of the Rolls Royce, forcing Parker to shield his eyes from the glare.

"Get out and stand with your hands against the car," The Hood ordered. "Wait until I tell you to move. And beware that you do not try anything. You are being watched at all times."

Deciding that it was safer to comply, Parker climbed out of the car. He surreptitiously looked around to see if he could spot any of The Hood's assistants, but the darkness beyond the spotlight hid its secrets well. He watched as the other man vacated his seat and strode around to Lady Penelope's side of the car, but when The Hood reached inside Parker knew he had to act. "Stop!"

The Hood straightened and glared at the chauffeur. "You are living dangerously, my friend. You would do well to keep your silence."

"Let me carry 'er," Parker demanded, determined not to let that man's large hands touch his employer's slender frame.

The Hood glared at him and then nodded slowly. "Very well, but be aware that I will be following and I am armed. Try anything and both you and your lady will die."

'Nice feller,' Parker thought sarcastically as he reached into the car and with gentle care pulled at Lady Penelope. He lifted her so she was draped over his shoulder and straightened with a little difficulty. "Now where do you want h-us to go?"

"That way," The Hood gestured with his gun towards a poorly lit hallway. "I will follow."

Parker began walking...

"I've been thinking," John said

The inevitable "That's dangerous" came from Gordon.

John ignored him. "Do you realise that the last time I was involved in a rescue was that time that we saved the crew of the 'Ocean Pioneer II'."

Gordon was chuckling to himself. "Who would've thought that dog food was so explosive?"

John continued on. "It was certainly the last time I risked my neck on a rescue. This time all I was, was the winch operator. There was nothing dangerous, if you don't count crashing into the North Pole."

"You still did an important job," Virgil reminded him.

"Yeah, I know. But sometimes I feel that my role in International Rescue is the easy one. That it would make more sense if we were to automate Thunderbird Five. It would give us more man power on assignments."

"But we need you up in Thunderbird Five," Gordon told him. "We need someone on the spot who's able to do quick repairs. And," he continued on, "you're our link with base, and it's good to have someone who's able to assess the situation without being directly involved and sidetracked by everything that's going on at the rescue zone."

"Not only that," Virgil added. "It's good having a human face to International Rescue. Take that time that Father, Brains and Tin-Tin went to check out the Pacific-Atlantic monotrain. Not an engineer on board and what a mess they got into, and all because there wasn't a human in charge."

"Yeah, and we ended up having to rescue them," Gordon added. "If it wasn't for the human touch, in the form of Brains, they all would have been killed."

John had a drink of his coffee. "You know, sometimes even I'm amazed with what we've managed to achieve. I've often sat up in Thunderbird Five and thought 'those people haven't got a snowball's chance in...'"

"Not a good metaphor at the present moment, John," Gordon grinned.

"Okay," John amended, "they're doomed. Then I think about the equipment we've got and I realise that, because of International Rescue, just maybe 'these people' can be saved."

"Because of Brains!" Virgil reminded him. "If it wasn't for him there wouldn't be an International Rescue."

"And us!" Gordon added. "We have to have the skills to be able to drive the things... Even if Virgil will persist in flying into snow banks..."

"And your skill," Virgil ignored Gordon's last remark, "is being able to ascertain the situation and then to let us know what that situation is clearly and succinctly."

"While keeping the person at the danger zone calm," Gordon finished.

There was a moment of silence.

Gordon broke it with a hypothetical question. "What would the world have been like if Brains had decided to become an evil genius?"

"That doesn't bear thinking about," John grimaced.

"I don't know what the world would be like," Virgil said as he stretched. "But I do know that I'm glad that he's a mild mannered man whose main goal in life is to build amazing craft capable of saving peoples lives."

"He wasn't that mild mannered when Dad tried to get him to build a Thunderbird Six," Gordon remembered. "He was only just keeping his temper until he got back to his lab."

"It's not even as if Father knew what he wanted in a new Thunderbird," Virgil said. "I thought he should have let Brains go on 'Skyship One's' maiden voyage. The break away from the island might have got the creative juices flowing."

"True," John agreed. "But as they say every cloud has a silver lining. At least he wasn't hijacked with the others."

"Amazing, wasn't it?" Gordon said thoughtfully. "There we were, possessors of the most advanced equipment in the 21st Century, and we had to rely on a Tiger Moth bi-plane to rescue them."

"When I heard we were going to call it Thunderbird Six, I thought it was a joke," John said. "But I see it's still got its name."

"I reckon we should change its colour," Gordon said. "We can't have two Thunderbirds painted yellow."

"We could always repaint Thunderbird Four," John suggested.

"No way! Grey, red & blue's out, that's Thunderbird One. Green's Two, orange is Three, Five is grey."

"Stardust silver and gold if you don't mind."

"Pink!" Gordon said with a grin.

"I don't think Lady Penelope would be too impressed," John noted. "Purple?" he suggested looking at his own sash.

"We could always paint the Mark II blue and make Thunderbird Six green. What do you think, Virgil? You're the artist... Virgil? What's wrong?"

Virgil's attention had been caught by an instrument on the control panel. A temperature gauge was rising alarmingly and he stood so that he could get a better look at his instruments. Punching a few buttons on the onboard computer brought up a schematics diagram of Thunderbird Two. One area was glowing red. The computer zoomed in. It was in an area a few metres below their cabin. "Fellas," he said quietly. "We've got a problem."

Both John and Gordon were on their feet looking at the monitor. "What is it?" John asked. "Fire?"

Virgil nodded. "Looks as though one of the thermalene cylinders has ruptured. The gas has permeated throughout the lower compartments..." as they watched the red glow expanded in size. "Get your thermal gear on. We're going to have to evacuate."

"Evacuate!" John hesitated. "If we go out into that cold we'll be frozen within 20 minutes!"

"And if we stay here, and the other thermalene cylinders catch fire, we'll be cooked within two seconds!" Virgil's words spurred his brothers into action.

While Gordon and John hustled into their winter wardrobe, Virgil tried unsuccessfully to raise Thunderbird Five. "Alan! Can you hear me? Come in Thunderbird Five!" He pounded the control panel in annoyance. "The fire must have damaged the communications systems."

John held out Virgil's thermal suit. "Here, put this on and I'll try to reach base." He made some adjustments. "Thunderbird Two to International Rescue. Thunderbird Two to International Rescue. Come in International Rescue."

"Anything?" Fully rigged out in his thermal clothing, Gordon threw his sash over the back of one of the passenger seats as he looked over John's shoulder.

John shook his head. "Nothing. Guess it's time to leave." He turned to face back into the cabin. "Right, Virgil?"

Virgil was standing in the middle of the flight deck of his beloved Thunderbird Two, looking about him, trying to burn its image into his memory. It was clear now that this was the last time that he would see it intact. He nodded, folded his sash carefully onto his pilot's seat, and ran his fingers over the seat's red leather one last time. He sighed. "Right, John. Let's go."

Before popping the emergency escape hatch, they briefly scanned the white landscape. There were no visible landmarks or anything that would offer any protection.

"When we hit the ground we start running, is that the plan?" Gordon asked.

"That's the plan." Virgil slammed his fist onto the button that blew the escape hatch out of Thunderbird Two. The temperature immediately dropped 65ºC and they instinctively turned away from the icy blast that bit into their faces, causing their eyes to water. They donned their protective masks as a slide inflated at their feet.

"Go, Gordon!" Virgil was pulling at the flight recorder that was housed just inside the escape hatch.

Wearing his survival pack Gordon jumped onto the slide and slid down to the frosty ground below. Urged on by Virgil, John followed behind closely.

Contrary to orders both brothers remained at the bottom of the slide to await Virgil.

"What's keeping him?" Gordon yelled above the roar of the wind.

"Dunno. He was getting the flight recorder out."

"He's not getting more souvenirs is he?"

"I..."

Virgil appeared at the top of the slide and tumbled down. He had the flight recorder held tightly in his hand. "C'mon! Run!" he yelled as he hit the bottom.

As one man, the three of them ploughed through the snow and ice, trying to get some distance between themselves and Thunderbird Two.

The remains of the great plane sat there placidly. There was no external evidence that she was now a ticking time bomb. The words "Thunderbird 2" were barely noticeable under the coating of ice that she now wore. Snow was already piling up on the escape slide and drifting into the hole that the Tracy men had just exited. The windows to the cabin started to frost up in intricate patterns that would never be found on a sun drenched Pacific island. Cups of coffee, deserted and forgotten, froze in their mugs. Red leather covered seats turned pink and then white. A layer of ice formed on the monitor screen until the schematic diagram was no longer visible. Only the ominous red glow of the fire warning, now a dull pink, showed through. It filled the hull...

Suddenly, obliterating the snow-white landscape, there was a blinding flash and a shockwave that shook the very ice cap itself...

How are you going so far? Did you manage to score all eleven points?

Are you enjoying the challenge?

Hot and Cold

"Thunderbird Five to Base!" Alan fought hard to keep a feeling of panic under control. He'd heard that signal many times, but only during exercises. Even then the very sound of it had given him the creeps. But now... Now the feeling was ten times worse.

"Thunderbird Five to Base!" he repeated again.

The sight and sound of his father went some way to relieve his anxiety. While his father was in control there was always hope.

Obviously some of his anxieties had been communicated down to earth because instead of the standard 'Go ahead, Alan,' his father greeted him with, "What's wrong, Son?"

Alan took a deep breath. Now was not the time to lose control. Now was the time for levelheaded thought. "I've received the emergency alarm from Thunderbird Two. One of the guys must have set it off!"

He saw Jeff Tracy pale slightly, but there was no noticeable change in his demeanour. They'd all practised for this eventuality. "Have you tried contacting them?"

Alan nodded vigorously. "I can't raise them."

"Had they reported any problems?"

"No."

"Okay, Alan. Keep trying. If that doesn't work try their emergency radios. I'll contact Scott and Brains and see if they've got any idea what the problem could be. It may be just a malfunction due to the crash landing."

"F-A-B."

Jeff changed frequencies. "International Rescue to Mateo Island." He felt his stomach knot as he waited impatiently for a response.

None was forthcoming.

"International Rescue to Mateo Island! ... Where are they? ... Internati..."

"Mateo Island. Sorry, Father. Tin-Tin and I were on top of the Mark II. Brains has got his nose buried in the computer and probably didn't hear you. What's up?"

"Alan's just reported that he's receiving the emergency alarm from Thunderbird Two. I was hoping that either you or Brains would have an explanation for it."

Scott paused as the news sunk in. "The emergency alarm!" he breathed. "No. I can't think of anything. Virgil didn't say they were having any problems – well, nothing technical anyway. Hold on, I'll ask Brains." Jeff heard him move to the door of Thunderbird One and then shout something to Tin-Tin. He then returned to his seat. "Tin-Tin's gone to get him. If he can't come up with a solution, what's our plan of campaign?"

"We can't effect a rescue until the Mark II is fully operational..."

"I could always fly back up there in Thunderbird One..."

"And we'd still be in the same position as we were when you were in the Arctic before. The weather hasn't improved. You wouldn't be able to do anything and with only Tin-Tin working on Mark II's paint job it'll be twice as long before it'll be operational. No, unless Brains comes up with any ideas I think we'd better stick with the current plan and hope that Alan makes contact with the boys."

Scott heard the sound of running footsteps and laboured breathing. Brains bounded into the cockpit of the rocket ship, Tin-Tin close behind him. "W-what's t-this – 'gasp' – a-about the – 'gasp' – e-emergency alarm?"

Giving the young scientist a chance to regain his breath, Jeff explained what had happened. "Any ideas as to why it's gone off Brains?"

"I-it didn't start bec-cause of the crash?"

Scott was shaking his head. "Alan reported the emergency locator beacon, but that was over two hours ago and happened instantaneously. If it was because of the crash why would it take the emergency alarm this long to activate?"

"Could it be some electrical malfunction?" Tin-Tin asked.

Brains shook his head slowly. "I-I don't see how."

Jeff sighed, and then looked away from the video console. "Just a moment, Alan is coming through." He opened Thunderbird Five's frequency. "Any news, Alan?"

"Of a sort." Alan Tracy was looking tense. "The alarm has stopped."

Jeff breathed a sigh of relief. "Good."

"No, Dad! Not so good. It wasn't switched off, it just kind of faded out."

"Faded out!"

"That means the emergency alarm computer has been destroyed!" Brains exclaimed. "Mr Tracy – S-something is s-seriously wrong w-with Thunderbird Two!"

