LODESTAR LOST by PURUPUSS RATED FRT

What is the one thing that could destroy International Rescue?

Another cheerful story from Purupuss. I'm an equal opportunities author. This time I'm beating them all up equally.

Don't say you haven't been warned. I even had my proof-reader threatening to go on strike on me, and, for a time, the sale of tissues increased in England. I'm sitting here in my flame-retardant suit to protect my thin skin, with the Firefly at the ready.

Once again, thanks to quiller (and Albert), for gritting her teeth and helping me through it. Thanks to D.C. for her proofing skills. And thanks to those who created Thunderbirds.

01 One: As straightforward as they come?

Jeff Tracy stepped up to the tarmac at the edge of the Kansas City airstrip and looked to the skies. "A bit overcast today, Bill," he noted.

"No wind though," Bill Webber, the superintendent of the airfield, admitted as he glanced at a windsock that hung limply from its pole. "You're going to have a good flight home in that plane. It's beautiful." He indicated Jeff's private jet, looking at it in the appraising manner of someone who'd spent many hours with aircraft. "I've never seen another like her."

"And you won't in the short term," Jeff admitted. "She's one of a kind. One of my engineers designed her expressly for me."

Bill grinned. "You still haven't taken me for that flight in her that you've promised."

"On my next trip," Jeff assured him. "I don't feel up to joyriding today."

Bill looked at him. "Something go wrong this time, Jeff?"

"No," Jeff shook his head. "Everything went as expected. Unfortunately."

"Business?"

"Of a personal nature. I've had to terminate... a long standing venture." Jeff sighed. "Now I've got to go home and tell the family the shocking truth."

"Well, flying home in that," once again Bill pointed to the jet, "will cheer you up."

"I hope so," Jeff replied. "And I'll be glad to get home."

"In that case I won't keep you," Bill said. He held out his hand. "Have a good flight, Jeff. Give my best to the boys."

"Thanks, Bill, I will. See you next month."

"And don't forget that flight."

Jeff managed a smile. "I won't." He pulled a personal digital assistant from out of his pocket. "There," he said as he wrote in the PDA. "I can't forget it now. It's encoded into the old electric brain."

Bill laughed. "See you, Jeff."

"Bye, Bill."

Jeff walked out onto the tarmac, admiring his plane as he went. He had to admit that she was pretty special. Brains had designed her as a birthday gift a couple of years ago and the engineer, along with Jeff's sons, had built her when they hadn't been working on various International Rescue projects. She'd only been completed a month ago and, in Jeff's opinion, handled flawlessly.

Jeff reached the plane and examined her closely. It wasn't only out of admiration that he made the circuit of the jet, it was to check that everything was shipshape and in working order. He knew that the mechanics at the airfield had thoroughly checked her over and fuelled her up, but he was going to be flying a long way over ocean. He needed to be sure that the craft was in A1 shape.

Bill Webber watched the multi-billionaire do his circuit of the plane and wondered briefly what had been terminated.

"Mr Webber?"

Bill turned. "Yes, James?"

"You are required in your office. Horace Miles has a complaint."

Bill sighed. "That man does nothing but complain. Okay, I'll be along in a moment." He looked back at the Tracy jet. Jeff was no where to be seen, obviously checking the far side of the craft. Bill gave a hopeful wave and returned to his office and the irate Horace Miles.

A short time later the control tower heard Jeff Tracy request clearance to take off. It was granted.

The Tracy jet soared off into the greying Kansas skies.

Scott Tracy sat at his father's desk in a mild state of irritation. This was the last place that he wanted to be. His brothers had left a short time ago on a mission and he wanted to be out there leading them. If only this had happened a couple of hours later then his father would have been home manning International Rescue's base. "Couldn't they have waited half a day?" Scott muttered, and then chided himself for being so selfish. Somewhere out on the American mainland people were badly hurt and worse; and here he was complaining about being stuck behind a desk.

He opened communications with Thunderbird Five. "How's it going, Alan? Has John got there yet?"

"I've just been talking to him," Scott's youngest brother sounded as though he was in the next room instead of 36,000 km above the Earth. "He estimates he'll be there in approximately five minutes.

"Let me know when he arrives."

"F-A-B, Scott."

John Tracy, at the controls of Thunderbird One, swooped down low over the rescue zone, following a blackened trail. A pall of smoke hung over the scene. It had clearly been a big explosion and most of the mall had been reduced to rubble. He could see people in neon coloured protective clothing digging busily, trying to save those that they could.

It was those that the regular rescue authorities couldn't help that International Rescue were here to save.

John brought Thunderbird One down next a fire appliance, leaving plenty of room for Thunderbird Two, and shut down the motors. He pushed a button on the Thunderbird's control panel, removed the cartridge that popped out, and exited the rocket plane. He was met by a man wearing the same day-glow clothing as the others, but whose nametag proclaimed him to be the 'Incident Controller'.

"Boy, are we glad to see you guys," the controller said.

It was an introduction that the Tracys were used to receiving. "What's the situation?" John asked.

"We're still trying to ascertain exactly what happened. Looks as though he came in from this direction," the controller made a pass with his hand to demonstrate the angle, "and ploughed straight into the mall. Fortunately it's a quiet shopping day: but that's no comfort to those who were here. We estimate that there's at least 30 people trapped in the underground parking area. They are the ones who need your help."

"Okay. We'll do what we can." John held out the cartridge. "I took some high resolution video as I came in to land. We're going to have to destroy some of the scene to rescue those people and it might help with the investigation later."

The controller seemed surprised as he accepted the cartridge. "Thanks. What are you going to do?"

"We can't do anything until Thunderbird Two gets here," John admitted. "She's bringing a drilling machine that can tunnel down to those trapped. Is it possible to get me plans of the complex?"

"I'll arrange that now," the controller agreed and walked away, speaking into his radio handset.

John activated the mechanism that lowered Mobile Control from the belly of Thunderbird One. Deciding that in the shadow of the rocket plane was as good a place to operate from as any, he sat on the seat. "Mobile Control to Thunderbird Five."

"Thunderbird Five. Go ahead, John."

"I've arrived. They are getting the plans for me. How far away is Thunderbird Two?"

"Virgil says they're fifteen minutes away from the danger zone."

"Thanks. Can you put me through to him? And then you can tell Scott that I haven't crashed his precious plane."

Alan laughed. "F-A-B. Putting you through now."

Now, framed by a panel of gauges and dials, Virgil's face appeared on the screen. "Arriving in 14.58 minutes, John."

"Thanks, Virgil. Has Gordon checked out the Firefly and Mole?"

"Sure have, John," the auburn haired Tracy came and stood at Virgil's shoulder. "She's ready to roll."

"Good." John looked over towards the main command post of the rescue operation. "Here come the plans now. I'll let you know what to do when you get here."

"F-A-B," Virgil replied. "Out."

The screen went black.

The incident controller jogged up holding a roll of paper. "Here you are," he puffed.

John rolled them out on Mobile Control's console. "Where are we?"

"Here." The controller pointed at one corner of the plan.

"Okay," John looked from the plan to the devastation in front of him to get his bearings and blinked as soot was blown into his eyes. He wiped them and then looked back at the plan. "So this is the area where we've got to work?"

"That's it."

John looked at his watch. "Thunderbird Two will be here in about 13 minutes." He poured over the plans again. "Any idea why it crashed?" he asked.

"Not so far. We're still trying to confirm who the pilot was. Once we know that we'll be able to start making assumptions. We have our suspicions, but I can't say anything at this point."

"I understand," John said. "It's nothing to do with us anyway. We're here to help the living. We can't afford to spend time worrying about those who aren't." He straightened when he heard the sound of engines. "Here's Thunderbird Two."

Its shadow eclipsing the surrounding landscape, a giant plane flew low, lumbering towards the scene of the crash. The controller gaped at the craft in astonishment as a voice came from Mobile Control.

"Where do you want us to land?" Virgil asked.

"There's a clear area straight ahead of you," John told him. "It'll be a squeeze, but you'll have enough room to work."

Not long afterwards, the great green bulk that was Thunderbird Two had landed and was rising up on its hydraulic legs, leaving Pod 5 on the ground. The pod's door began to swing open.

"Gordon," John instructed. "Take the Firefly and clear an area big enough for The Mole in quadrant... 24/B."

"F-A-B," Gordon replied. A motor was heard to start up and a scoop, followed by a relatively squat machine, exited the pod and trundled down the ramp that had been formed by the door.

"You're going to need help," John told Virgil. "I'll come over and give you a hand."

"F-A-B." The drilling machine, known to those in International Rescue as 'The Mole', made its exit from the pod.

John smiled at the controller. "I'll be on channel three six, if you need to contact me."

"Roger," the chief replied. "Or should I say 'F-A-B'?"

John chuckled.

"What's happening, Alan?" Scott asked.

"Gordon's using the Firefly to clear the ground," Alan replied. "John said he's going to go down with Virgil."

"I hope he locks down Mobile Control."

"Relax, Scott. He will." Alan was grinning. "Boy, we never have this grief from Dad."