The Hood regarded his captives thoughtfully. "She should have regained consciousness by now," he muttered. "Truly this is an unusual lady."

Parker sat on a steel chair, his hands manacled together in handcuffs behind him, which were themselves joined to the chair by a length of chain welded to the chair's stretcher. On the seat next to him, still unconscious, Lady Penelope was similarly bound.

"It is of no matter," The Hood continued on. "While she sleeps she is no trouble. I must get ready for the next stage of my plan." He cast a sardonic grin in Parker's direction. "Don't go anywhere."

Parker stared back at his kidnapper defiantly, and watched him leave the room.

"Has that dreadful man gone?"

Parker's head snapped round. "M'lady! Are you all right?"

"Perfectly, Parker. I was enjoying a little rest."

"Little rest! You've been out of h-it for at least two 'ours."

Lady Penelope gave a little laugh. "That was the impression I was intending to give. I have been, ah, playing possum. Unfortunately it hasn't assisted us with our trifling problem."

"'Ow long...?"

"Oh, since you did your most efficient braking act. I'm afraid you jolted me awake quite rudely."

"Beggin' your pardon, Madam."

"Think nothing of it. You did me a service. I was able to observe our friend and his surroundings at length, without him suspecting I was doing so. I was hoping to find the moment when I could, ah, turn the tables. I had decided that my best opportunity was when he was going to carry me."

"And I stuck me big nose in," Parker said shamefully. "Sorry, M'lady. H-I couldn't bear the thought of 'im puttin' 'is mitts all over you."

"And you gallantly came to my aid. Thank you, Parker. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"I 'ope that you didn't think that I took h-any liberties meself."

"You were a perfect gentleman. And don't worry, I now believe that it would have been foolhardy for me to try anything. He was too wary of us. As evidenced by the items he removed from my person."

"I was watchin' 'im to make sure 'e didn't do any funny business. What's 'e got?"

"My hair clip, brooch, rings, necklace and bracelet."

"'E took me wallet, jacket, braces and titfer 'n all," Parker bobbed his hatless head.

"He was most thorough, but I do believe that we still hold one or two, ah, aces up our sleeves."

"Indeed, M'lady. So now what do we do?"

"We wait, Parker," Lady Penelope informed him. "We wait until that horrible little man reveals his plans for us."

John Tracy lifted his face out of the snow that had helped cushion his fall. When Thunderbird Two had exploded he'd been lifted into the air and thrown – he didn't know how far. At first moving slowly to see if he'd sustained any injuries, he remembered his brothers and sat up quickly.

About 10 metres to his right and slightly behind him he could see Gordon move gingerly and then also sit up. John waved at his brother to let him know he was okay. Much to his relief, Gordon repeated the gesture.

Cautiously John got to his feet. He was surprised, that apart from a general ache, which was undoubtedly due to being flung about like a rag doll, he was unhurt. He turned to look for Virgil.

His brother was sitting in the snow, hugging his knees, silhouetted against an inferno that burned barely 500 metres away from them. It was a sight that would forever be etched in John's mind. The great craft that had been Thunderbird Two, had been reduced down to a third of its former size, and what remained was engulfed in fire. Incredibly the fire's temperature was so hot that it was melting the polar ice cap. Thunderbird Two was slowly sinking through the ice.

John turned to Gordon who had arrived at his side. Their protective masks held microphones to enable communication, but without the signal booster that was on board Thunderbird Two, their range was limited to about five metres. "You okay, Gordon?"

He could see the flames reflected in his younger brother's visor. "I'm a little sore, but I'm okay. How about you?"

"Pretty much the same." John turned back to the scene before them. "Look at that!"

"Yeah. Virgil must be feeling terrible."

They tramped through the snow to reach their brother. "Virgil!" Gordon laid a hand on his older brother's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Virgil didn't look away from the scene in front of him. "Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah, I'm just fine. How're you two?"

"We're okay." Gordon straightened up again and looked back at Thunderbird Two. "Boy. Talk about going out in a blaze of glory!"

The surrounding snow and ice reflected orange and red. The landscape was surreal.

John was starting to feel cold. "C'mon, Virgil, get up. Grandma's gonna tan your hide if you get your britches wet."

"Okay." With evident reluctance Virgil got to his feet and then turned his back on what, to him, appeared to be the death throes of an old friend. He unhitched his Arctic Survival Pack off his back and started removing the control yoke. "I'd set off the emergency alarm..."

"So that's why you took so long," Gordon interrupted.

"Yes," Virgil was searching through his pack. "They'll know something's wrong..."

"And the emergency alarm will have stopped working," John guessed. "They'll be panicking now."

Gordon looked at him. "Panicking? Our family?"

"Okay," John conceded. "Expressing some mild concern then."

"That's better."

Virgil had pulled his arctic emergency radio out of his pack. He placed it on the ground as he closed his pack securely, and reattached the control yoke again. He'd just finished that task and had swung his pack back onto his back when it started snowing again. "Can't it stop that for ten minutes?" he grumbled.

His words were blown away in a sudden maelstrom of snow. They were blinded and deafened by white out conditions...

"John!"

"Gordon!"

"Virgil!"

"Where are you?"

"What?"

"Grab my hand!"

"How? I can't see you!"

"What? I can't hear you!"

"Where are you guys?"

"This wind..."

"The snow..."

Gordon was blown forwards and bumped into something. "Who's that?"

"Me."

"John? Where's..."

"I'm here," Virgil had found an arm. "Who's this?"

"Me," John repeated. "So we're all here?"

"Yep." They grouped together in a huddle.

A particularly vicious gust of wind pushed against Gordon again and his gloved fingers slipped off his brothers' jackets. He lost his grip and fell.

"Gordon!" The two older Tracys yelled. "Where are you?"

"Down here! On the ground!"

They crouched down, reaching out for him. Virgil's fingers closed about an arm. "Is that you, Gordon?"

"Yes!"

They decided it was best to hunker down low and wait out the storm.

The door to their tomb opened. "So! You have decided to join us," The Hood sneered. "A bit different than your usual bed of feathers?"

"It is not as comfortable," Lady Penelope admitted. "But then I rarely sleep during the daylight hours, so I shouldn't expect any different."

The Hood laughed. "Remarkable," he said. "I suppose you are wondering why I brought you here?"

"You're h-auditioning for a scene from a detective movie?" Parker guessed.

"Silence, Fool! This is not a time for your petty jokes. No... I understand that International Rescue will soon be celebrating..."

"Are we going to a party?" Lady Penelope interrupted. "I do so like parties."

"Don't play the fool with me, My Lady," The Hood snarled. "You were on your way to celebrate the fifth anniversary of International Rescue!"

"Parker? Did you know about this?" Lady Penelope asked.

"H-It's news to me, M'lady," her butler replied.

"You think you are clever with your lies, but I KNOW! I have an impeccable source..."

For the first time Lady Penelope felt a twinge of alarm.

"...Who tells me that International Rescue are planning a party to celebrate the anniversary. I know you are agents for that accursed organisation for we have crossed paths before. Therefore I know that you are going to join them. I propose to accompany you."

"'Ow can you go to a party wot none of us has invites for?" Parker asked.

"I will pretend to be a slave to your Lady, just as you are a slave." The Hood gave Parker a malevolent grin. "Or I could leave you buried up to your neck in the desert's sands and I could replace you as your lady's chauffeur."

Parker stared him down. "You 'aven't got the qualifications."

"True, I am not servile enough. But I am a master of disguise and I can act any part. The face you see before you is not my own. International Rescue would never know of their peril until it is too late."

"But we don't know of any party," Lady Penelope insisted. "I came to Los Angeles simply to visit an old school friend! However if you are going to meet International Rescue I should simply adore going with you," she continued on girlishly. "Becky and I were just saying this morning, weren't we, Parker, that it's every girl's dream to meet those dashing men of International Rescue. Why Becky would be simply green with jealousy if she only knew..."

"Lies!" The Hood thrust his face close to hers and it took all her courage not to recoil back. "My source tells me you will be present." He leered, and to Lady Penelope's relief, moved away. "You are curious to know who my source is, aren't you? He is someone close to International Rescue. Someone very, very close. Only the fools don't realise that I have the power over him that forces him to speak, and when I submit him to that power he cannot resist." The Hood laughed and the chamber echoed with the sound. "I will return soon and then you will tell me how we are going to the party. Till then," he made an ironic bow, "please make yourselves feel at home."

The three Tracy brothers breathed a collective sigh of relief when the storm finally abated. They stretched and shook mounds of snow off their heads, shoulders and backs.

"That wasn't very pleasant," John commented dryly. "Where's your radio, Virgil?"

"My radio?" Virgil looked downwards.

"Yeah, you know. That thing that's supposed to help us get rescued," Gordon crossed his arms and glared at his brother.

"Don't be stupid, Gordon," Virgil snapped. "If you can't say something sensible, don't say anything." He scuffed at the snow on the ground with his foot. "It should be here somewhere."

"Well, what did you do with it?"

"I put it down before the storm hit."

"Put it down? Down where?"

"On the ground!"

"On the ground? During a blizzard? Of all the dumb..."

"I didn't know the blizzard was going to hit...!"

"And you call me stupid...!"

"Guys, calm down," John soothed. "There's no need to get upset. We'll find it."

The three of them gazed at the expanse of freshly fallen snow. Even their tracks had been obliterated. "Where?" Gordon asked. "Look at it, John. We've been blown about from pillar to post. It could be anywhere!"

"Well stop moaning about it and start looking!" Virgil had already started feeling about.

Ten minutes later they'd covered a large area and had discovered nothing. Virgil stopped searching. "We'll have to face it, we're wasting time. It could have been blown anywhere in that wind. Why don't you get yours out, John?"

John was already ferreting about in his survival bag. "Here it is..." he pulled out the instrument. "Oh...!"

"What?" his brothers closed in.

"Look!" John held the radio out to his brothers. It had been reduced to a flattened mess of plastic and wires. "I thought I felt something hit me between the shoulder blades!" Putting his hand through a tattered hole, he felt around inside his pack.

"How's your back?" Gordon asked.

"Fine," John said absently as he continued feeling about the bag. "What's this?" he withdrew his hand and stared at his find. A large, jagged piece of Thunderbird Two lay on his palm. "I suddenly feel very lucky," he said quietly.

Virgil stared at what had formerly been a part of his 'plane. "I'll bet you do!"

"The radio's history though," John added.

"Rather the radio than you," Gordon noted.

"Can't you fix it?" Virgil asked.

John was examining the bits and pieces that were once a functioning link with the outside world. "If I was at home, with a full complement of spare parts... But here..." he shook his head. "No chance."

Gordon took the remains of the radio from his brother and examined it critically. "That ship of yours sure packs a wallop, Virgil."

"Oh, shut up and get your radio out," Virgil retorted taking John's mangled set to examine himself. He gave a low whistle. "Are you sure you aren't hurt, John?"

"I'm fine," John reassured him taking his radio back and placing it carefully into his tattered pack. "What's holding you up, Gordon? Where's your radio?"

"Here!" Gordon said triumphantly, pulling the instrument out of his bag. "Now we'll get some action." Confidently he flipped the switch that turned the radio on. "North Pole calling Thunderbird Five! North Pole calling Thunderbird Five. This is the three polar bears calling. Come in, Snowylocks."

Virgil rolled his eyes in exasperation but said nothing.

Neither did the radio.

"Calling, Elvis. Is anybody home?"

There was silence from the radio so Gordon tried again. "Thunderbird Five! We've got Santa here and he wants to know what you want for Christmas. If you don't answer this radio we'll tell him you haven't been good and don't deserve anything..."

There was still no response. Gordon glanced at his brothers uneasily before trying yet again. "Gordon calling Alan. Can you hear me, Alan?" He'd lost his jocular manner as he shook the radio. "Come in, Thunderbird Five..." He tried adjusting the strength of the signal. "Nothing."

"Here, let me try," John offered. He examined the radio briefly. "Looks okay..." he spoke into it. "Calling Thunderbird Five. Come in, Alan."

"What's wrong with it?" Virgil asked. "Scott was supposed to do the checks on the survival kits. When was it last inspected?"

John slid out the panel that contained the unit's inspection record. "Two days ago. Unit and batteries A.O.K. It's marked with an 'S'." He raised his hands in defeat. "It might have been fine two days ago, but it's dead now."

"So we can't contact anyone," Virgil stated.

"There's always our wristwatch telecomms," Gordon indicated his wrist. "Who's going to volunteer to risk frostbite and have their watch stick to their skin?"