"Well, I'm not him," Scott replied. "And I aim to make sure that everyone stays on their toes."

"Relax," Alan said again. "This is as straightforward as they come. We all know what to do and I'll guarantee that John won't crash Thunderbird One. He's as good a pilot as you are. He must be. We all learnt from Dad: the master."

Scott opened his mouth to make a retort, but closed it without saying a word.

John walked briskly, skirting the blackened entrails of the aeroplane that had crashed into the mall. As he walked he cast his eye over the scene, trying to work out what had happened and to double check that the regular rescue teams hadn't missed anyone who needed help.

A piece of relatively uncharred metal caught his eye and he stopped.

He stared at the panel.

He blinked, trying to erase its image.

It lay there, mocking him.

Without conscious thought he picked it up.

"John?"

He heard the voice say his name but didn't acknowledge it as he stared at the object in his hand.

"John?" Virgil repeated. "What are you doing? You know better than to disturb the scene any more than we have to."

John turned, the piece of metal still tightly held in his grasp. "Tell me I'm wrong, Virgil."

"Huh?" Virgil looked at his brother. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Tell me I'm wrong." John held out the battered piece of aeroplane. "Please tell me I'm wrong," he begged.

"Wrong?" Virgil frowned as he, with some reluctance, took the panel. "What do you mean wr...?"

John watched his brother's face pale.

"John," Virgil's voice was a whisper. "This is Father's registration number. It's from the panel under the pilot's cabin. I painted it myself."

"Yes," John croaked.

"Then this," Virgil turned to look at the wreckage. "This is Father's plane."

02 Two: Bam moment

"You are listening to World Radio. Headlines on the hour. Rescuers, including International Rescue, are fighting to free those trapped, after a light aircraft crashed into a mall in Kansas, USA..."

Scott turned the radio off and reinstated contact with Thunderbird Five. "Have you heard from John, Alan?"

"Negative, Scott."

"Well try and get hold of him."

"I was talking to him only fifteen minutes ago," Alan complained.

"I don't care, Alan. I want to know what's going on."

"Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on... Thunderbird Five to Mobile Control..." Alan tried again. "Thunderbird Five to Mobile Control..."

"Anything, Alan?"

"No. Hang on. John was going to help Virgil... Thunderbird Five to The Mole... Thunderbird Five calling The Mole..." Alan frowned. "Come in, John."

"Try reaching Gordon," Scott ordered.

"What do we do, Virgil?" John asked.

"I don't know, but you'd better put this back where you found it," Virgil handed his brother the panel from their father's plane and watched as it was placed reverently amongst the other scorched remains.

Gordon came running up to them. "What is it with you guys? Scott's having a fit because Alan can't get through to you. Haven't you got your radios on...?" He saw their expressions. "What's wrong?"

John stepped to one side so Gordon couldn't see the tell-tale writing in the wreckage. "Uh... Had a 'bam moment'," he explained.

International Rescue's work, holding people's lives in the palms of their hands, making decisions that could mean life or death, was stressful, and usually the brothers managed to cope with those stresses. But once in a while, it got too much. As John had explained after the first time it happened to him, everything was normal and then suddenly, BAM! It was as if the weight of the world fell onto your shoulders and you would collapse under that weight. It could have been caused by the smallest thing, such as the face of a child, but when it happened there was nothing else that could be done other than to accept the support of a brother and retire to the nearest Thunderbird until you'd got yourself together again.

They'd all, over the years, experienced these so-called 'bam moments'. They'd learnt that it was nothing to be ashamed of.

"A 'bam moment'?" Gordon repeated. He turned to Virgil. "What's with you?"

"Ah... Same," Virgil replied.

Gordon frowned. "Both of you! At the same time! We've never had that before. What are we going to do? I can't do this rescue alone."

"It's okay, Gordon," John reassured him. "Virgil and I will stick together. We'll be okay."

Gordon looked at Virgil who tried to give a reassuring smile. "Are you sure?"

"We're sure," Virgil said. "And we'd better make a start."

Gordon still seemed to be uncertain.

"Have you finished clearing the rubble?" John asked.

"No."

"Go do that then," John prompted. "We'll be okay by the time you've finished."

"Are you sure?"

"We're sure." Virgil echoed himself. "Go on, Gordon."

"Okay..." Gordon still sounded reluctant. "I could take one of your places..."

"Gordon! Go!" John ordered.

"Don't forget to call Scott, John." With one final concerned look at his brothers, Gordon returned to the Firefly.

"Do you think we've done the right thing, not telling him?" Virgil asked.

"One of us has got to keep his wits about him," John replied. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Not until we're about to leave..." He hailed a passing rescue worker. "We've found this," he pointed to the panel.

Without touching the piece of metal the worker read the inscription. "Looks like a registration number. Guess this'll clinch it."

"You know whose plane it was?" Virgil asked.

"We've got a pretty good idea," the worker admitted. "Radar was tracking him as he went down."

"I'm afraid that I picked it up," John admitted. "I tried to put it back where I found it."

"Shouldn't matter too much I wouldn't think." The rescue worker pulled out his walkie-talkie. "I'll let the powers that be know what you've found. Thanks, Guys."

John and Virgil hurried over to The Mole and collapsed into their seats.

Virgil started the drilling machine's motors. "Hadn't you better call Scott?"

"Not yet," John said as he checked the Life-Support Control Systems. "I've got to work out how I'm going to break it to him..."

Scott was still waiting for John's call. He jumped when the videophone rang. He answered it. "Good morning."

"Good, ah, morning, Sir. Ah... Would you be one of Jeff Tracy's sons?" The man consulted his notes, "Scott, John, Virgil, Gordon, or," he read the notes again. "Alan Tracy?"

"I'm Scott Tracy. My brothers are all away on business."

"Scott Tracy," the man repeated.

"And you are?" Scott prompted.

"Oh! I'm sorry, Mr Tracy. My name is Chief-Superintendent Gubb of the Kansas State Police Department. I, ah, I have news... about your father."

Scott frowned. "News? About my father? What?"

"I am sorry to have to tell you, Mr Tracy, that your father... has been killed."

Scott's mouth went dry. "I-I'm sorry. I don't think I heard you correctly."

"Are you aware of the plane crash that occurred here, in Kansas, earlier today?"

Scott mind raced back to when Alan had alerted them to the emergency. "There's a plane that's crashed into a mall," he'd said. "There are people trapped in the underground parking area. They need our help."

Scott hadn't thought twice about the fact that the accident had happened in Kansas. The fact that this was the state which his father was flying out from hadn't crossed his mind. He'd immediately ordered his brothers to the USA in the two Thunderbirds. It was going to be a straightforward rescue. No problems. Nothing they couldn't cope with...

"Mr Tracy?"

"Sorry," Scott forced his attention back to the present. "Yes. I heard about the crash on the radio."

"We have to positively identify him of course. But all evidence points, so far, to your father having been the pilot."

Scott shook his head. "It's not possible. He's a good pilot. He's an experienced pilot. He flies regularly. He flew to the moon..." He stopped, realising that he was blabbering.

"We don't know the cause of the accident yet, Mr Tracy. And at this juncture it would be foolish of me to offer conjecture as to what caused the crash. There will have to be a full investigation..."

"I know," Scott interrupted. "I've been involved with a couple myself." He saw the police officer hesitate. "I was in the Air Force," he explained.

"Ah," Gubb replied.

"Could he have parachuted out?"

"It's unlikely. Someone would have reported seeing a parachutist. Also, no mayday call was received."

This rocked Scott as much as the realisation that the unthinkable had happened. If his father had been capable of doing so, he would have been trying to call up help. At the same time he would have been attempting to land the plane away from large centres of human activity. A shopping mall would have been identified as a place to try to steer clear of... if it were possible to do so... "Are you sure it was his plane?"

"Control was tracking his flight. They saw him lose height," Chief-Superintendent Gubb offered. "International Rescue found a panel with the plane's registration number amongst the wreckage."

Scott stared at him. "What did you say?"

"Control..."

"No! That last bit!"

"International Rescue found a panel with the plane's registration number amongst the wreckage."

"International Rescue? Who found...?"

The Chief-Superintendent look perplexed. "International Rescue. They are an organisation dedicated..."

"I know who they are!" Scott shouted, and then slumped back in his seat, pushing his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. This has been a shock."

"I know, Mr Tracy..."

Scott held up a hand. "Please call me Scott. Mr Tracy is... was... my father."

"I understand. I'm sorry, Mr... Scott. I wish I didn't have to call... We decided that since your father is such an important figure, that I should be the one to tell you."

"We?"

"The mayor... The governor... The president."

'Typical,' Scott thought. 'Trust the brass to pass the buck.'

"I'm sorry, Scott," Chief-Superintendent Gubb repeated. "If there's anything I can do...?"

"Could you...?" Scott sat forward. "My father was a very private man. Could you keep his name out of the media?"

The Chief-Superintendent shook his head. "I'm sorry, but that won't be possible. The world already knows about the accident. Members of the public have been seriously hurt and killed. We can't suppress your father's name... not once his next of kin have been notified. Are you able to contact your brothers within the next 24 hours?"