"I wouldn't bother," John told him. "They weren't designed to operate this close to the magnetic poles." He looked skywards, and was just able to make out a faint, green glow. "And judging by the Aurora Borealis that's playing up there, there'd be too much interference to even consider attempting reaching Thunderbird Five. We'd be wasting our time."

"Edible transmitters?" Virgil suggested. "At least they'd know we're still alive."

"Same problem," John stated.

"So now what do we do?" Gordon asked.

"Build some shelter," John shrugged. "We could dig it out of that snow bank," he pointed to a small hillock of snow some 100 metres away. "At least we'd be out of the cold until Scott gets back."

"How big do we make it?" Gordon asked.

"Big enough for three," John told him. "This is not a time for single rooms."

"We'd better build the door away from the wind." Virgil held up a scrap of paper. "Which way is it blowing?"

"That way!" John and Gordon replied together, each pointing in a different direction.

"Thought so," Virgil grunted as the material blew out of his mittened hand and danced its way across the snow.

"The trench will block the worst of it." Gordon removed the collapsed shovel that was strapped to his pack. "Come on, the sooner we get started the sooner we can get out of this cold."

The sun was beating down onto Mateo Island and on the Mark II, which had been removed from its concealed hangar. Scott stripped off, first his overalls and then his shirt, in an attempt to keep cool. Then he thought of the associated problems of getting sunburnt and put the shirt back on again. Before long it was covered in minute dots of grey paint, courtesy of the spray gun he was operating.

"Would you like a drink, Scott?" Tin-Tin called up from below.

He was about to decline when he realised that he wouldn't do his brothers any good if he were to collapse from dehydration or heat exhaustion, so, removing his facemask, he quickly made his way down to the ground. He took the glass of iced lemonade from Tin-Tin and, trying to ignore the all-pervading smell of fresh paint, sipped it gratefully. "This is great."

"Thank your grandmother. She packed us a few things to keep us going." Tin-Tin opened a large picnic basket and Scott's eyes widened with pleasure as he looked inside. His hand stretched out for a particularly yummy looking morsel and then stopped.

"What about Brains? He's gonna need something."

Tin-Tin smiled. "He's already got his. I knew there was no way he'd tear himself away from his work, so I took some in to him. I told him it was there and he grunted at me, but I doubt that he heard me. We'll go up there later and it'll still be sitting there."

Scott grinned, the treat already in his mouth. "We're lucky to have him," he mumbled indistinctly. "Not only the brains but the dedication to do what needs to be done."

"Scott Tracy! How many times have you been told not to talk with your mouth full?" Tin-Tin scolded, acting as if she were brushing his sprayed crumbs off her overalls.

Scott hurriedly swallowed his mouthful. "Sorry, Tin-Tin. Have you had something to eat?"

"I've lived long enough with you Tracy boys to know that, if your Grandmother isn't about to take you in hand, it's first in first served." She opened a toolbox and took out a serviette. Carefully balanced on it were a number of delicacies.

"Looks like you've learnt your lesson well." Scott took another bite at something else he'd retrieved from the basket. Then his chewing slowed down. "Guess the guys aren't feeling this good."

"They'll be all right, Scott. You know that."

"Yeah I know. It's just that..." he hesitated, "...I've kinda looked out for them, ever since Ma died. And with International Rescue I'm usually AT the rescue scene. There I feel I've got some control over the situation. Back here..." he slung back the last of his drink and once again ascended to the top of the Mark II.

Tin-Tin heard the spray gun back in action again. She put the picnic basket back in Thunderbird One and returned to her post, painting one of the jet units.

The sun blazed down.

Up at the North Pole the three Tracy men had started preparing their snow cave. Together, using the collapsible shovels that had been part of their survival packs, they dug a trench in front of where the entrance tunnel was to be. As they removed the snow they piled it on top of what was to become their shelter.

When the trench was as deep as John was tall, they took a break. Gordon stretched his back. "We'll give those snow crystals a chance to bind," he said, sitting down in the shelter of the trench. His brothers followed his lead, glad for the rest.

"What have we got in the way of rations?" Virgil was delving into his pack.

"Hungry?" John asked.

"I am actually. I was too busy working on the Mark II to have lunch. Do you want anything?"

John shook his head. "I'm not hungry." He began examining what was left of his pack, trying to discover what remained in there that was still usable.

Virgil removed an energy bar from its wrapper and quickly lifted his mask enough to bite into the snack. He shivered. "Boy, the air's cold."

"We're at the North Pole!" Gordon jumped on him. "What else would you expect?"

"What I expect, is that type of answer from you, Gordon. You..."

"Guys!" John interrupted what had the potential to become another argument. "Stop this! If we're going to survive the next six or whatever hours we're going to have to work together! If you feel like arguing like little kids when we get home, then fine, you can do it somewhere where I don't have to listen to you! But in the meantime can't you at least pretend to be civil to each other? You know we're going to have to work as team to get this shelter built. So let's work as a team! Okay? Virgil?"

"Okay," Virgil muttered.

"Gordon?"

"Yeah." Gordon didn't sound too enthusiastic.

"Good!" John slapped his hands together. "Let's get started on the tunnel..."

The clock ticked on.

Brains pushed a few buttons on the console of the Mark II and the computer hummed into life. "What's the weather report for the area from point zero – 500 kilometre radius," he commanded. Alone, and while working, he rarely stuttered.

The computer accessed the world's weather satellites, Thunderbird Five's own weather seeking technology, as well as equipment located onboard the Mark II. One nanosecond later the results were displayed on the screen. 'Tropical Cyclone 300 kilometres north-north-east of present position. Heading in a southwesterly direction. First signs expected to reach point zero within three hours. 150 kilometre per hour winds and 300 millilitres of rain expected at point zero within five hours.' Brains checked his own, hand held computer, linked to the main weather station on Tracy Island. The Mark II's results were corroborated.

He activated a radio. "S-Scott, can you hear me?"

There was a moment's delay, as Scott had taken his watch off to stop it from getting covered in paint. "What's up, Brains? Have you knocked your drink into the computer?"

Brains didn't stop to hear the humour in Scott's voice. "Drink? No... I've finished programming the w-weather computer and it's telling me that there's a c-cyclone heading this way. We should be feeling its initial e-effects in about three h-hours."

Scott digested this bit of news. "So if we don't have the painting finished by then, we could be held up longer! We'll have to shift the Mark II back into the hangar!"

"I-I'm afraid so."

"How much longer will you be?"

"I-I've still got to programme the guidance computer. I-It's worked fine in the s-simulator, but I'll want to r-run some tests."

"So how long, Brains?" Scott said impatiently.

"An hour?"

"Okay, Brains, thanks. I'll let Father know."

Jeff was not pleased. "How long before you'll have finished painting, Scott?'

"Lets see... We've been at it two hours so far. I reckon we've got another 1.5 hours painting time and then we need to allow a good hour's drying time. That's without any moisture about and I want to work on her outside for as long as possible. If it starts to rain we're going to have to back her into the hangar and allow at least an extra half hour drying time."

"So that's 2.5 hours minimum, before you can even lift off... You'd be painting quicker if you had an extra pair of hands of course..."

"Of course."

"Okay, Scott. I'll get the plane out and head over there straight away... On second thoughts, by the time I've got the plane out of its hangar you could have flown Thunderbird One over here, picked me up, and got back. So we'll do that."

"Okay. I'm on my way now. Out."

Jeff ran to his room and grabbed a pair of overalls. On his way back he bumped into his mother. "Jeff! Where are you going in such a hurry?"

Already he could hear the sounds of Thunderbird One's engines. "I'm going to help with the painting, Mother. Let Alan know, will you? I'll leave you in charge of communications..."

"But, Jeff..."

He gave her a brief, but affectionate kiss. "You'll be fine. You won't have to co-ordinate any rescues. When Scott takes off in the Mark II, I'll fly Thunderbird One back here. Now if you'll excuse me – I'm wasting time."

"All right, Jeff. Good luck and take care..." she said to his retreating back.

"What do you think, M'lady? 'Oo's the squealer?"

"I don't know, Parker, but there aren't too many possibilities. I don't believe there is a large guest list. Also, from the way our friend was talking, it is possible that whoever it is probably is unaware that they are passing on secrets."

"H-It's a worry."

"It is indeed. We must escape from here and try to find the unwitting culprit and see if we can nullify The Hood's power over him."

"Or 'er?"

"You are right, Parker. We mustn't overlook any possibility, no matter how unlikely it might seem."

"H-It's probably someone who doesn't live... on the base," Parker deliberately refrained from being more specific. "Else 'ow could that geezer get the info out of 'im."

"A good question, Parker. And knowing our friend's clever trick with his eyes, I would not put it past him to have some kind of telepathic power over someone totally unexpected."

"Do you think h-it could be one of h-us then? You or me?"

"I wouldn't like to say yes, but then I hesitate to say no."

"So, we're not in the clear."

"Only the way that he was talking makes me think that he was referring to another person. The question is who? And how do we prevent it from happening again?"

Tin-Tin removed her facemask and wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Then she looked at her watch, surprised at how little time had passed since she'd started this chore. She pushed a button on the timepiece. "Hello, Father."

"Hello, my sweet one."

Tin-Tin smiled at her father's Anglicising of her name. "I am sorry I am not there to care for you. I wanted to see how you were feeling."

"Do not let that worry you. I am feeling well. I have had no reoccurrence of the seizure of two days ago. What can I do to help you?"

Tin-Tin frowned at him. "Father!" she scolded. "The Doctor said you are to rest!"

"I do not like sitting round while the family works. Perhaps I could do something to do with the party?"

"Now, Father," Tin-Tin sounded exasperated. "You know Mr Tracy has forbidden you from even thinking about that. We can handle the few chores that remain. It was probably all the work and worries that brought on your attack. The way you were moaning about the celebration when I found you..."

"But I am feeling well now..."

"I know, but I don't like it when you are ill. It frightens me."

"I do not wish to frighten you, Tin-Tin, and you have no need to feel fear for me as I am rested..."

The flight back to Mateo Island was quick. Jeff stared out of Thunderbird One's window at the partially painted Mark II as Scott brought Thunderbird One in to land. "You've done well."

"We've done the easy bit," Scott told him. "If you want to take over where I left off I'll make a start on the tail section. That's going to take a bit of rope work."

"Okay, Scott. You're in charge here. Just point me in the right direction."

Scott pointed in the vicinity of the Mark II's left wing. They could see a pair of overalled legs balanced on some scaffolding. "Go see where Tin-Tin's up to. If she's nearly finished that wing you can start erecting the scaffolding to start on the other."

"Would you mind if I went and saw how Brains is getting on first?" his father asked.

"You're the boss!"

"You're the site foreman."

Despite all his worries, Scott barked a laugh and then pretended to take on a gruff tone. "Just don't take all day."

John stopped digging and stretched his back. "I need a break," he said. "I'm going to have a look around. I'll be back in a minute." He clambered out of the trench as he heard his brothers grunt their acknowledgement.

Standing by the hole they'd created, John looked about him. The sky was dark and threatening; the ground like a vast white desert, except for the now blackened carcass of Thunderbird Two. He gave a shiver, which was not totally a response to the cold. "Two's still burning," he commented.

The latest blizzard seemed to spring up out of nowhere. John, suddenly buffeted by howling winds and blinding snows, was forced off balance. He staggered, trying to retain his footing.

The snows were swirling round and round him; a dizzying effect that hid all surrounding landmarks from view. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, and took a step back the way he thought he'd come.

He had no visual references – Nothing to say where he could find the body of their shelter – Nothing to say where his brothers were – Nothing to say where was north and where was south – Nothing to say which was up and which was down. He was trapped in a murky gloom that could be dusk, dawn, night or day. John was only aware of the noise of the wind and the lack of visual stimulation. The swirling snows were numbing his mind as sure as the cold was numbing his body. Deprived of all sensory evidence he fell to his knees and shut his eyes. He was lost... trapped...

"... John..."

...Alone... He could feel the snow building up against his body, but didn't care. Nothing mattered. The snow and the wind were his world now. That and that nagging voice in his mind...

"... John! ..."

Strangely he wasn't scared. It was as if all emotion had been ripped away in that first fearful gust. He could live or die, it didn't matter. He was alone in his world of snow, and wind, and never ending greyness...

"JOHN!"

His name, shouted through the headset in his mask punctured the cocoon that he'd drawn around himself, sending in a lifeline. "Virgil?"

As he regained his sensibilities he could hear relief in his brother's voice. "John, where are you?"

"I don't know. I've lost my bearings."

"Well, hold still, we'll see if we can feel you."

"Don't get out of the trench!" John ordered, fearful that one of his brothers would find themselves in the same predicament that he was in.

"We won't," Virgil reassured him. "And don't you move either."

"I won't." John waited, praying that he would feel a welcome touch. If he had the vaguest notion where the trench was he would have extended his arms in that direction, but his disorientation was total.

"It's no good," he heard Virgil's grim voice. "We can't feel you. You're going to have to take a step."

"Which way?" John asked.

"Have you got any idea which way you're facing?" now he was hearing Gordon's voice.

"No, the wind knocked me about a bit. I've no idea." John shouted over the screaming gale.

"Keep talking and take a step to the left," Virgil suggested. "If the signal gets weaker we'll know you're heading in the wrong direction."

"Be careful, John," Gordon added.

"Okay, I'm talking. I'm talking about what a weird sensation this is..." Still in a crouched position, John shuffled sideways. "... I'm talking about..."

"Stop!" Virgil yelled. "You're fading slightly. Reverse your step."

"Reversing now," John described. "Now I'm moving further to the right. How are you hearing me?"

"About the same as you were before," Virgil admitted. "Hold still a moment and we'll try to find you again." There was a moment's silence before John heard his brother's sigh. "Nope."

"Take another step to the right, John," Gordon suggested. "Keep talking."

"I'll be hoarse before you find me at this ra..."

"Stop!" The yell was in duplicate.

"Two steps to the left to get back to where I started?" John asked.

"Yes," Virgil said. "I hope you're taking the same sized steps."

"I'm trying to. Okay, I should be back where I started. Now I'll go forward. I'll take a baby step. How do I sound?"

"Slightly clearer, I think," Virgil said. "What do you think, Gordon?"

"I agree. Take another baby step, John."

"Stepping out," John did as he was told. "How am I sounding now? Clearer?'

"Definitely," Virgil confirmed. "Hold still..."

"Against this wind! That's a near impossibility. I'm on all fours and I'm still being knocked about." John felt something brush against his forearm.

"I've found something!" Gordon sounded excited. "Is that you, John?"

"I think so," John grabbed at the object held against his sleeve. It was a hand. "Hi, Gordon."

Gordon kept a secure grip on his brother. "Come on in, John."

Feeling in front of him, John crawled, still gripping tightly to Gordon's hand. In his eagerness to get to safety, his misjudged the lip of the trench and tumbled in, landing on the soft snow that had been blown in by the relentless winds.

He sensed that someone had crouched down, and in turn sat up to face the unseen person. "Are you okay, John?" he heard Virgil's voice ask.

"I'm fine," John admitted. "I didn't land on you, did I, Gordon?"

"You wrenched my wrist slightly," Gordon admitted, "but I'm okay... Is it me or is this snow easing off?"

"No, I can see you guys." John was able to make out the shapes that were his brothers. He could see Gordon's figure massaging his arm. "Are you sure I didn't hurt you?"

Gordon flapped his hand in the air. "Honestly, I'm fine. Though I don't know that I'll be able to dig for a while," they could hear the humour in his voice.

"You're not getting out of it that easily," John told him, and struggled to his feet.

"And you're not getting out of this jam that easily either," Gordon told him. "We don't need you to going all Captain Oates on us, and disappear out into the snow... Not yet anyway." It was said as a joke, but all three men knew that it'd been a close call.

"... And that was 'Dangerous Game' by the Cass Carnaby Five..."

"How's it going, Brains?"

Brains started, turned and blinked at his employer. "M-Mr Tracy."

"Sorry," Jeff apologised. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Where are you up to?"

"I-I'm fine-tuning the radio. We're getting interference f-from a commercial television station."

"...With Rick O'Shea..." the radio said.

"Sounds like Tin-Tin's boyfriend," Jeff commented dryly.

"I-I don't know. I haven't b-been listening that closely," Brains admitted, pulling at the neck of his shirt. "It's hot," he said rhetorically.

Jeff looked around. "How's everything else coming along?"

"F-Fine. The weather computer is f-functioning perfectly."

"... In entertainment news today..." the radio burbled away.

"So I hear. How's the guidance system?"

"I'll need Tin-Tin's assistance to f-finalise that. I'm concentrating on other things until she's f-finished painting."

"... British actress Carole Hampton was found unconscious at Los Angeles airport this morning..."

"That's why I'm here, to help with the painting," Jeff said. "I'd better get out there. I'll send Tin-Tin in."

"... She is undergoing tests to discover what was the cause of her blackout. Hampton, who rose to prominence in the Cy Goldheimer sci-fi blockbuster..."

"Th-Thank you, Mr Tracy."

"... Is currently filming 'Terror at Thompson Tower', co-starring her boyfriend, Chip Harrison, best known for his role as Paul Metcalfe in 'Winged Assassin'..."

"Don't forget to have your lunch," Jeff pointed out the food and drink that Tin-Tin had left for Brains. The engineer stared at it as if it had suddenly materialised out of nowhere.

"... It was Harrison who found Hampton. He said they'd been waiting for a friend who's since mysteriously dis..."

Brains turned the radio off.

After a half hour of clearing out the snow that had blown into their trench, those trapped at the North Pole decided that it was safe to continue working on the tunnel that would be the entrance to their shelter. John took the first shift. He reached in the hole, which was level with his knees, and began digging upwards, while the other two cleared away the snow as he removed it. They worked industriously, frequently changing roles to give the one inside the cave a break.

The wind stopped blowing.

"Thank heavens for that!" Gordon clambered out of the trench, sat on the edge, took off his facemask, and wiped his forehead. "I needed some real fresh air." His words were punctuated by the puffs of steam coming from his breath.

"How cold is it?" John joined his brother and removed his own mask. He reached down to help Virgil out of the trench.

"Not too bad, though not warm enough for a swim."

"Blast!"

"What's wrong, John?" Virgil asked.

"My eye's frozen shut."

"Well, put your hand..."

"...Over my eye and don't try to pull the eyelids apart. I know the drill." John did this as he spoke and felt his eyelids separate as the warmth of his hand melted the ice that sealed it. "That's a weird sensation," he said as he put his mask back on. He glanced at the sky. "What time do you think it'll get dark here?"

"I'd say... about November," Gordon told him. "What's the matter? Been away from the stars too long?"

"No, just curious. It's a strange feeling knowing that the sun won't set for..."

"Hey look!" Gordon pointed across the landscape. Now that the snow had stopped falling and the wind had stopped blowing, they could see far into the distance. Virgil and John followed the line of their brother's outstretched hand to what appeared to be a large lump on the otherwise smooth landscape.

"What is it?" Virgil asked.

"Don't tell me you don't recognise one of Thunderbird Two's pods," Gordon said with a grin. "You know we could find shelter there, not to mention a source of heating, and food, and communications with base...."

"You want to check on Thunderbird Four," Virgil accused. "How far away did Scott say it was? It's probably farther than it looks. We could be caught in another snowstorm before we get a quarter of the way there. I think we should stay here. At least we've nearly got our shelter sorted."

"Looks like the decision's down to you, John." Gordon turned to his other brother who was starting speculatively at the pod in the distance.

"Much as I like the idea of actually having somewhere warm to hunker down..." John began slowly, "I think we should stay here. This is where Scott will be looking for us, and you can't beat the signal fire we've got going." He gestured over at the still blazing front third of Thunderbird Two. "And I've already been trapped in a blizzard twice, I don't intend repeating the experience!"

"Okay," Gordon shrugged. He knew as well as his brothers the unpredictability of the weather this close to the North Pole. Safety would have to come first.

As if to emphasise the soundness of their decision a light snow started falling. It obliterated the surrounding landscape's features.

Virgil shivered. "And I thought it was cold on Mount Arkan," he said, rubbing his arms as he slid back into the trench.

"If Brains offers to make it snow at home this Christmas I'm going to tell him 'no thanks'," Gordon said. "I've seen enough snow to last a lifetime."

"Don't say that, I missed out last time," John complained. "I was on Thunderbird Five."

"If you've seen one snowflake you've seen them all, Johnny," Gordon told him. "It's my turn to start digging, isn't it?" He clambered up the tunnel and started to remove the snow from inside the cave, pushing the snow back down to the entrance with his feet. "You know..." he puffed lightly, "...we'll have this thing finished just as Scott gets here."

"We'll need it if he gets held up for any reason," Virgil reminded him as he scraped the snow from where it fell out of the tunnel.

"Yeah. Like he doesn't like the Mark II's colour scheme," Gordon teased.

Virgil ignored him...

There's 18 points up for grabs this time.

20 points are available in this chapter.

All Creatures

Alan was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by circuit boards and other bits of equipment. While not as imbued with ins and outs of communications technology as John, he could still find his way around an electronics layout and transpose the information to the real world. He traced his finger along the schematics of a circuit diagram and then carefully compared it with the changes he'd just made to one of Thunderbird Five's computer systems. "No bugs," he said to himself.

Satisfied that he'd completed his task correctly, he replaced the plate that hid the computer's workings and pushed the remainder of the tools and excess equipment to one side to be tidied later. Then he activated the radio. "Thunderbird Five, calling Mateo Island."

It was his father who heard the call. "Go ahead, Alan."

"I've made the adjustments Brains suggested and I'm ready to try."

His announcement caused his brother and friends to stop their work. Scott removed his paint mask and abseiled down from the Mark II's tail to where his father was working. He was just in time to hear the order. "Try it, Alan."

"Yes, Sir." Alan flipped a switch and spoke into the microphone. "Thunderbird Five, calling Thunderbird Two." He amplified the signal. "Thunderbird Five, calling Thunderbird Two!" he repeated. "Come in, John?" He waited. "Can you hear me, Virgil?" Still nothing. "Gordon! Are you receiving me?" He repeated his call again.

The silence hung heavy on the airwaves.

"Anything, Alan?" His father's voice, although quiet, sounded loud.

"Negative. Only static. Maybe they didn't have time to get their Arctic survival packs. And I guess the receivers in their masks must be too weak, huh?"

Scott looked at his father. None of the Tracy men dared voice a more ominous reason for the continuing silence. It was as if they were all frightened that if someone were to suggest the worst, then it might just be proven to be true.

"Try again, Alan," Jeff requested. He listened in silence as his youngest son tried, in vain, to raise their missing kin.

"Nothing!" Alan said in frustration. "Any other suggestions, Brains?"

Unseen, apart from Tin-Tin who was assisting him in the pilot's cabin of the Mark II, Brains shook his head. "N-No, Alan. Is there anything to suggest a-atmospheric interference?"

"I'm getting a good view of the Aurora Australis," Alan said as he looked southwards out of one of Thunderbird Five's view-ports. "The way it's dancing above the Pole makes me think there must be some pretty major sun-spot activity going on."

"That's p-probably the reason why Thunderbird Five's signal isn't getting th-through," Brains suggested, trying to be reassuring. "I'm sure the boys have evacuated Thunderbird Two and have b-built themselves a snow cave."

"Well, we won't know for sure until we get back up there," Scott stated, before he ascended back up to his work area on the Mark II's tail.

Jeff pushed his feelings of concern to the back of his mind, waved a pesky fly away, and resumed his painting.

The three Tracy men had completed their snow cave and were beginning to settle down inside. Deciding to keep the walls of their shelter a safe 45cm thick they'd discovered that it was too small to build elevated sleeping platforms for all three of them. Despite that, inside, away from the biting wind, and with each other's body heat to sustain them, they were beginning to feel relatively warm. Their packs plugged the entrance tunnel, helping to trap the warm air inside their shelter, and a five-centimetre hole in the roof allowed carbon dioxide to safely escape. They even felt warm enough to remove their masks and gloves.

"This is cosy," Gordon said, as he smoothed down the ceiling above his head. "Almost like a Scout camp. Now, if I only had my guitar..." he mimed playing the instrument and began singing. "Gin gan gooli gooli gooli wat-cha..."

His brothers groaned.

"I seem to remember tents having a little more room," John grunted. Being taller than his brothers he was finding the lack of legroom a major irritation. He shifted, trying to worm a little extra space from the vicinity of Virgil's feet and grimaced as his left leg grated up against something cold and hard. "Virgil! Will you move that thing?"

"Why'd you have to bring it in here, anyway?" Gordon added.

Virgil pulled Thunderbird Two's control yoke from underneath his and John's legs and tried to find somewhere else to store it. "I wasn't going to leave it outside. It might blow away!"