"Yes," Scott nodded, thinking that there was every chance that his brothers already knew. "Yes. I can contact my brothers within 24 hours."

"Good. This is my phone number," the Chief-Superintendent read out a list of digits. "If I can be of service to your family, please don't hesitate to call."

"Thank you, Chief-Superintendent. I'll remember that."

"Would you... would you like me to email the report on the accident when I receive it?"

"Yes, I'd appreciate that."

"Good day, Scott."

Scott hung up the phone, thinking there was nothing good about the day.

John's eyes in his portrait flashed. He took one look at Scott's expression and subdued manner and knew that, somehow, his older brother had been told the worst. "Have you had a, ah, 'funny' phone call, Scott?"

"I'm not laughing."

"No," John replied. "Neither are we."

"What happened? The Chief-Superintendent who rang told me a member of International Rescue found the registration number of the plane. Who found it?" Scott asked.

"I did," John admitted. "I showed Virgil."

"And are you all alright?"

John nodded. "We'll cope. We haven't told Gordon or Alan."

"Alan? You realise he's probably listening in now."

"No. I told him to contact Gordon and double check the co-ordinates where we're supposed to be drilling in case I got it wrong. Virgil and I have told Gordon that we had a 'bam moment'."

"And have you?"

John shook his head. "No. We're keeping it together. We can't back out now, there're people who need us."

Scott saw the wall behind John change its angle. "You're drilling now?"

"Yes. We hope to be there within ten minutes."

"When are you going to tell Gordon?"

"Before we leave. It's only fair that he be given the chance to... to... say goodbye."

Scott nodded. "I've got to tell Grandma and everyone else, and then Brains and I'll go and get Alan."

"I'm sorry you've got all this laid on you, Scott."

"I'll cope. You and Virgil concentrate on watching out for each other. We can't let International Rescue fail for the first time because of our own tragedy. Fa... He wouldn't want that."

"No," John agreed.

"Keep in touch with Alan," Scott instructed. "But don't let him know something's wrong. I don't want the kid to find out over the radio."

"Okay, Scott." John's picture reverted back to its normal photograph.

Scott took control of his emotions and stood...

...Just as his grandmother came bustling into the room. "Have you seen my knitting bag?" she asked, picking up some cushions to look underneath.

"No..." Scott crossed the floor. "Grandma," he took her by the shoulders. "Sit down," he guided her to the nearest sofa. "I have news..."

"News?" she looked into his face as she sat down. "It's bad news, isn't it?"

"Yes," he sat beside her.

"It's your brothers... One of them's been hurt? How bad? Who is it, Scott?"

"No. They're all fine. John, Virgil, Gordon and Alan are all okay."

"Then what?"

"You know where they've gone? Where John, Virgil, and Gordon have gone?"

Grandma looked at him in confusion. "They've gone to rescue people from under a mall in Kansas."

"And you know why they have to rescue these people?"

"Because a plane crashed. Scott! I don't understand. You say you've got bad news and then you say your brothers are fine. What's wrong?"

"The plane..." Scott swallowed. "The plane that crashed..."

"Yes? Speak up, Boy."

Scott looked into her face and remembered the day his mother had died. His grandmother had been distraught then. What would she be like upon hearing about her own son's death?

"Scott?" she pressed.

"The plane was Father's."

"You mean someone stole it and crashed it?"

"No," Scott shook his head. "The authorities think Father was the pilot."

Mrs Tracy went silent.

"Grandma? Are you all right?"

She shook her head in disbelief. "No. It can't be..."

"The authorities are pretty sure it was..."

"No..."

"John found the registration number in the wreckage."

"He... Your father... Jeff was on board?"

"They think so."

"He was on board when it crashed?"

"Yes."

"But how... Your father said his plane was safe... he promised me..." Tears started to flow down her elderly cheeks. "He said he trusted anything that Brains designed..."

Brains entered the room.

"...He trusted Brains..."

"Grandma," Scott said quietly.

"He said if Brains had made it, nothing could go wrong."

"Grandma," Scott repeated, aware that the engineer was listening with concern. "I have the utmost faith in everything Brains makes. We don't know what happened. It probably wasn't the plane's fault."

"Then you're blaming your father?"

"No, of course not," Scott protested. "I just think it's too soon to start pointing the finger at anyone or anything."

"W-What's happened, Scott," Brains asked. "What's wrong?"

Mrs Tracy started when heard his voice. Then she looked away from him.

"The..." Scott felt as if his throat were closing on him. He cleared it. "The accident the guys are at... the authorities have just told me they think it was caused by Father's jet."

"And M-Mr Tracy...?" Brains had gone white.

"Was last seen taking off in it."

Brains gripped the back of the couch for support.

"Brains," Scott laid a hand on his friend's arm. "I'm sorry, but I want to tell Alan face-to-face. Are you able to help me fly Thunderbird Three?"

"Th-Thunderbird Th-Three?"

Scott nodded.

"Ah... Y-Yes, Scott. I'll h-help."

"Thanks, Brains." Scott sighed. "I'd better go tell Tin-Tin and Kyrano. Once I've done that we'll go. Okay?"

Brains nodded.

"Something's not right, Alan."

"What do you mean, Gordon?"

"I mean with John and Virgil. Don't tell Scott, but they both told me that they had had a 'bam moment' before we'd started the rescue."

Alan looked alarmed. "A 'bam moment'? Both of them? At the same time? Before they'd started? Is that possible?"

"I don't know," Gordon admitted. "That's what's so strange. So is John asking us to double-check the coordinates. He'd worked them out before he went 'bam'."

"So what do you think they are playing at?"

"I don't know, but I'll tell you one thing. Next time The Mole surfaces I'm going back down with it."

"Tin-Tin?" Scott entered the greenhouse and spied the young Eurasian working at the far end. "Where's your father?"

"I am here, Mister Scott," Kyrano said, as he stood from where he'd been weeding behind some beans.

Scott held his hand out to Tin-Tin. "Come here, Honey. I have something to tell you... Both of you."

"Scott?" Tin-Tin moved closer. As he was still offering his hand, she took it. "Scott? What's wrong?"

"It's bad news I'm afraid."

"Mister Scott? Your brothers..."

"No, not my brothers. My father..."

"Mr Tracy?" Kyrano looked at the younger man in concern.

Scott tried to be gentle. "It was his plane that crashed."

It took a moment for the news to sink in. Then, with an, "Oh, Scott," Tin-Tin pulled him into a comforting hug. "I'm so sorry," she whispered into his shoulder.

Scott found that he needed her embrace. He accepted it, and clung to her as her father bowed his head in prayer.

When they eventually parted, Scott took a step back. "I'm going to get Alan..."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Tin-Tin asked.

Scott shook his head. "Thanks, Honey, but Brains has offered to do it. If you both wouldn't mind doing something for me though..."

Kyrano bowed. "It would be our pleasure, Mister Scott."

"Keep an eye on Grandma for me?"

"Of course, Scott."

The Mole cleared the wall of the underground parking area and ground to a halt. John turned to Virgil. "Are you okay?"

"I'm going to have to be. Are you?"

John straightened his shoulders. "Yes."

Virgil stood. "Then let's do it!" He opened the door...

Deep underground, the parking area was in darkness. Virgil switched on the lights that ran along the length of The Mole and the room was bathed in a harsh glow. Together the brothers stepped out into a world of fear and pain. They had to deal with debris had fallen on parked cars... and victims. They had to face a child who was crying because he'd lost his parents... and another who would never cry again. A man with severe head injuries, whose leg had been trapped under a concrete pillar, died as they worked to free him.

And John and Virgil tried to forget that the man who'd directly, or indirectly, caused this misery was their father. They buried that part of their lives down deep in their consciousness...

Gordon fretted and made Virgil take him back down with him when the first wave of released victims were brought to the surface. He kept on asking over and over again if his brothers were all right... If they needed a break... If they wanted his help...

They kept on working...

"Thunderbird Three to Thunderbird Five. Requesting permission to dock," Scott asked.

"Thunderbird Three; you are clear to dock."

Scott frowned at the microphone. Something wasn't right. There had been no questions. Alan hadn't asked why his brother had made an unexpected trip in International Rescue's rocket during a rescue. "Do you think he knows?"

"I-I don't know, Scott."

Scott glanced at the little scientist. He'd been very quiet throughout the trip and had been unable to meet Scott's eyes. Scott had a feeling that his grandmother's words had struck a raw nerve. "It's not your fault, Brains."

Brains looked up towards, but not at, Scott. "W-We don't kn-know that... y-yet."

"Don't forget we helped to build it. We may have done something wrong."

"F-From my plans. I-I checked everything d-during assembly."

"I don't blame you, Brains. I can't blame anyone until I know what happened."

"W-We are here, Scott."

Thunderbird Three's nosecone slid into Thunderbird Five's docking station and Scott watched as a strip of green lights winked on. "We've docked." He hesitated. "I should do this alone."