"And that would be a bad thing?" Gordon asked as he fended off John's elbow. "I suppose we should be grateful that you didn't try to bring the flight recorder in as well!"

Hoping to avoid becoming caught in the crossfire of an argument between his two brothers, John diverted Virgil's attention with a question. "What do you think caused Thunderbird Two to break up?"

Virgil's thought for a moment, concentration creasing his forehead. "I don't know. The only thing I can think of is that, because the thermostat wasn't working on the pod, the upper right quadrant suffered from thermal stresses during the nucleation of ice crystals."

"In English?" Gordon requested.

"He means that the water expanded as it froze," John explained.

"Yes. We already know... knew that was a weak area," Virgil continued on grimly, "which was one of the reasons why we were replacing Thunderbird Two. If the snow that had collected on the pod hadn't totally dissipated before we picked it up, and if the thermostat failed again, the water could have been in the process of re-freezing and expanded, weakening the side strut just as we slid into position. If that side strut broke while we were in flight, the fuselage wouldn't have been able to withstand the sudden change in force..."

"And the loss of the side strut would have caused the pod to drop first," John hypothesised.

"Yeah," Virgil agreed. "The sudden shift in weight would have brought unnatural strains on the rest of Thunderbird Two and the tail section would have broken away from the front section..." He reflected for a moment. "It's only a theory. We won't know for sure until Brains has the opportunity to check the flight recorder."

"And he can't do that until they've finished the Mark II." John looked at his watch. "Well, we've been stranded for nearly three hours. Only another four or so to go." He grimaced and shifted position again. "How come I'm underneath the ventilation hole?" he grumbled and looked upwards as he felt something drip onto his head.

"Because you're tallest and you were complaining about not having enough room to stretch out if you were on the side," Gordon reminded him. "Why don't we try top and tailing? Turn around, John, so your back is where your feet are."

"And have my back against the draughty tunnel? I don't think so. You turn around."

Gordon leant forward so he was able to see Virgil clearly. "I'm wedged in. How about you? If you can turn around then John can shift over slightly and then if need be I'll be able to turn... I think."

"I'll give it a go... Here, hold this," Virgil handed John his souvenir from Thunderbird Two, and, with a bit of a struggle, which included having to lean on his brothers, managed to turn round. He ended up with his back beside the entrance tunnel and his feet in the corner. "Is that better, John?"

John gave his brother the souvenir back and shuffled over so he was closer to Virgil's feet. He was now sitting at an angle across their shelter. "That's better," he breathed. "Thanks, Virg. Now I don't feel like my legs are screaming at me to let them get out and go for a walk."

On the Mark II's flight deck, Tin-Tin started when her watch beeped an alarm. She frowned as she silenced the alert, trying to remember what she'd set the reminder for. Realisation dawned and she slipped out of the cockpit so she could make a call without disturbing Brains. Then she activated the wristwatch's telecomm.

Her father's face replaced the watch dial. "How are things proceeding, my daughter?"

"Slowly, Father. We still have to paint the starboard wing and the tail, and it looks like rain."

"Then why have you called me?"

"I have a favour to ask of you."

Kyrano smiled in pleasure, eager to be of service. "How can I help you?"

"It's Alan's pygmy alligator. I promised him that I would try to feed it regularly."

"And the feeding is due now?" Kyrano asked, knowing full well what the answer was going to be. His smile disappeared.

Tin-Tin nodded. "Obviously, I can't do it at the moment... I'm sorry, I know how you feel about the animal, but would you mind feeding it... Just this once?" She favoured her father with her most beseeching expression.

Kyrano hesitated before answering. He had had dealings with the crocodilian before and the two didn't always see eye-to-eye... Teeth-to-finger was a better description of their relationship.

Tin-Tin continued talking, trying to ease any negative ideas in her father's mind. "I think it's due some ocean perch this time, so you won't have to deal with any live insects or frozen mice. You'll find the fish in the deep freeze next to the enclosure. You'll only need one. Allow it to defrost before you feed it to the alligator."

Kyrano nodded slowly.

"Don't forget to use the tongs this time," Tin-Tin reminded him. "Throw the fish towards the pool. It probably won't recognise you as a source of food..."

Kyrano doubted that. He rubbed his finger where the memories, in the shape of a series of small scars, remained.

"... So it shouldn't jump out of the water at you," Tin-Tin finished. "Please, Father. Will you do this for me?"

"For you, my daughter, I will do this. But please inform Mister Alan that I am not about to become the personal servant to his pet."

Tin-Tin laughed. "Thank you, Father. I appreciate this and so will Alan."

"Also," Kyrano continued on. "I should like to know one thing."

"Yes, Father?"

"Why could you not buy Mister Alan an animal that does not eat meat?"

Tin-Tin laughed again. "We'll talk about it later. I'd better get back to work."

"Tell Mr Tracy and Mister Scott that my thoughts are with them and their kin."

"I will, Father. Thank you..."

"Gordon!" John complained. "That's ridiculous!"

They'd decided to pass the time by thinking up, preferably plausible, rescue scenarios and coming up with suitable responses to each situation.

Gordon was getting bored, as evidenced by the fact that he was fidgety and that his scenarios were becoming more and more outlandish.

"How on earth could I end up hypnotised, stranded on an asteroid, with a damaged rocket?" Virgil asked reasonably. "That's almost as bad as your, 'what would you do if Scott had his mind taken over by aliens' scenario."

"Which in turn makes your, 'an eruption is set off by a Cobaltium 5 explosion which starts a volcanic rift the width of the Pacific Ocean, ending at Tracy Island', scenario sound almost plausible," John added.

"Until you added that 'Tracy Island was about to be destroyed by a World Navy commander who's been instructed to kick us off and use the island for explosives testing'," Virgil finished.

"Well, I had to give it some sense of drama," Gordon protested. "I thought it was a bit boring up to that point. A bit like your 'what would you do if you're clinging to a log that's floating down a flooded river.' No imagination."

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Give me strength," he muttered.

"You struggled with the 'earthquake traps a bore team building a monorail tunnel' scenario, Gordon," Virgil reminded him. "Perhaps you should be trying to concentrate on solutions to realistic problems, rather than thinking up crazy ones."

"I had other things on my mind," Gordon said huffily.

"Yeah. Like thinking up daft situations to tease us with," John scoffed.

"Didn't you like the 'Lady Penelope kidnapped by South American natives' scenario?"

"That!" Virgil stated with conviction, "has to be the most outrageous story of all!"

"Yes," John agreed. "There's no way she'd allow herself to be kidnapped, not unless it was part of her master plan... Will you keep still!"

"I can't," Gordon admitted and shifted position again. "It's this cold weather. I'm busting to..."

"Aw, no," John interrupted. "Not in here!"

"Let me out then. I won't be long."

"Can you climb over me?" John asked.

"No," Gordon admitted. "You're going to have to shift."

"Okay," John sighed. "I'll get out. Are you coming, Virgil? Safety in numbers..."

"Yes. I need to stretch my legs anyway. I'll go first?" Virgil removed their packs, rolled over and slid headfirst down the chute that was their link with the outside world. He stood in the trench, flexing his legs while his brothers followed him out.

"How cold is it?" Gordon asked as the snow began to fall again.

"Not too bad," Virgil admitted. "We're out of the wind down here."

"Well, go and get on with it," John instructed, "before we're hit with another blizzard. Only don't go too far away, we'll want to be able to find you again."

"Give me a leg up then," Gordon ordered and his brothers assisted him out of the trench. One second later he was back beside them.

John stared at him. "That was quick."

"It's too cold up there," Gordon shivered. "The wind's blowing straight off the North Pole. I vote that as soon as this snow stops we build an outhouse!"

"I'm going back inside," Virgil told him. "This time you can sit with your back to the entrance, Gordon, then you can get out in a hurry if you need to."

John was the last to re-enter. He followed Gordon up the entrance tunnel and found that Virgil clearing the ventilation hole in the roof. "Problems?"

"Not really. The snow had clogged it up slightly," Virgil explained as he settled back down with his back against the rear wall.

Gordon, resting against the front wall of the cave, looked at his brothers. "Why don't we try our wristwatch telecomms?" he suggested.

"But they won't work," John insisted.

"I know you said that. But what if they've boosted the receiving signal on Thunderbird Five?"

"They will have," John began. "But it won't be enough to reach us..."

"Sh," Gordon hissed.

"...Not with the Aurora Borealis..."

"Shhhh!" Gordon held up his hand to silence his brother.

"What?" Virgil asked.

"Quiet!" Gordon commanded. "Listen!"

His brothers listened. John and Virgil looked at each other and shrugged.

"Can't you hear something?" Gordon whispered. "It's coming from outside."

"Like what?" Virgil leant forward to try to hear the sounds better.

"It sounds like a kind of snuffling..."

"P-Parker!"

Parker's head snapped around when he heard the unfamiliar, yet unmistakable note of terror in her voice. "M'lady?"

"M-M-Mou..."

Lady Penelope was the most fearless person that Parker knew. She could stare down the gun held by a ruthless criminal without batting an elegantly made up eyelash. Disarming a live bomb was all in a day's work, to be followed by a refreshing cup of tea. She laughed in the face of danger. But Parker also knew that there was one thing that could cause a fearful reaction in his mistress. He looked at the floor.

There, beside Lady Penelope's foot, calmly washing its whiskers, was a mouse.

"Get rid of it, Parker!" she whispered.

"'Ow?" He hissed. "You're closer. Shoo it with yer foot."

"I can't move." Lady Penelope felt as if she were frozen to the chair. Her eyes were glued to the 'repulsive' creature which had switched its cleaning activities to its hindquarters. She was torn between an irresistible need to know exactly where the rodent was, and an equally irresistible desire to have it removed from her line of sight.

"'Ere!" Parker tried kicking out, but the mouse, blind to the movement, ignored him. Instead it switched its ablutions from one side of its body to the other. Lady Penelope let out a quiet shriek when its tail brushed against her foot.

The mouse stopped washing, looked about, decided that the unexpected sound was nothing to concern it, and began washing again.

Lady Penelope bit her lip to stop herself from screaming.

"Shoo!" Parker said, but to no avail. "Shoo!" he said again, this time louder.

The mouse licked down its belly.

"H-Okay, let's try somethin' you'll understand," said Parker to the mouse. "Meow."

The mouse stopped cleaning and looked up.

"Meow," Parker articulated again.

The mouse crouched, ready to flee. Its whiskers bristled, trying to sense the approaching feline menace.

"Mrreow," Parker said again. For extra emphasis he added a low growl and a sound approximating the hissing of a cat.

Deciding that its life was in mortal danger; the mouse scurried away to the safety of a crack in the wall.

When she was sure that it had gone, Lady Penelope let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Parker."

"H-It was nothin', M'Lady."

"I didn't realise that you spoke cat so fluently."

"Me Mam used to feed 'er Ladyship's cats... h-and all the neighbourhood strays," Parker explained with a touch of pride. "H-I used to 'elp 'er. It got so that I could call 'em and they'd come runnin'."

"Well, I'm glad that you sent that rodent running. Oh, my heart. I can feel it hammering."

"Take a few deep breaths," Parker advised. "You'll soon calm down. A little furry fing like that won't 'urtcha..."

"I can hear something!" Gordon reiterated. "There's something outside!"

"It can't be Scott," John was looking at his watch again. "It's too soon."

Suddenly, the middle pack of their makeshift door disappeared down the tunnel.

"What the...!" Virgil exclaimed as his pack followed its twin.

Gordon grabbed the remaining pack and thrust it down by his feet, drawing himself away from the entrance hole as he did so.

John pulled his legs up tight against his body as he stared down the tunnel. "Is that what I think it is?"

The light at the end of their entrance tunnel was obliterated. A long, white, furry paw, topped with what appeared to be meat hooks, reached inside their sanctuary.

There were three yelps of "Polar Bear!" and the Tracys backed as far away from the entrance as was possible in their confined quarters, Gordon using the sole remaining pack as a shield.

The paw probed further. Its murderous claws raked along John's boot and he suddenly discovered that he was wrong in believing that he was unable to fit himself into a smaller area. He pulled his legs in closer to his body.

The paw scratched at the snow inside the door where Gordon had been resting only seconds before. Pulling part of the interior wall back down into the tunnel, it withdrew.

As the three brothers looked at each other, unsure as to whether it was safe to breathe again, Gordon removed and extended a shovel that was strapped to the pack he was holding and held it at the ready.