"I-I will wait here."

For some reason Scott was dreading telling Alan more than anything. His brother had been too young to remember his mother's death and Scott had no way to tell how the younger man would react. Steeling himself, Scott stepped out of Thunderbird Three and into the space station. He entered Thunderbird Five's control room and stopped.

Alan was standing there, a pile of suitcases at his feet.

"Alan?"

"I know, Scott. The air accident investigator was telling the Chief-Superintendent."

"I'm sorry. I didn't want you to find out over the radio. That's why I came."

"Thanks." Alan pressed a button and then picked up some of the cases. "I've switched her over to automatic... Are we going?"

Scott picked up the remainder of his brother's bags. "Are you okay?"

Alan side-stepped the question. "Does Gordon know?"

"No. John and Virgil said they didn't know if they could cope, so they wanted him with a clear head."

"They seem to be coping so far." Alan led the way into Thunderbird Three. "Did you come alone?"

"No, Brains was..." Scott entered Thunderbird Three's flight deck and stopped. "Where is he?" He dropped Alan's bags. "He must be going to travel in the passenger bay. He's blaming himself."

"Why? It was an accident... Wasn't it?" Alan began to stow his bags in the locker. "Do you blame him?"

"No. I'm not blaming anyone until we find out what happened."

Alan shut the locker door and turned to face his brother. "How is everyone at home?"

"In shock."

"How are you?"

Scott shrugged. "Let's go home."

The last of the casualties had been loaded into the waiting ambulances and Virgil and John loaded The Mole back into pod five. Gordon, in the Firefly, followed them up the ramp and braked, blocking The Mole's exit. He jumped down and walked over to his brothers. "How are you guys?"

"I don't know how to say this, Alan..." John began.

Gordon stared at him. "I'm Gordon."

"Sorry..."

"Right, that's it!" Gordon asserted. "You're both acting like a pair of zombies! I'm taking Thunderbird One, picking up Scott, bringing him back and we're flying the Thunderbirds home. You guys are clearly in no shape to do so." He turned for the exit.

"Gordon! Wait!" Virgil called after him. "There's something we have to tell you."

Gordon turned back. "What?"

Virgil looked at John. John looked ill.

"Gordon," Virgil began. "You know what happened out there?"

"Yeah. Some idiot flew his plane into a shopping mall."

Virgil grimaced as if he'd been hit and John turned away.

"What?" Gordon asked again.

"John found a piece of the plane," Virgil said.

"So?"

"It had the registration number on it."

Gordon listened, wondering what his brother was struggling to say.

"It is... It was... Father's plane," Virgil ground out.

Gordon stared at him. Then he looked at John. "This isn't funny."

"We're not joking," Virgil told him.

"That plane was Dad's?"

"Yes."

"That pile of scorched metal?"

Virgil nodded.

"How long have you known?" Realisation dawned. "You never had a 'bam moment', did you? Either of you? You knew all along and you didn't tell me! Why? Didn't you trust me to keep it together? I thought we were supposed to trust each other, but instead you treated me like a little kid. You didn't think I was mature enough to handle this, so you left me in the dark. You treated me like you do Alan! That's right, isn't it? You let me work, knowing... Knowing that our father is out there in that tangled mess."

"Gordon..." Virgil began.

"You're lying." Gordon stepped away from his brothers, shaking his head. "I don't believe you. I don't know why you're lying, but you're lying to me. My father is not out there. Dad is not dead. He can't be... There's been a mistake."

"Gordon," Virgil took a step towards his distraught brother, hoping to comfort him, but Gordon took another step backwards.

"Don't come near me," he hissed.

"Please," Virgil begged. "Don't..."

"No!" Gordon took another step backwards. "You're wrong. And I'm going to prove it!" He turned and ran out of the pod, gravity assisting him down the ramp. He barrelled up to the black mark that scarred the surface of the earth and stopped. No one could have survived this crash.

One of the regular rescue workers came up to him. "Hello? I thought you folks had finished and were heading home?"

"Final checks." Gordon tried to keep his voice neutral.

"Well, thanks for all you've done. International Rescue have saved a lot of lives today."

"That's our job," Gordon said.

"That registration number that your colleague found has helped confirm who the pilot was," the rescue worker said conversationally. "Now it's down to the crash investigators to work out why he crashed."

"Who was he?"

The worker hesitated. "I shouldn't really tell you, but I guess it doesn't matter. It's not as though International Rescue is going to go running to the media with this bit of information... You've heard of Jeff Tracy, the billionaire?"

Gordon kept it together. "Yes."

"It was him. Brand new experimental plane, from what I understand. The investigators are going to have their work cut out for them."

"Yes, they are," Gordon agreed.

"Shame. From what I understand he was a heck of a nice guy. Unlike many with money."

Gordon held out his hand. "Thank you," he said.

Bemused the rescue worker shook hands. "Ah... Surely I should be thanking you?"

Gordon pretended to smile. "I'd better be getting back. So long."

"Bye..." the rescue raised his hand in a wave, but Gordon was striding back to Thunderbird Two.

"Gordon..." Virgil said as his brother stalked through the pod, but Gordon ignored him, entering the lift to the flight deck and punching the button that would take him upwards.

"He's not taking it well," Virgil sighed, and turned to John. "Are you okay to fly Thunderbird One home?"

John nodded.

"Sure?"

John nodded again. "You?" he croaked.

"I'll make it," Virgil confirmed. "See you there."

John nodded, turned, and walked out of the pod.

Virgil took the lift upwards and stepped onto the flight deck. Gordon had strapped himself into the seat farthest from the pilot's. "Okay, Gordon?" Virgil asked.

His brother folded his arms and turned his head so he was looking out the window.

"Scott and Brains have taken Thunderbird Three to get Alan," Virgil told him.

Gordon didn't comment.

"They might get home the same time that we do."

No response.

Virgil decided that it would be best to leave him alone. He slid into his own seat and began the procedure that locked down the pod and lowered Thunderbird Two over it. Looking out the window he saw John climb into Thunderbird One, having returned Mobile Control to its hold.

A short time later the radio crackled into life. "Preparing to lift off," John said.

"F-A-B," Virgil replied. "We'll stick together, huh?"

"Yes. Out."

Virgil watched Thunderbird One's VTOL jets burst into life before he triggered his own. Both planes lifted from the ground.

It had been a quiet flight back from Thunderbird Five. Neither Alan nor Scott said any more than was necessary. They landed through the round house, and then took the lift down to the passenger hold. Brains was already seated on the couch.

"Brains," Alan greeted him.

"Alan," Brains replied, looking at the floor.

The two Tracy boys took their seats beside him and all three felt the couch drop away down through the centre of Thunderbird Three, before it began its homeward track back to the lounge.

John rotated Thunderbird One in midair and slotted her through the swimming pool. As she rode back up on her trolley into her hangar, John took the opportunity to undo his safety harness and climb out of the pilot's seat.

He was standing by the exit hatch when a soft bump told him that Thunderbird One had completed her automated journey. There was a moment's delay, as the moving gantry slid into position, before the hatch opened and John was able to step outside the craft. The gantry began pulling him closer to the lounge.

Virgil spun Thunderbird Two 180 degrees, landed, and taxied backwards into the giant craft's hangar. "We're here," he told his passenger, and turned.

Gordon was already in the passenger lift and was heading up to the lounge.

Virgil sighed, set the diagnostics programme working on his craft, and then made his way back to the heart of the family home.

And so it happened that all five Tracy boys and Brains arrived in the lounge at the same time. When they saw each other they froze, eyeing the others up as though they'd been confronted by complete strangers for the first time.

No one said anything.

Gordon was the first to move. He turned on his heel and walked out, down in the direction of his room.

Head down, Brains exited through the same door.

A moment later, silently, John followed.

Virgil looked after them, glanced at his father's desk, swallowed and headed off to his bedroom.

Scott uttered some unintelligible sound, and strode out of the room.

Alan was left. Alone in the place where he'd expected the most comfort.

A light footstep announced the approach of someone and Tin-Tin entered. "Alan!" she cried and ran into his arms.

Alan held her close as they comforted each other. After a full five minutes he asked, "How's Grandma?"

Tin-Tin gave a sniff and pulled away slightly. "She's cooking. Making dinner."

"I don't know that anyone will feel like eating."

"Leave her, Alan. She needs to keep busy."

He nodded. "How's your father?"

"Keeping busy. He's in the greenhouse."

Alan tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "And how are you?"

Tin-Tin tried to smile at him, but instead burst into tears.

"Come here, Honey." Alan pulled her close again.

There was a sound in the hallway and Gordon strode into the room, dressed in his swimming gear, with a towel draped around his shoulders.

"Dinner will be ready soon," Alan told him.

"Not hungry," his brother replied.

"You don't have to eat. We should all be together at this time. Just sit at the table to help support everyone else."

"Support?" Gordon snorted. "Some people won't want our support."

"Gordon?" Alan queried.

"Later, Alan." Gordon deserted the lounge for the comfort of the pool.

Alan was relieved that Gordon did join the rest of the family at the meal table. Not that it was much of a meal. All of Grandma's culinary skills appeared to have deserted her. The potatoes were burnt, the peas like marbles, the carrots were soggy and the meat raw. Not that it mattered, as Alan had predicted no one had felt like eating. No one except Virgil who, without complaint, cut the burnt pieces off the potatoes and ate the remainder, before helping himself to seconds.

Scott dropped his unused fork onto his untouched plate and stood. "I'm going to do some work."

"Work?" Alan looked at his eldest brother. "What work?"

"I've got things to do, okay!" Scott snapped.

The dining room was silent when he'd left.

Alan watched as John pushed a pea around the edge of his plate. Then he switched his attention to his grandmother who was twisting the tablecloth around her fingers and staring into space.

"E-Excuse me." Brains scrapped his chair along the floor as he stood. "I-I'll be in the l-la-l-labor-r-r." He gave up trying to formulate the sentence and left the room.

Tin-Tin sniffed and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief.

"I must do the dishes." Kyrano picked up his own plate, placed it back on the table, picked up Scott's clean one, placed it on his dirty plate, picked them up, before placing them back on the table and sitting down with an audible sigh.

"Let us help you, Kyrano," Virgil said, and began to clear the plates and cutlery. John, without a word, began stacking the dishes in the dishwasher.

Alan stared at the empty seat at the end of the table, swallowed down the lump that formed in his throat, and then grabbed some dishes of his own. "Go and sit in the lounge, Grandma," he suggested. "We'll take care of this."

"Hmm?" She looked at him blankly. "What, Dear?

"Go put your feet up. We'll take care of the dishes."

"Yes," she agreed. "I might do that." She remained seated.

"Come on, Mrs Tracy," Tin-Tin took the elderly lady's arm. "We're in the way here."

Seemingly in a daze, Grandma allowed herself to be taken out the room.

Virgil grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl and held it in his teeth as he grabbed more plates from the table.

"Are you still hungry?" Alan asked him.

"Hem hm hm," Virgil replied through the apple, nodding to make himself understood.

They finished loading the dishwasher and then each departed for the sanctuary of their own room.

03 Three: The Will

Alan awoke early the following morning, somewhat disoriented at finding himself at home when he was still expecting to be on Thunderbird Five. Then he remembered the reason for his early departure. Feeling sick, he got out of bed and wandered through to his bathroom where he splashed water onto his face. Deciding that he'd rather be doing something active to take his mind off things instead of stewing in his room, he dressed in his tracksuit in preparation for a run.

He walked out of his bedroom and nearly bumped into Gordon, who, judging by his lack of clothing, was planning to indulge in his own form of exercise.

"Morning, Gordon."

"Morning, Alan."

Gordon looked at his brother. "I guess asking if yesterday was a bad dream would be a waste of time?"

"If it was a dream I'd be up in Thunderbird Five."

"I'm going for a swim," Gordon said unnecessarily.

"I thought I'd go for a run."

In silence, the two brothers walked through to the lounge where they found Scott sitting at their father's desk. "What are you doing?" Alan asked.

"Minding my own business, that's what."

Gordon examined his brother and came to the conclusion that he was wearing what he'd worn the day before. "Have you been to bed?"

Scott wasn't in the mood to be questioned. "Are you going for a swim?!"

Gordon looked down at his own attire. "Gee. I'm wearing my swimming gear; I'm carrying a towel... I guess I must be."

Scott ignored the sarcasm. "Then go and do it and leave me alone."

"Fine," Gordon muttered. "Suit yourself." He went out into the grey dawn to submerge himself in the cool waters of the family pool.

Alan had got as far as the patio when the sound of a male voice caused him to stop. Someone was singing. Trying to find the source of the sound he realised that the only two people he could see were Gordon, now eating up the miles in the pool, and Scott, hunched over the desk.

The eldest brother had settled down again, planning to do more work in the early morning peace of the family home before anyone else awoke. He was not pleased to be disturbed by another member of his family.

His grandmother looked a mess. Her hair, rather than pinned back in its usual neat bun, was in disarray. Her dress hadn't been ironed and she'd put the wrong buttons through each buttonhole. "I'm going to make a start on breakfast. What does everyone feel like?" she asked her audience of one.

Scott only just managed to stop himself from telling her that he felt like being left alone. Instead he managed a mumbled, "I'm not hungry."

Normally that comment would have had her fussing about him, checking for fever or another sign of ailment, but this morning she didn't appear to hear him. "Where is everyone?"

"Gordon's having a swim. Alan's gone for a run. Everyone else is still in bed."

Almost immediately, Virgil proved him wrong as he entered the room carrying a bag of peanuts. "Anyone mind if I play the piano?"

"I mind!" Scott snapped.

Virgil ignored him and sat at the baby grand in preparation to play.

Grandma looked at the snack in Virgil's hand, but, instead of telling him off for spoiling his breakfast, merely asked. "What do you want to eat this morning?"

"Anything, Grandma," Virgil replied. He began flicking through his sheet music.

By now Alan was more curious about the identity of the mystery singer than he was interested in his run. He had concluded that the voice was coming from the roof of the villa and he ventured back inside intending to head to the highest point of the house.

"What do you want for breakfast, Honey?" his grandmother asked him as melancholy music wafted from the piano.

"Don't worry about me," he replied. "I'll get something when I get back from my run. I just want to check something out first."

"Fine, Dear. Don't be too long."

Alan was about to leave the room when the videophone rang. Scott answered it.

"Good morning, Mr Tracy," an obscenely cheerful voice said. "I'm from the International Chronicle. I was looking for your family's reaction to your father's death."

Scott stared at the videophone screen in disbelief. "You were what?"

"Wanting a reaction..."

Scott looked at his watch. "But the 24 hours isn't up yet."

"Don't worry," he was told. "Nothing will be published until after the deadline. But I am sure that you understand that when we do go public we would like to be able to present a full and correct account."

"My father has just been killed and you want me to tell you my reaction??"

"If you wouldn't mind, Sir. After all, it's not only your family that has been affected. There are all those people who were killed and those who were hurt when your father crashed his plane..."

"You make it sound as though what happened was my father's fault..."

The man on the other end of the phone laughed. 'Well, it was his plane... I didn't hear any reports of the mall levitating off the ground... Now, do you have any comment?"

"No," Scott growled.

"How is your family coping, knowing that your father was responsible for so many deaths?"

"No comment."

"You do realise that 33 people were killed?"

Scott hadn't known this, but his manner didn't change. "No comment."

"And that a further 20 are listed as being in a critical condition?"

"No comment."

"And that numerous others were injured?"

"I have nothing to say to you, or any other representative from the media." Scott said. "My father was a private man in life, and we intend to keep his death as private as we humanly can."

"Even though your father's death caused the death of so many members of the public?"

"I said I have no comment!" Scott was snarling. "And neither does anyone else in the family. I will wish you good day..."

"How did you feel when you heard that your father's plane had crashed...?"

"Goodbye..."

"...And had killed so many?"

Scott hung up the phone and banged his fist on the desk. "I don't believe it! The nerve of that guy!"

Gordon had come back inside for another towel and had heard the tail end of the conversation. "Who was that!?"

"Some reporter," Scott growled.

"He made it sound as if Dad was responsible!"

"You'd think he'd at least wait until we know what caused the crash before accusing anyone," Virgil commented, tossing a handful of peanuts into his mouth.

"Typical," Gordon snapped. "You would side with him."

"I'm not siding with him," Virgil protested. "It was a comment that's all."

Alan put his arm around the elderly lady who'd been listening to the conversation. "Are you okay, Grandma?"

"That man," she sniffed. "He accused your father of murder."

"He's just fishing for a scoop. We know Dad wouldn't be party to anything like that," Alan said.

"What beats me is that the Chief-Super assured me that the media wouldn't hear anything until the 24 hour deadline was up," Scott growled. "How'd that guy get the news?"

"You know the press," Gordon said. "Some of those guys would do anything for a story. He probably bribed one of the rescue workers. Unfortunately some people don't know when it's time to keep their mouths shut..." He glared at Virgil. "While others don't know when they should be speaking out."

The lift doors opened and Alan stepped out onto the roof of the Tracy villa. One of the pool's deckchairs had been dragged up here, along with a telescope. John was watching the stars that he loved fade in the morning light; just as the father he loved had done.

"John..." Alan said to his brother's back. "Why are you up here?"

"The heavens are now home to you..." John sang.

"Have you been here all night?"

"...Up where the stars are shining through..."

"John?" Alan had taken a step forward before he realised why his brother hadn't heard him.

John had a love for music that was nearly as great as Virgil's, but the only instrument he'd developed a talent for was his own voice. He'd done some training, but had never felt comfortable performing in front of an audience and had given away the stage side of the craft, preferring to concentrate on learning enough to keep his singing voice in trim. It had never been confirmed, but Alan had a sneaking suspicion that one of the many reasons why John enjoyed his time on Thunderbird Five, was because it gave him the opportunity to give his talent full rein without anybody hearing him.