Their respite was only temporary, as the bear had decided that a change in the angle of attack was in order. Another paw snaked inside and clawed at the wall, inches away from Virgil's booted legs. It snagged Virgil's souvenir, but it slipped out of the bear's claws giving him the opportunity to rescue it before it followed the two packs down the tunnel.

"What do we do?" Gordon hissed; his eyes round as saucers.

"Don't move!" John ordered from the corner of his mouth. "Don't hit it with the shovel unless absolutely necessary; we don't want to make it angry. And don't make a noise!"

The bear scrabbled about with its paw again, scarring the surface of the snow, before deciding that whatever was inside this hollow was out of reach.

Virgil felt in his pocket. He was relieved to find that a pencil-sized laser, the one he'd used to release the control yoke from Thunderbird Two, was still there. He doubted that it would be strong enough to penetrate the animal's coat, but maybe it could singe a pad, or temporarily blind the beast... if he found himself within beam range, which wasn't an appealing proposition. He clutched the tool tightly, and prayed that he wouldn't have to get that close to an angry bear.

From his position in the centre of the trio, John could see clearly down the tunnel. He discovered that he had an eye to eye view of the bear as it strained to push its head up towards its prize. Fortunately for the brothers, the animal's torso was wider than the hole, but still John could see sharp, yellow teeth and black, piercing eyes. There was a strong odour of fish before the bear withdrew its head from the chute.

"What if it's got a cub and it sends it in to get us?" Gordon asked.

They could hear a tearing sound. The polar bear was ripping open the two packs it had claimed and was trying to find something edible.

"What'll happen if it tries to climb on the roof?" Virgil whispered. "Do you think the cave will hold?"

"Possibly," John replied in a soft voice. "I hope we don't have to find out."

But it seemed that the bear had heard them. Virgil became alarmed to hear something brushing up against the exterior wall beside him. Then he heard a soft thump as the bear reared up and placed its front paws on the cave, followed by a soft creaking from the snow and ice. He shifted so that he was crouched beside Gordon and as far away from the bear as he could get.

John looked up. The polar bear was sniffing around the ventilation hole. It licked at the ice and a drop of saliva fell down the shaft and onto the snow at his feet. He saw the claws again as the animal dug at the ventilation hole briefly and without conviction before dropping back to the ground.

The brothers looked at each other wide-eyed, wondering if and where the next attack was coming from. They heard part of the trench collapse as the bear climbed into it again and Virgil decided that he'd be safer in his original position. As he scurried back, the paw re-entered their cave and made a grab for him. It missed his boots, instead managing to hook one of John's. With a yell he was pulled off balance.

"John!" There was immediate chaos as his brothers sprang to his aid. While John frantically tried to hang on to something to prevent himself from being dragged outside, Virgil grabbed him about the chest and pulled back, digging his heels into the well-compacted snow of the cave's floor. Gordon lifted the shovel as high as he could in the confines of the cave and brought it down on the paw. There was no sound from the bear, but it let go of John and retracted its paw back down the tunnel to give it a bemused lick.

Virgil took advantage of the animal's preoccupation and dragged John away from the chute. His feet slipped out from under him and he ended up sitting on the floor with John partially on top of him. The elder Tracy rolled off his brother, and pulled himself away from the door, allowing Virgil to roll the other way, onto the control yoke. He pulled it out from underneath him and backed into his corner again.

"Gimme that!" Gordon demanded and reached across John, grabbing the piece of Thunderbird Two from Virgil's hands.

"What...!" Virgil exclaimed and watched as Gordon shoved the control yoke into the tunnel, using the column of the unit to keep his hands as far away from the bear as possible. They all drew back when they saw the paw make another assault on the cave.

The yoke was slightly wider than the tunnel, and the bear's claws caught on it, pulling it down towards the entrance. It jammed. The bear tried pulling again, first with one paw and then with the other, but was unable to shift the obstacle. It dug briefly at the entrance to the snow cave, stared back up at John through the spokes of the steering unit, and then gave up on its quest and moved away.

The Tracy men waited a full five minutes, hardly daring to breathe, before they began to relax. "Are you okay, John?" Virgil eventually asked.

"Yeah." John massaged his ankle. "Probably got a few bruises that's all. Teddy must have wanted to shake hands with me."

There was a moment's silence as the ridiculousness of what he'd said sank in. Then, as one, they burst out laughing.

Gordon wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. "I'm telling you guys now, I'm not leaving here until I know that Scott is standing by the door with at least one laser gun primed and ready."

John cautiously looked down the tunnel. "What do we do about the packs?"

"You could go and get them," Gordon suggested.

"I don't think so," John said darkly.

"Why not, John?" Virgil asked. "You're the one who wanted to risk your neck more."

"Though I think you've overdone it a bit this time." Gordon started ticking a list off his fingers. "You get Virgil to crash Thunderbird Two into the North Pole, then get blown up and nearly sliced in two by Thunderbird Two, then you get caught by a blizzard..."

"Two blizzards," Virgil amended.

"...Then you get caught by two blizzards, then you decide to take on a polar bear single handed. And you say you're not getting enough action!" Gordon shook his head in mock exasperation. "I don't know, Brother. You're a glutton for punishment."

"That wasn't exactly what I meant," John said. "I think I've had my quota of excitement for the day... Make that the year! I'll be glad to get back to Thunderbird Five. If nothing else I'll be warm!" He looked at his watch. "I wonder if I can get a message through to Alan."

"You said the signal wouldn't be strong enough," Virgil reminded him.

"True. But if I can cobble together our watches and whatever's still working on the radio in Gordon's pack, maybe then we'll have a strong enough signal to get through to Thunderbird Five."

Gordon started unstrapping his watch from his wrist. "Here. Do what you want with it."

"Better check that it's still operational," John turned his watch on. "Calling..." There was a loud screech of feedback and he hurriedly switched it off. "Well, that's still working."

Virgil rubbed his ear and handed his watch to his brother. "Can you find a less painful way of testing it?"

Scott stood, stretched, braced himself against the winds that were growing stronger, and squinted into the darkness, shielding his eyes against the glare of the powerful lights that bathed the Mark II. Earlier in the day he'd been briefly entertained as seagulls had taken cover on the nearby cliff face. Cursing one another as they crammed themselves into nooks and crannies, the birds had done their best to try to find shelter from the wrath of the cyclone. He had to admit that he was slightly jealous of their flying abilities as, despite being buffeted about, they had each landed with precision on their roosts.

"Scott!"

He looked over the edge of the Mark II's tail, down into the shadows, to where his father was standing on a ladder. He noticed that most of the scaffolding had been removed. "Have you finished?"

"Pretty much," Jeff yelled up, and then took a step up closer to his son. "I don't like the way the atmosphere feels. I think we'll be getting rain soon."

"I agree. It could be pouring down before the paint's had a chance to dry. We should get her under cover. I haven't got much more to do and I'll be wasting time if I get down to move the Mark II. Do you want to do the honours?"

"Will you be all right up there?" Jeff asked warily.

"Yes," Scott affirmed. "I'm tied on securely."

"Well, make sure you're sitting down throughout the manoeuvre," Jeff instructed.

Scott grinned. "This is me you're talking to, not Alan. I won't do anything stupid."

"You can be just as reckless as your brothers sometimes," Jeff reminded him. "Especially when their health is at risk." He started descending the ladder.

Scott double-checked that his safety harness was well secured and sat on the tail, his legs hanging over the side. He looked down on the Mark II. From this vantage point he could almost believe that he was astride the tail of a giant, grey whale. Then the powerful lights at the edge of the runway blanked out, and sank down into the ground.

Slowly Scott's eyes adjusted to the darkness of the night. As he looked past the megalithic body of the 'plane he fancied he could see the threatening clouds racing across the sky. Then he felt a tremor run through the mighty plane as her taxiing engines came to life and the ghostly palm trees lining the runway began to move. He briefly enjoyed the sensation of watching the world around him slide by, before the hangar's entrance loomed over him and he was inside. It was like entering the gateway to a different world. Compared to the external gloom, the interior lighting appeared to be unnaturally bright.

There was a slight bump as the Mark II came to a halt and the plane fell silent. Scott stood and began his final few passes with the paint gun. He felt the temperature drop sharply and he turned in time to see the heavens open and the cyclonic rains descend to the earth.

The hangar door was closed.

"Just in time," he shouted down to Jeff.

A moth circled the solitary light bulb in their prison. Parker watched it; its hypnotic dance numbing his mind to the discomfort he was in...

"Parker!"

He shook his head to clear it. "Yes, M'lady."

"I feel we have been sitting here long enough."

Parker couldn't agree more. "Yes, M'lady," he said with feeling.

"I have been doing a stock take of our situation."

"Indeed, M'lady."

"And I have come to the conclusion that, as they say, every cloud has a silver lining."

Parker looked at his mistress in interest. "H-And that would be?"

"That would be that I have not been doomed to spend 24 hours with Mr Chip Harrison."

"You didn't like 'im?"

"I don't trust him," Lady Penelope admitted.

Parker stared at her. "You mean you think 'e's tied up with this 'Ood geezer?"

"Oh, no. Nothing so nefarious. I mean that I've known Becky Hampton for years and, wonderful girl she may be, she has a simply appalling taste in men. They have a tendency to use her and leave her and this Chip Harrison has all the hallmarks of being no different."

"Indeed, M'lady."

"I only hope that she isn't going to be hurt, yet again."

"From what I 'eard it sounded as though 'e was on a sticky wicket 'imself."

"Her recitation about the men of International Rescue?" Lady Penelope laughed. "Oh, if Becky only knew, Parker. It is shameful of me, but it was all I could do not to laugh."

"H-I found it difficult keepin' a straight face meself. Which one of 'em do you think she'd go for?"

"Oh, any of them. It's the image of the man that she's focused on at the moment. Not the personality."

Parker winked and lowered his voice. "So you think H-I might 'ave 'ad a chance?"

"Unfortunately, my dear fellow, Becky would only ever see you as a servant. She will never know your true talents."

"Just as well," Parker noted. "H-I don't fancy livin' in 'Ollywood."

Lady Penelope laughed again. "Sadly the poor girl is deeply insecure. That's why she's had all that plastic surgery. She won't find someone she's comfortable with, until she's comfortable with herself." Lady Penelope sighed. "I wish I could do more to help her, but I suppose we should be thinking about helping ourselves. Can you move your chair?"

"H-I think so."

"Good. We must move fast. See if you can twist around so your back is to me and I'll try to cut you loose with my shoes. It was nice of our friend to leave me some of my toys."

With much scraping of the floor they endeavoured to turn their heavy chairs, Lady Penelope almost overbalancing. She let out a quiet sigh of relief when she managed to remain upright.

"Are you h-okay, M'lady?"

"Perfectly, Parker. I have no intentions of knocking my chair over this time. This floor looks much harder than the one in that boathouse."

At last they were in position. "Are you ready, Parker?" Lady Penelope asked, as she used the toe of one shoe to push a sequence of the diamantes that decorated the other.

Parker braced himself by pulling his arms as far apart as the handcuffs would let him, while at the same time holding them away from his body. "Ready, M'lady."

"I shall try not to burn you..." Lady Penelope raised one slender leg and pressed the right side of her right shoe against Parker's shackles. A small laser burst into life and started to burn through the metal of the chain that held his right arm to the chair.

Parker flinched.

"Am I hurting you?" Lady Penelope asked in concern.

"The metal's gettin' a bit 'ot," he admitted.

"Sorry..." Lady Penelope concentrated on her task. "Nearly there..."

Parker's hand flew free and Lady Penelope lowered her leg. "That's better," he grunted. "Lemme have your other shoe and I'll free one of your arms."

"Thank you, Parker. That would be most kind of you." Lady Penelope extended her other leg and Parker delicately removed her second shoe, before standing and, dragging his chair behind him, moved into position so that he could use the laser in the sandal to shear through the chain that held Lady Penelope's right arm fast.

When one of her hands was free, Parker handed the laser to her. "Would you mind carryin' on yerself, while I free me other 'and?"

Lady Penelope took the shoe. "Of course, Parker. We must make haste. Our friend may return at any moment, and I fear that any pleas that he release us because we are British, would fall on deaf ears."

"Indeed, M'lady."

"This is no good," John grunted and wiped a layer of moisture off the face of the watch he was holding. He reached beneath his polar jacket and unrolled the neck of his uniform's top so that it was covering his nose and mouth. He then returned his attention to the watch.

His brothers watched him in interest. "Who is this masked man?" Gordon asked.