"...That star up there ..."

When he was on Earth John preferred listening to music, and to aid the experience he had developed high-quality headphones that could be set to block out certain, or all, extraneous external sounds. He was wearing these headphones now and listening to his own private soundtrack on the world.

"...I know you're near..."

Alan could understand John's attraction to the song. He walked across the roof until he was standing beside his brother.

John had his eyes closed. "...but from me you are too far..."

Alan touched him on the shoulder and John visibly jumped. "Don't do that!" He pulled his headphones off. "Whaddya want?!"

"Grandma's making breakfast. She's asking what everyone wants."

"I'll get something later." John settled back into his seat.

"Scott's just taken a phone call from some newspaper. The reporter was asking for his reaction to Dad's death. He was insinuating that the whole thing was Dad's fault and that he'd, for some reason, killed those people on purpose."

"What!?"

"It's upset Grandma. You'd make her happier if you'd join us."

John hesitated, a scowl on his face. Then he replaced his headphones over his ears, clipped the music player to his belt, put a protective cover over the telescope and, without acknowledging Alan, stalked over to the lift.

The two brothers rode downwards in silence.

John continued to wear his headphones as he sat at the breakfast table, a social no-no which Jeff Tracy would normally have stopped immediately and without argument. Alan was pretty sure that Scott would have taken the same line if he'd deigned to join them. No one else appeared to notice or care.

After an unappetising meal, which Virgil wolfed down, Alan felt lost. He decided to check on Brains.

He found the engineer, as expected, in his laboratory pouring over plans. "M8 HT machine screw... Th-That's correct," Brains was muttering.

"How are you this morning, Brains?" Alan asked.

Brains glanced up for the briefest of moments before he focused back on the computer screen in front of him. "I-I'm o-okay."

"Any ideas what happened?" Alan saw Brains stiffen. "It's okay, I was speaking in general terms. I don't think the crash was your fault."

"I-It would be unlikely t-to be your father's."

"We don't know that yet. And as much as I would hate to think that Dad was responsible, I can't believe that there was a fault in your workmanship. You're always so careful."

"Th-Thank y-you for your f-faith in me, A-Alan," Brains stuttered. "B-But not everyone sh-shares your beliefs."

"You mean Grandma? She'll get over it once the air accident investigators have finished."

"Mrs T-Tracy is n-not alone in her opinion."

"Who else does?" Alan frowned. "I'm pretty sure my brothers don't..."

Brains shook his head.

"Tin-Tin?" Alan sounded incredulous. "Kyrano? There's no way either of them would blame you."

"P-Please, Alan. I w-would like to return to m-my work."

Alan stood for a moment, uncertain. "Can I help?"

Brains shook his head, looking away. "N-No. I-I would prefer to do this on m-my own."

Bemused, Alan left the lab and sought out Tin-Tin in her room. "Can I have a word, Honey?"

She tried to smile at him, nodded and burst into tears.

"Tin-Tin... Please don't," Alan pleaded.

"I'm sorry, Alan... But your father..."

"I know," Alan pulled her into a hug. "I miss him too."

Tin-Tin sniffed, reached over her bed and pulled two tissues from a box. "What did you want to talk about?"

He hesitated; unsure if now was the best time to ask.

"Alan?" Tin-Tin looked at him with big rheumy eyes.

"I've just been talking to Brains," Alan explained. "He's upset... Like everyone I guess... But he's also upset because he thinks we blame him for the crash. I've told him that I don't, and he accepts that the guys don't... We know Grandma does, but that's because she refuses to believe that her little boy could do any wrong..."

Tin-Tin burst into tears again and Alan realised that his wording hadn't been exactly tactful. He waited until her sobs settled down before continuing on. "Do you..." he paused, wanting to be more diplomatic this time. "You've worked as closely with him as the rest of us. Do you blame Brains?"

"Oh, no!" Tin-Tin shook her head emphatically. "Brains is so methodical in his work, there's no way that anything he'd done could have had a direct impact on what happened."

"Good," Alan managed a smile. "Um... What about your father?"

"Father?"

"Yes."

"No," Tin-Tin shook her head again, just as emphatic as she had been before. "No, I'm sure he doesn't. We talked about what happened last night. Father is of the opinion that it was just fate."

"That's a relief," Alan said. "But then..." he screwed up his face in thought. "The way Brains was talking it was as if he believed there was someone else who blamed him."

"Perhaps," Tin-Tin's voice was quiet, "Brains blames himself?"

"Brains? But he's always so sure of his work."

"Maybe that's the problem. He's always been so confident. Maybe he thinks he was overconfident this time...?"

Alan left Tin-Tin's room and wandered down the hallway. He stopped outside of John's bedroom and waited a moment before knocking. There was no answer. Pressing his ear against a certain part of the door he listened. It was a trick that he and Gordon had discovered soon after everyone had moved to the island and it had come in handy when they'd wanted to spy on their brothers. This time he could hear music playing, but no sounds of movement. He knocked again. "John!"

"He's probably catching up on his sleep. Didn't look like he got much last night."

Alan turned and realised that another brother had walked past. "Virgil! Wait up!" He jogged up to him. "I'm glad I've found you alone. Would you mind if I asked you something?"

Virgil shrugged. "Sure, Alan. What?"

"Um... It's about yesterday." Alan saw his brother tense up. "I'd understand if you don't want to talk about it, but I want to know what happened. All I've heard is what was said over the radio." He waited to see Virgil's reaction.

Virgil seemed to think for a moment and then nodded slowly. "Okay. I guess it is only fair."

"Thanks," Alan said with gratitude. "Ah, do you want to talk in my room? It's more private."

Virgil nodded. "Okay. Just give me a moment to get something."

Alan returned to his room; a shrine to his motor racing days. He tried not to look at the photo of his father proudly standing beside him as between them they held one of his many car-racing trophies. His father had always supported him.

Virgil knocked on the door and entered. He was carrying some apples.

Alan swallowed down the lump that was forming in his throat. "It does get easier, doesn't it?"

There was a moment's silence as Virgil contemplated the question. Then he nodded. "Eventually." He held out an apple. "Would you like one?"

"No, thanks." Alan sat on the edge of his bed.

Virgil claimed a seat beside him and bit into an apple. "So... What do you want to know?"

"What happened? What was it like? How did everyone behave? Why's Gordon mad with you guys?"

There was a moment's silence as Virgil took a bite out of an apple and chewed it slowly as he thought. "Remember that train crash in India last year?"

"Where the train jumped the rails and ploughed into the apartment block?"

Virgil nodded, his mouth full of apple. He swallowed. "Combine that with the fire from that gas explosion in Mexico and you'll get some idea of what the scene was like. There was this great long burnt trail where the plane had skidded along the ground. The mall had collapsed like a deck of cards. There were people everywhere, some hurt, some trying to save others, most in shock... I think John got video for the authorities. If you really wanted to you could look at that." He took another bite of his apple.

Alan waited as Virgil finished off the first apple before reaching for the second. "So it was rough," he eventually said.

"Yeah," Virgil agreed. "It was rough."

"When did you realise that the plane... was..."

Virgil was halfway through the second apple and stopped eating. "John found the registration number from the panel under the pilot's window. He got me to double-check it. I don't think he believed his own eyes." Virgil sounded reflective as he chewed slowly and cast his mind back a day. "It was amazing! I don't think there was a panel unscathed, except for this one. And John, of all people, had to be the one to find it."

"Rough," Alan said, casting his mind about for something more meaningful to say.

Virgil nodded in agreement.

"Then what happened?" Alan prompted.

"Gordon came running over to see why we were taking so long. He said that you'd said that Scott was having a blue fit."

"True," Alan agreed. "He was." He waited, but Virgil seemed more interested in finishing his apple than saying anything more. "So you didn't tell Gordon then?"

"No."

"Why?"

Virgil finished off his apple, thinking as he did so. "You don't remember when Ma died, do you, Alan?"

Alan responded with a mute shake of his head.

"So you don't remember how hard the days were afterwards?"

"No."

"We do. Maybe John more than me." Virgil stopped talking as he struggled with the memories.

Alan laid a hand on his brother's shoulder, the gesture more eloquent than any words he could have said. He gave his brother a moment to gather himself together before he spoke. "But we were all children then."

Virgil gave Alan a pained look. "Believe me, Alan. It doesn't matter how old you are, it still hurts just as much when you're an adult as it did when you were a child." He looked down at his apple core. "We had a rescue to get through. One of us had to keep a clear head."

"So you didn't tell Gordon so that he could be the one with the clear head?"

"Yes. But... somehow... John and I managed to cope... Don't ask me how, but we did."

"When did you tell Gordon?"

"Before we left. He deserved the chance to... to..." Virgil's voice broke and he took a deep breath. Alan squeezed his shoulder and the gesture seemed to give Virgil the strength to carry on. "Gordon deserved a chance to say goodbye."

"He wasn't happy that you kept him in the dark?" Alan guessed. "Is that why he's been sniping at you two?"

"Seems like it," Virgil nodded. "He never gave us the chance to explain. He called us liars and ran out of the pod so quickly that he nearly fell down the ramp. He hasn't spoken to us since. Well, me anyway. John's kept pretty much to himself."

"I'd noticed. Do you want me to talk to Gordon?" Alan offered.

"Leave him," Virgil advised. "He'll get over it. I'd rather he were mad at us rather than..."

Alan waited to see who or what else Gordon could be mad with, but Virgil didn't appear to be inclined to carry on with his narrative. He picked up the last apple and began eating.

"Do you know what I think we're missing?" Alan eventually asked after the silence had dragged on for over a minute. "I mean in the house? As a memorial to Dad, so we'll remember him? Not that we'll forget..."

Virgil looked at him. "What?"

"We haven't got a decent portrait of him." Alan prodded Virgil on the knee. "You could do one."

Virgil shook his head. "No I couldn't."

"Yes, you could. You know him. You would... capture the essence of him that no other painter would be able to."

Virgil said nothing as he finished off the apple. "I'm better when I can see the subject," he eventually acknowledged. "I could never do him justice."

"Hi, Scott."

"Alan."

Alan hesitated. The greeting had been more of a curt acknowledgement, than a real salutation. "What are you doing?"

"Working."

"Working on what?"

"Working on minding my own business, Alan. Now you mind yours!"

"If you're doing something to do with Dad, don't you think it is my business too?"

"I'm trying to get a handle on International Rescue's supplies. And I don't need you bothering me," Scott snapped. "Now leave me alone!"

"Can I get you something to eat?" Alan offered. "You didn't have breakfast... Or anything last night."

"I'm not hungry, Alan. What I am, is sick of being interrupted."

"Sorry." Alan stood and watched his older brother for a moment. "Are you worried about John?" he eventually asked.

Scott had his nose buried in some paperwork again. "No."

"You must have noticed that he practically hasn't said a word since they got back from..." Alan hesitated. "Since yesterday."

"You should know by now that John's a quiet guy."

"Yes, but he usually says something, if only 'good morning'. He hasn't said anything since I found him on the roof this morning!"

"Maybe he just knows when to leave people alone."

"And what about Virgil? He hasn't stopped eating."

"So...? He's probably hungry."

"And Gordon won't get out of the pool..."

"What's new?"

"But..."

"Alan!" Scott laid down his pen and glared at his brother. "What the others do is their business. They'll get over it. Now leave me alone before I throw you over the balcony!"

Alan decided to save him the bother and walked down the steps and over to the pool. He removed his shoes, rolled up his trouser legs and sat so his feet were dangling in the water. "Hi, Gordon," he said when the swimmer came within talking range.

"Hi," Gordon grunted and turned for anther lap.

Alan waited until it was completed. "Apart from the obvious..." he began, and had to wait until Gordon had finished another lap before he could complete his sentence. "...What's your problem?"

"Problem?" Gordon asked as he turned.

Alan waited until the swimmer had returned. "With John and Virgil."

"Not my problem..." Gordon began, not missing a stroke. "Their's," he said when he returned.

"Okay," Alan tried to sound agreeable. "What's their problem?"

Gordon stopped swimming and clung to the side of the pool. "You really want to know?"

"Yes."

"Would you believe that I suddenly and brutally found out what it's been like to be you all these years?"

"Huh?" Alan scratched his head. "What do you mean; to be 'like me'?"

"To be treated like a little kid, not as an adult."

"What do you mean?" Alan asked again.

Gordon's reply was simple. "They didn't trust me. They didn't think I was grown up enough to be able to handle the situation maturely."

"They being John and Virgil?"

"Yep. And to a lesser extent Scott." Gordon pushed himself backwards off the wall and did two complete laps in backstroke before he stopped again, splashing Alan's trousers in the process.

Alan asked the same question that he'd asked earlier. "What happened?"

"They told me they'd had a 'bam moment'." Gordon gave a bitter laugh. "And I was gullible enough to believe them. I should have realised. They're rare enough as it is. What's the odds of the two of us having a 'bam moment' at the same time?"

"I would hope not very high."

"And I fell for it," Gordon still sounded bitter as he launched himself into the breaststroke. Alan had to wait until he'd completed three full laps of the pool before he stopped again.

"You know why they did that?" Gordon asked. "They didn't think that I could cope."

"No, Alan said. "I think it was more of a case that they weren't sure that they could."

"Did they spin you that line?" Gordon asked.

"Virgil did. John hasn't said anything."

Gordon dunked his head under the pool.

Alan splashed the water with his feet.

"How did you find out?" Gordon suddenly asked. "Who told you it was Dad's plane?"

"I heard a couple of officials talking over the radio," Alan admitted.

"See! Even Scott didn't trust you to be grown-up enough to take it like a man!" Gordon pointed an accusatory finger towards the lounge. "Even he didn't want to tell you!"

"It wasn't like that," Alan tried not to sound as though he were on the defensive. "Scott didn't want me to find out over the radio. He wanted to tell me face-to-face, man-to-man. It just happened that I overheard..."

Gordon snorted.

"How did John and Virgil tell you?"

"John didn't say anything; he just hid away from me."

Alan decided to refrain from saying that John hadn't said much and had hidden away from everybody since the rescue. "So did Virgil tell you?"

"Yeah. Just before we were about to leave."

"See..."

"Do you know what I'd been thinking Alan?"

"No..."

"All through the rescue I was looking at all these burnt and battered and traumatised bodies and thinking 'What was wrong with the pilot? Had he been ill? Had he known that he hadn't been fit enough to fly? Had something gone wrong with the plane? Hadn't it been maintained properly? Was the pilot under the influence of alcohol or drugs? Or was he just some idiot who had no right to be up in the air... Who should never have been given his licence... All through the rescue I was, in my mind, berating this unknown pilot..." Gordon's voice rose in pitch. "And this man I was berating for causing all that misery was my own father... And those two knew and let me think that!"

"They didn't know what you were thinking?" Alan tried to say.

"If you're going to side with them, Alan..."

"I'm not siding with anyone..."

"Then you can just crawl back inside."

"Gordon..."

"I'm done talking." Gordon took a deep breath and sunk beneath the water. He swam down deep to the far end of the pool and stayed there.

Alan waited a moment. When it became obvious that his brother wasn't going to surface until he was alone, Alan decided that he didn't want his brother's drowning on his conscience, and climbed the steps back into the lounge.

Scott was on the phone, the video signal disengaged. "No! We are not interested in making a comment. Goodbye!" He slammed his hand down on the disconnect button.

The phone rang again. Scott answered it.

"Good afternoon," the caller said. "I'm from the 'Universal Mirror'."

Scott hung up.

Alan looked at his watch. The 24-hour amnesty was over.

The phone rang again.

Scott answered. "Tracy Island."

"Wallace Plaidy, World Sun Newsp..."

Scott cancelled the call.

He'd no sooner done this when another sound interrupted their peace. This time it wasn't the ringing of a phone, it was the motor and whirring blades of a hover-plane.

Gordon came running inside. "Hey! There's a NTBS chopper out here!"

"A what?" Most rest of the family had entered the lounge to find out what the unexpected noise was.

"What!?" Scott roared. "Can't they leave us alone?" He ran outside onto the patio and shook his fist at the plane, which was turning in preparation for another filming run on the villa.

"Scott! Stop!" Alan exclaimed. He ran after his brother, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him back inside.

Scott yanked himself free. "Alan! What are you doing?"

"Trying to stop you from exposing us all."

"What?!"

"International Rescue!" Alan reminded him. "We spend all our lives trying to keep out of the media and then you go and stick your face in front of a television camera!"

Scott glared at his youngest brother, and then, without a word, returned to their father's desk.

The phone rang.

Scott answered it. "What?!"

"Scott...? Is that you?"

Scott turned on the phone's video. "Mr Brett? I'm sorry."

Angus Brett had been their parents' solicitor. Alan's earliest memory was of his brothers and himself huddling together in a corner of Mr Brett's office as his mother's will was read out. In general, whenever he'd mentioned this, his family had scoffed, saying he was too young to remember anything of the sort. But still Alan insisted that he remembered the grey, dull walls, the lifeless pot plants, and the unimaginative paintings. Of Mr Brett himself, he'd had no recollection.

When, a few years later, he'd been dragged along to the solicitor's office for some reason, he'd been hit by a strong feeling of déjà vu, but yet again Mr Brett had made next to no impression on him.

"I-Is everything all right?" Mr Brett was asking, somewhat unnerved by Scott's abrupt, and obviously angry, greeting.

"We've been disturbed by the media all day," Scott explained.

"Ah... I understand."

"What can I do for you, Mr Brett?" Scott was being extra polite as he tried to make amends for the way he'd answered the phone.

"I've rung for several reasons," Mr Brett said. "Firstly it's to offer my sincerest sympathies to you all. I've just learned of your tragic loss on the radio."

"Thank you," Scott replied.

"Secondly, I was wondering when would be a good time... And I know that never is a good time..."

"Yes?" Scott prompted.

"To read your father's will?"