"I'm trying to keep my breath off the electrical components," John explained, his concentration elsewhere, as he prised the back off the watch. "The condensation will play havoc with the electronics... Especially... if it... starts to... ice up." He gently teased a tiny wire from the watch's interior with a pair of tweezers he'd found in the first aid kit.

They were utilising what little they had available. The back of their sole surviving pack had become a makeshift table, wiring was being held together with foil from energy bars and tape from the first aid kit. John's tools were the tweezers, a needle off a hypodermic syringe and a small knife. He carefully tried to connect the wire from the watch with another that had been part of Gordon's radio. He managed to hold the two of them together with the tweezers and then, using fingers that were numb with cold, tried to wrap a tiny bit of foil around them. "Hold the tweezers, Gordon."

Gordon followed his brother's lead and pulled the neck of his uniform up over his own face. He then carefully took the implement from John and tried to hold it still so that he didn't disrupt John's delicate work. John tried to seal the two wires together with some foil, but only succeeded in nudging Gordon's tweezers and dislodging their tenuous connection. He uttered a mild curse. "This is hopeless!"

"Would it be easier if you had another set of tweezers?" Virgil asked.

"Yep," John sighed, and then stared at his brother. "What are you doing?"

Virgil had picked up the shovel and was tying a piece of survival blanket, flag like, to one end. "I'm going to get the other packs."

"But what about the polar bear?" Gordon asked.

"I don't think it'll be hanging round waiting for us to become an easy meal," Virgil said, as he cut the end off a piece of string that held one corner of the 'flag' in place. "But just in case it is, I want to have plenty warning before I stick my head out that door." He waved his flag. "Hopefully it'll go for this before I get outside." He pulled at the steering column of the control yoke, which was still forming a gate against the outside world. "It's frozen in place. I can't move it!"

"Maybe it's trying to tell you something, Virg," John said. "Like don't go out."

Virgil looked at him. "Can you complete the radio without the other packs?"

"Well... No. But then there's no guarantee that I can with them."

"So our options are that we either sit here and do nothing and hope that Scott's arriving back about when we're expecting him, or I go out there and get the packs and you try to fix the radio."

"Yes," John agreed with obvious reluctance.

"Well, I'm voting that we at least try something," Virgil said and starting using his pencil laser to melt the ice around the control yoke. "What if there's a hold up for any reason? What if that bear comes back and tries to do more than 'shake paws' with you? We might need to tell Scott to forget about the Mark II and get back here in Thunderbird One in a hurry."

"What worries me is that it's not me that it's likely to be 'shaking paws' with," John said with real concern. "You're the one going out into its domain."

"Don't worry, John. I'll be fine." Virgil was halfway through his task of opening up the entrance tunnel.

Gordon pulled his shirt down from off his face and exchanged a worried look with John.

Virgil finished one complete circuit of the control yoke and pulled at the steering column. The yoke moved slightly and then stuck. "The snow's freezing again almost as soon as I melt it," he complained as he got the remains of the survival blanket, threaded it through the spokes of the yoke and handed the two ends of the blanket to Gordon. "Pull on that while I cut again," he instructed.

Gordon did as he was told, initially keeping a constant pressure on the blanket and then tugging more forcefully as the yoke came free. When Virgil had finished cutting around the circumference of the unit, he grabbed the column and pulled again. The control yoke popped free and both men fell backwards.

Virgil sat up and examined his souvenir of Thunderbird Two. "It's damaged," he said sadly. "I've burnt it and the bear's scratched it."

"Never mind, Virgil," John said. "That control yoke's saved our lives more than once today. Just think of them as battle scars."

"Yes, something extra to remember today by," Gordon added. He pulled on his fur-lined mittens.

"I guess," Virgil placed the steering unit to one side and picked up the shovel. He took a deep breath. "Wish me luck."

"Hang on, Virgil!" Gordon crawled forward. "I'm coming with you."

"You don't need to do that. I won't leave the trench."

"I'm still going to watch your back. You haven't got eyes in the back of your head!" Gordon stared defiantly at his older brother.

"Okay," Virgil said gratefully. "Thanks... See you soon, John." He turned back to the tunnel. "Here we go." His flag leading the way, he slid down the tunnel. For a short time only his feet remained inside the cave. "Can't see or hear it," he eventually said, his voice muffled by the snow. "I'm going out," and his feet disappeared.

Gordon quickly followed him...

"'Ow's it goin', M'lady?"

"Nearly through, Parker. How are you, ah, going?"

"Slowly," Parker growled. "Me laser's losin' power."

"I probably used more than I should have when I released you," Lady Penelope admitted. "There!" her laser broke through her left chain and she straightened up, examining the shackles that still encircled her arms. "These bracelets are not exactly haute couture. Francois would not approve." She handed her laser shoe to the chauffeur. "Try my other shoe. There may be more power in it."

"Thank you, M'lady." Parker discarded the right shoe and set to work with the left. "Much bet'er."

"Good. While you're finishing that task, I'll have a wander round and see if I can find anything of use."

"Very good, M'lady." Parker returned his attention to burning through the chain that still bound him to the steel chair.

Lady Penelope prowled around the room, slowly examining everything in the hope that she might find something that would assist them to escape. She bypassed an out-of-date pictorial calendar decorated with animals gambolling in a forest, and turned her attention to a cabinet against the wall.

Parker concentrated on his chore.

He hadn't achieved his goal when the door to their prison slid open. Lady Penelope turned in time to see the Hood fill the doorway, a frightening expression of complete anger on his face. "So! You think you can escape, My Lady?" he snarled.

Parker froze, still trapped by the merest slither of metal in the chain that tied his left hand to his chair.

"I do appreciate your hospitality," Lady Penelope lied. "But I do not wish to overstay my welcome."

"It is time for you to leave, My Lady," the Hood agreed. "But you will be leaving without your slave. I will demean myself and play his role until I have gained access to the base of International Rescue." Parker watched as a gun was raised in his direction and tried not to show any fear as he surreptitiously tugged at the chain. "You will be put to death, as any mangy dog should be. Be grateful that I am showing you pity and will make your death mercifully swift, for I would take great pleasure in seeing you suffer." The Hood readied the gun for firing. "It is right that you are on your knees. You should be begging for your life."

And Parker waited for what he knew must happen next...

Have you remembered to keep track of all the references? 69 points are available from these first four chapters.

Are you still trying to find the references? There are some very obscure ones included in this chapter, plus some bonuses...

Escape?

Scott Tracy paced the maintenance room, the boots of his International Rescue uniform squeaking slightly on the concrete floor. "How long does it take for paint to dry?" he demanded of no one in particular.

"Settle down, Scott. We can't rush these things," Jeff admonished him gently. He watched his eldest son pace back and forth some more. "Calm down and have something to eat. You've been on the go for at least the last six hours. And you'd put in a full day on the Mark II before we got the call out. If you're going to fly us all back to the North Pole I want you fresh!"

"I'm all right," Scott grumbled.

"Scott," Jeff leant forward and held out a chocolate bar. "Have a break. I know you're worried about them, but you won't make the paint dry any faster by stressing. Now sit down and relax."

Reluctantly Scott half obeyed the order by taking the snack and sitting down, but he still wasn't able to relax. He crossed one leg over the other knee, and then reversed position. He uncrossed his legs, and folded his arms. Then he uncrossed his arms and folded his legs. He unwrapped the sweet and bit into it without enthusiasm.

As he watched his son fidget, Jeff shook his head ruefully. "I hate to think what you'd be like if you had sisters."

Tin-Tin gave a soft laugh at the mental image. "I think I've got some idea," she admitted before turning to the agitated man at her side. "They'll be okay, Scott," she reiterated for what seemed to have been the hundredth time that day.

Scott was on his feet again. "How can you just sit there, Father? I can't think of anything worse than... than..."

"Watching paint dry?" Jeff teased.

"I don't know how you can be so calm! It's been nearly five hours since we heard from them!"

"I've had plenty of practise," Jeff informed him. "I've had five years of worrying about you boys while you've been out on rescues, not to mention the years before that as you were all growing up. And I've come to realise that there's no point in worrying, until you have a reason to worry."

"You've got three sons trapped at the North Pole, you've had no communications from them for five hours and you think you don't need to worry?" Scott shook his head in bemusement.

Brains walked from the hangar into the maintenance room. "I-I think the paint will be dry by the time we've..."

Jeff Tracy was out of his seat and through the door, Brains following him. "M-Mr Tracy..."

Before Scott had a chance to follow them both, Tin-Tin stood and took his arm, holding him back. "See! Your father does worry. He worries about you all. You don't see it because you're always out on rescue and you're one of the ones he's worrying about. But I do see it. I know when he's worried." She gave the blue uniformed arm a comforting squeeze. "He's just as worried as you are, Scott. But he's had more practise at hiding it than you."

"He does a good job of it," Scott conceded.

"They'll be all right," Tin-Tin insisted again as they began walking out of the maintenance room and into the Mark II's hangar. "You know they're not quitters... John, Virgil and Gordon won't give up at any cost. You know that."

"I know," he admitted.

"They'll be looking after each other."

"I know."

"They have the skills to survive."

"I know," Scott repeated.

"Then keep positive." Tin-Tin released his arm and stood back so he could enter the Mark II.

"Ladies first," he gestured.

"Gladly," Tin-Tin stepped inside. "I'm sick of the smell of paint."

Parker stared down the gun that was about to take his life.

As Lady Penelope tore a bead from her pale pink blouse, she gave silent thanks that she had chosen this day to wear this particular garment. As usual, the fates had been smiling on her.

There was a soft popping sound as the bead hit the Hood on his broad chest and exploded. Pungent, green fumes rose and smothered his face. Choking, his eyes and nose streaming, he staggered backwards. His finger, already tensed around the trigger, contracted involuntarily and the resulting bullet tore across the face of a leggy animal gambolling on the calendar.

Parker redirected his attention to the laser shoe in his hand and resumed attacking the final link that still bound him to the chair.

Lady Penelope took the opportunity to step between her butler and their assailant, forming a human shield.

The Hood shook his head, trying to clear his vision. His turned his bloodshot eyes back to face the two prisoners. "You can not escape that easily," he snarled, blinking against the enduring stinging pain. "No more games. Your slave will die... Now!"

"No," Lady Penelope said quietly. "I will not let you."

"You are of use to me or I would take your life too. But him..." the Hood gestured with the gun as he wiped his eyes with the back of his other hand. "He is of no use. Move aside!"

"No," Lady Penelope repeated. "I will not let you kill, Parker. Not without killing me first."

"So!" the Hood sneered through his tears. "There is some loyalty in the privileged classes towards their slaves... But it is misguided loyalty... I said get out of my way!" He stepped forward, intending to push Lady Penelope to one side.

It was the opening Lady Penelope had been waiting for. Already prepared for such a move, she kicked out, catching the Hood squarely between the legs.

He let out an unholy screech of pain.

Equal to the occasion, Parker picked his metal chair up and brought it down on the back of his would be assassin, who collapsed, unmoving, onto the floor. The force of the blow was enough to sever the final obstinate link in Parker's chain. "Thank 'eavens for that," he said, examining his freed wrist.

Lady Penelope looked down on their assailant. "I dread to think what Mother would think if she knew that I had to attack a man in such a way. She would be spinning in her grave."

"If your mother knows wot you've bin up to since she passed away, M'lady, she must 'ave spun a 'ole all the way to China," Parker grinned.

Lady Penelope replaced her shoes on her feet. "I would have thought that your most efficient, er, clobbering act would have knocked our friend out for some time, Parker. But knowing this particular gentleman I believe that there is every chance that he will regain consciousness before we manage to find our way out of here. We must make haste."

"Indeed, M'lady." Parker strode to the door and looked through. "All clear." He stood to one side. "After you, M'lady."

"Thank you, Parker."

"No," he said, with feeling. "Thank you, My Lady."

"We'll be leaving in a moment, Mother."

Mrs Tracy looked relieved. "At last!" She looked at her watch. "It's been five hours since we heard anything."

"Don't I know it," Jeff growled as he looked at her image in the telelink. "Keep your chin up. They'll be fine."

"I'm sure they will be," Grandma said with determination. "They're from good solid stock! Now, Jeff, before you head north I want you to stop off at home. I've packed some food hampers to take with you."

Jeff shook his head as Tin-Tin and Scott entered the flight deck. "Thanks, but we'd better head straight for the Pole."

"But they won't have had anything to eat for the last five hours! They'll be starving!"

"If they've got access to a survival kit they'll have their energy bars, and we've got some food on board the Mark II..." Jeff glanced over at Scott who'd slid into the pilot's seat. "I'll talk to you later, Mother."

"Be careful... All of you. And give those three my love."

"It won't be long and you'll be able to do that yourself. They'll be hanging out for something freshly baked from your kitchen." Jeff braced himself as the Mark II started rolling out of her hangar and into the pelting rain.

"Let me know when you're leaving the North Pole and I'll make sure it's ready to eat as soon as they walk into the house."

"F-A-B, Mother. We'll be in contact as soon as we hear anything." Jeff shut down the link and retreated to a seat beside Brains before strapping himself in.

"Thunderbir... Mark II to Thunderbird Five," Scott said into the microphone.

"Thunderbird Five," Alan replied. "How's it going?"

"We're about to take off," Scott told him. "Can you confirm we've got the all clear?"

"There's nothing near you except that dirty great storm cell. If any other planes are flying in that weather their pilots must be suicidal."

"Or desperate," Scott added. "We know the Mark II's handled well on short trips in fine weather, we're about to see how she goes flying to the other side of the globe in some of the worst Mother Nature can throw at her. Lifting off now."

Mateo Island wasn't equipped with the launch pad that characterised Tracy Island's runway, so Scott had no option but to take off vertically. As he fired up the VTOL jets, and the rains obscured the view through the windscreen, there was no visual evidence that the great 'plane was leaving the Earth's surface. Apart from a slight juddering sensation as the jets forced themselves against the tarmac of the runway, the Mark II's passengers had no knowledge of the exact moment when the aeroplane left the ground. To Scott it was eerily like the white out conditions he'd experienced at the North Pole.

The Mark II powered away from Mateo Island.

Lady Penelope and Parker ran through the complex, trying to retrace their steps to the Rolls Royce. They stopped short when they came up against a steel door.

"How tiresome," Lady Penelope pushed at the door. "It appears to be locked."

Parker was examining the lock. "Piece a cake," he said. "It'll be h-even h-easier than the Bank of H-England. H-And that was a doddle."

"Lord Silton would not be pleased to hear you say that, Parker," Lady Penelope admonished him.

"Well, 'e asked me for me professional h-opinion and I gave it to 'im," Parker said with dignity. "H-I can't 'elp it if 'e didn't like h-it. Now, H-I just need a bit of wire. You wouldn't 'appen to 'ave a 'airpin, would you?"

"I'm afraid I can't oblige you," Lady Penelope admitted. "He took anything that he thought could be used as a weapon." She placed an unruly curl behind her ear. "I must look a fright!"

"Doesn't mat'er," Parker had spied a solitary desk lamp on a table in an adjourning room. He unplugged it and carried it into the still lighted hallway so he could see what he was doing. Then, pulling his sleeve down over his hand for protection, he gingerly unscrewed the bulb. "'Ot, 'ot, 'ot!" he exclaimed as he juggled it between his hands.

While her butler was preoccupied with the task of releasing them from their prison, Lady Penelope spent her time examining the fixtures of the adjacent rooms. She opened a cupboard. "This is indeed our lucky day, Parker," she noted as she removed his uniform cap and jacket.

"Even bet'er," he said, examining his clothing thoroughly as he looked for some of the tools of his former, illicit trade. He found nothing. "'E's taken me kit."

"Never mind, Parker. I'm sure that whatever you have planned will work just as well."

Parker picked up the now cooled light bulb. "Mind your eyes," he instructed and broke the globe on the edge of a table. Lady Penelope continued searching as he carefully removed the filament from the shattered light bulb. "There ya are," he said with satisfaction. "One bit o' wire. We'll be out of 'ere in no time."

"Wonderful, Parker," Lady Penelope said as the lock snicked open. "I should hate to be late for Jeff's party." She reached into the drawer that she'd opened and pulled out a small satchel. "Is this what you were looking for?"

"That's it," Parker confirmed and shoved his wallet into his pocket. "That's bet'er. I felt quite naked without me tackle."

"And I without my trinkets," Lady Penelope agreed as she removed the remaining contents of the drawer.

Beyond the door FAB1 was waiting for them in all her glory. They hurried over to the car and Parker gave it a quick once over. "'E's tried to h-open h-it," he said in disgust. "'E's scratched it."

"Never mind, Parker. It's nothing that a quick touch up with some paint and a polish won't fix."

Muttering to himself about, "no respect for 'onest folk's things," Parker assisted her ladyship into the Rolls Royce. He then reclaimed his seat in the front of the car.

Ahead of them was a solid steel and rock wall. "H-I trust you don't mind the use of h-a little firepower, M'lady," Parker asked.

"Not at all, Parker. Please proceed."

"Very good, M'lady."

The slats on the radiator grill rotated open. The barrel of a gun was extended. A sniper sight rangefinder rose up out of the dashboard. Parker lined the cross hairs up with a point low down on the door...

There was an explosion and rock and steel rained down on the glass steel canopy of the car as FAB1 sedately drove forward.

"Well done, Parker."

"Thank you, M'lady."

They were barely 100 metres away when a series of subsidiary explosions started detonating in the complex behind them. "Our friend must have stored some flammable goods in there," Lady Penelope said calmly. "Most careless of him. He should have known better."

"Yes, M'lady. H-I quite agree. Very careless. Someone could get 'urt."

They drove at speed across the desert until they had reached the road, where Parker spun the Rolls Royce on to the highway heading back for Los Angeles. The resulting shower of gravel startled a snake and it slithered out from under a bush, away from the perceived danger, its winding sideways movement leaving a pattern of parallel J-shaped markings in the sand...

"Thunderbird Five calling International Rescue – North Pole," Alan tried again. He'd said those words so many times over the last five hours that he was hoarse. He took a sip of water and turned his attention to the blip on the scanner that marked the rescue aeroplane's progress through the cyclone. He changed frequency. "How's it going, Scott?"

Scott's face was grim. "We're airborne, but we're not making much headway. My scanners say we've got to climb to 7,000 metres to get above the storm. Can you confirm?"

"Affirmative," Alan agreed. "Looks like your weather computer's right as usual, Brains."

Scott adjusted the trim as the aeroplane was buffeted by the strong winds. "This is nearly as bad as it was at the Pole. I hope the fellas haven't had to put up with weather like this for the last six hours!"

There was a bang and the Mark II lost altitude briefly. Scott fought the controls, using all his considerable skill to bring the great 'plane back under control.

"Lightning strike?" he heard his father's voice behind him.

"Yep."

"A-Any d-damage?" Brains stuttered.

"Nope." Scott decided to concentrate on gaining altitude rather than continue their northbound flight. "Don't worry, Brains. Thunderbird Two could handle weather like this, and you've made this baby even stronger. We'll be all right..."

A streak of lightning flashed past the window...

John manipulated one pair of tweezers. Gordon had another pair in his hand and was keeping two wires crimped together. On John's other side, Virgil mirrored his brother in steadiness and concentration.

"Near-ly... got... it... There!" John straightened and rubbed his eyes. "You can let go, thanks, Fellas."

Carefully, so as to not undo all of John's hard work, Gordon and Virgil released their tweezers from the mess of wires and electronics that they hoped was going to be functional radio.

"Will it work?" Virgil asked as he shifted position and tried to uncramp his legs.

"Do you want me to be honest or optimistic?" John looked at his brother.

"Optimistic," Gordon requested.

"In that case. It'll work a treat."

"Honestly?" Virgil asked.

"Honestly? I don't think we've got a show in Hades. You may have salvaged my radio from what's left of my pack, but I don't know what was damaged by the bear or that bit of metal. I don't know what it was in Gordon's radio that was causing it to malfunction. And I don't think our combined watches have the necessary receptive power to transmit any further than Pod Four, even assuming that both radio batteries are still operational. That's without the concerns of the cold and ice that's got into everything."

"I think I preferred the answer you gave me," Gordon said. "You may as well try it anyway."

"At least putting it together killed about an hour," Virgil said. "They must be close to having the Mark II completed by now."

John touched two wires together. Optimistically an LED light came on and the 'radio' emitted a low hum.

"Well, we've got some power," Gordon commented.

"But is it enough?" Virgil watched his older brother attempted to initiate contact.

"North Pole to International Rescue," John said. "Come in, Alan... This is John calling Alan. Can you hear me, Alan...?"

Alan Tracy sat in the control seat of Thunderbird Five and rubbed his eyes. On a normal day he would have been following his normal sleeping patterns and would have been in bed by now. He looked at the computer console's chronograph. This was not a normal day and he had no intention of going to sleep. Not while three brothers were in danger, or worse, and the rest of his family were attempting to reach them by flying an untested aeroplane through a cyclone.

He leant on Thunderbird Five's viewport and watched the Aurora Australis dance over the southernmost pole. It was an awe-inspiring sight at the best of times, and today it was especially spectacular, probably because the Pole was cloaked in winter darkness. As he watched he couldn't help thinking about his three brothers, trapped at the North Pole and unable to communicate because of the twin of this dazzling phenomenon.

He turned his back on it when he thought he heard a welcome sound through the chatter of radio noise. He practically ran back to the communications computer and placed his ear near the speaker, straining to hear something familiar. After several minutes he gave up trying to listen to the real time transmissions and instead rewound the recording of the last ten minutes, placed headphones over his head, and sat back to try to identify what it was that he'd heard before.

After three passes of the recording he came to the conclusion that what he'd heard was only in his imagination. He was tired and desperate to hear something that would reassure him that the Mark II wasn't on its way to find something that he didn't even want to consider.

He opened the teleradio link with base. "Hi, Grandma."

"Hello, Alan, darling. Do you have news?"

"No. I needed to hear a friendly voice. I'm going stir crazy up here waiting to hear something."

"I understand. We're each trapped on an island of sorts at the moment."

Alan managed to grin at his Grandmother. "At least you've got Kyrano to keep you company. I've got the whole planet to listen to, but no one I can hold a conversation with. It's nearly as stressful as when you and I were on the San Miguel Bridge... I suppose you're cooking up a storm?"

"I've got all their favourites ready. I only need your father to give me the word and I'll put them in the oven. They'll be ready for something hot by the time they get home."

"Make sure you leave some for me, Grandma. I'll be home in a couple of days."

She gave her grandson a playful wink. "I haven't forgotten you, Alan. I'll be too busy cooking for the party when you get home, but after that's over and things have settled down again, I'll make you something special."

"After a month of my cooking, anything you cook would be special. Even if you burnt it."

"I thought Brains had designed meals that were supposed to easy and tasty?"

"They are," he admitted. "It's not my cooking so much as the food itself. I know these meals that Brains has designed are meant to be hot and nutritious, and they taste pretty good... But I wish you'd give him some lessons in presentation! The dish I had last night wouldn't have looked out of place in a field of cows!" Alan screwed up his face. "It looked revolting!"

Grandma Tracy laughed at the mental image. "I'll make you something extra special when you're home, then. And you can spend the rest of your time in space thinking about what you'd like that to be."

Alan licked his lips. "You realise you've just made these last few hours into torture, Grandma? I'll be spending my time thinking about your cooking and not listening to the radio."

"Now don't you let me cause you to neglect your duty," she scolded playfully. "You keep right on listening. John's probably making a working radio to contact you right now...."

Half an hour after they'd started, they gave up on trying to make contact with Thunderbird Five via the makeshift radio. Listening to the static had been too depressing.

The three of them sat in silence, since their topics of conversation had long since dried up.

Virgil was struggling to keep his eyes open. He tried fighting against it, but was losing the battle. When he eventually gave up and allowed sleep to overtake him, he'd doze off, his head would touch the cold wall of their shelter, and he'd be jarred awake again.

John was sitting, contemplating the radio. Occasionally he'd pull the pack/work table onto his knee and fiddle with some wire or component, but always with the same negative result. Then he'd lay the pack down again and lapse back into thought.

Gordon was bored. Bored with a capital B... He looked at his brothers. They were boring too. He needed to do something to bring some life back to the group. Something that didn't take up too much energy! Something that would annoy the heck out of his companions. Stuck for any other ideas, he began to sing. "Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall..."

His brothers looked at him. "Has Parker been corrupting you with bawdy ditties again?" John asked.

"...Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall..."

"If he sings about anything with a number higher than ten," Virgil began. "You have my permission to kill him..."

"...And if one green bottle, should accidentally fall..."

"...Slowly."

"...There'll be nine green bottles hanging on the wall..."

John looked at Virgil. "We've got nothing better to do. I guess if you can't beat 'em..."