Those in the lounge glanced at each other. They hadn't considered the issue of the will. Tin-Tin burst out crying and was comforted by her father.

Almost obscured by the sobs, an intermittent sound was heard from the other side of the room. Alan glanced at Lady Penelope's portrait and saw that the beads and her eyes were flashing in time with the beeps. No one else moved so Alan opened the link. "Hi, Penny."

"Alan." Lady Penelope looked to be less than her usual composed self. In fact she appeared to be in shock. "I've just heard the news. Please tell me it isn't true."

"I wish I could..." Alan began; then he caught himself. "Wait a minute. Hadn't Scott told you?"

"No, Alan. I haven't spoken to anyone this week."

Alan could have kicked himself. "I'm sorry, Penny. I would have thought that you should have been one of the first to know."

There was a muttered, "Typical," from Gordon.

"How is everyone?" she asked.

Alan wasn't sure of the answer so he shrugged.

"I would understand if you and your family would wish to be left alone at this time..."

"Try telling that to the media," Virgil interjected.

"But would you permit Parker and myself to fly out to Tracy Island? I... We should like to offer what little support we can."

"I'm sure we'd all appreciate that, Penny," Alan said. "Do you want someone to pick you up?"

"Please, don't trouble yourself, dear boy," Lady Penelope replied. "We can make our own way there."

"When will we see you?" Alan asked.

Lady Penelope consulted her watch. "I should think tomorrow. Mid-morning if that is convenient."

"I'm sure we'll manage to welcome you with open arms. See you tomorrow, Penny."

"Give my best to everyone, Alan."

"Will do." Alan signed off, turned, crossed his arms and scowled at his brother who was still talking with the solicitor.

"Go to the airport and pick up an air taxi," Scott was saying. "We'll pay for the fare, of course."

Alan scribbled a note. 'Penny coming tomorrow.' He thrust it under Scott's nose.

Scott frowned at his brother, took the note, read it and his frown deepened. "It looks as though a friend of ours is coming here tomorrow, Mr Brett. I'm sure she won't mind picking you up on the way."

Mr Brett seemed pleased at the suggestion. "That would be a great weight off my mind, Scott."

"In the meantime," Scott requested. "Would you mind preparing a press release for us? Something along the lines that we would appreciate being left alone at this time?"

"Press release?" Mr Brett squeaked.

Scott nodded. "Yes, please. We've even had press hover-planes hanging around."

"I-I'll see what I can come up with," an obviously unsure solicitor replied.

Scott had an idea. "Here's my email address," he said. If you need to contact me, email me. I'm going to disconnect the phone so we won't be disturbed."

Mr Brett nodded his approval. "Very well, Scott. I'll contact you shortly to confirm the arrangements." He gave Scott a sympathetic smile. "I know this is hard for you, and I'm sure that the last thing that you and your family want to be bothered with is all the fuss over probates and legacies and such like. Why don't you let me take care of all that?"

Scott looked at Mr Brett in gratitude. "Would you? It would be a weight off my mind. Administration isn't my strong suit. It's one respect where none of us take after him."

"I would be glad to help. What's the name of your father's accountant?"

Scott thought a moment. "Hang on, let me check." He scrolled through his father's address book. "Here it is. 'Bold and Gallagher'. Rex Bold is his accountant." He gave the solicitor the necessary contact details before finishing the phone call in a civilised manner. Then he turned on Alan. "What's the big idea of inviting Penny over?"

Alan decided that in this situation he could give as good as he got. "And what's the big idea not telling her? She's a good friend; she's closer to being a relative than most of our relatives, and so is Parker. They must be feeling pretty hurt at the moment!"

"It's none of their business!" Scott stormed. "This is personal."

"Scott!" Virgil admonished. "I thought you'd called her!"

"Yeah," Gordon agreed. "Me too!"

"If you all feel so strongly about it," Scott snarled, "why didn't any of you give them a call?" An awkward silence followed. "I thought you wouldn't have an answer to that. And since you're all so happy to leave me to do everything, why don't you go away and leave me alone to do just that?" He glared at his brothers. "At least John's had the good sense to keep out of my hair."

It was at that moment that Alan realised that John Tracy had been absent for the last hour.

Mid-morning the following day, Alan headed down to the runway. Soon he saw the distinctive pink aeroplane come swooping out of the blue Pacific skies. It made an almost perfect touchdown and taxied until it was resting in the shade of the cliff.

When flying intercontinental, Lady Penelope chose to take the Fireflash airliner, which was able to accommodate the Rolls Royce, FAB1. The Creighton-Ward yacht, FAB2, was ideal for cruising around sea-bound locales in Europe, but for more out of the way locations, such as Tracy Island, the little jet, registration FAB3, was the preferred mode of transport. Another of Brains' designs, it was compact enough to carry six people in comfort while still having the power to fly through the air at half of Thunderbird Two's speed. Her sister craft, FAB4, resided in the States.

Alan moved forward to help lower the stairs into position and extended his hand to assist Lady Penelope. She made her usual graceful exit, unzipping her pink leather flight jacket as she stepped out of the plane. "Alan!" she cried, pulling him into a warm hug. "I can't tell you how sorry I am. He was a wonderful man. One of a kind."

Alan had been wondering how you were expected to behave around a titled lady in such circumstances, even one who was good friend, and was relieved that Lady Penelope had made the first move. "Thank you for coming, Penny. How was the flight?"

"Quite boring," she replied. "No little dramas to test one's flying skills with."

Alan couldn't suppress a grin. Only Lady Penelope would be disappointed at a 'boring', but ultimately safe, flight.

Parker exited the plane carrying an armful of bags, which he deposited on the tarmac. "H-I'm sorry, Mister Alan." He removed his hat as a mark of respect. "Your father was h-a true gent." He spoke with the air of someone whom wanted to say and do more, but wasn't sure if his position would allow it.

Alan solved his dilemma by holding out his hand. "Thank you, Parker. I know he thought highly of you too." Parker turned slightly pink as he shook the young man's hand.

There was a discreet cough from behind the butler, and Alan suddenly remembered the Angus Brett was on the flight as well. "Mr Brett," he said politely.

"Alan," Mr Brett replied. "I am sorry. Truly sorry."

Angus Brett was a colourless, mousy little man. His hair was thinning and combed across in an ill-fated attempt to hide the fact. His eyes were a watery grey, his suit was grey and even his skin appeared to have absorbed the dull colour. His nose was long and his teeth, hidden beneath his moustache, were prominent. The moustache, his only distinguished characteristic, was dark grey, too large and too bushy for a man of his stature. Unfortunately, in a subconscious attempt to bring attention to what Angus Brett regarded as his most striking feature, he had a tendency to preen this hirsute appendage in a manner reminiscent of a mouse cleaning its whiskers. The action only served to add to the man's rodent-like appearance. Even though he'd known the Tracy family for years, he was not one of those that Jeff Tracy had admitted into International Rescue's circle.

"Shall we go up to the house?" Alan suggested.

Mr Brett went to pick up a suitcase, the weight of which caused him to overbalance.

"Let me," Alan offered and picked up the case with ease. He then put one of Lady Penelope's pink cases under his arm, and grabbed another with his spare hand. "I'm afraid we're going to have to walk up to the house. Grandma's decreed that we're not to use the monocar."

"How is Grandmama?" Lady Penelope asked as they began the climb.

"Wary of everything that Brains has designed. She refuses to even consider the possibility that the crash could in any way be Dad's fault."

"And is there a possibility?"

"We don't know. The air accident inspector's going to be emailing a preliminary report tomorrow. Brains is terrified that because he designed the plane that somehow he's at fault. He's confined himself to his lab and keeps on going over and over his plans, trying to find any weak links. If he does find anything I know he'll be devastated."

"That's unlikely, isn't it?" Lady Penelope negotiated a rock that was jutting out of the path.

"I would have thought so," Alan agreed. "Especially since Virgil, Scott and Dad went over the plans as well. And we all were involved with building the plane. Surely one of us would have noticed if something wasn't right."

"I'm sure you would have," Lady Penelope agreed. "How is everyone else?"

"Don't ask," Alan replied. "John hides himself away and has barely said a word since he got back from the res..." He belatedly remembered the solicitor who was following them up the path. "...from work. Instead of eating with us he grabs whatever's on offer and disappears. And whenever we do see him he can't hear us because he's got his headphones on. I know he's usually quiet, but it's becoming ridiculous. Mind you..." Alan sounded reflective. "The others are nearly as bad."

"How do you mean, Alan?"

"Gordon won't get out of the pool. I know we've always joked that he's part fish, but this is getting past a joke. Virgil won't stop eating and Scott's the complete opposite. As far as I'm aware he hasn't had anything to eat since he heard the news... Except for our heads, which he'll bite off at the slightest provocation..." Alan sighed. "You only need to mention Dad and Tin-Tin bursts out crying, and Kyrano spends all his time in the greenhouse. If he prunes those plants any more there'll be nothing left of them," he continued on grimly. "I'm sorry, Penny, but this is not a good time to visit. As far as I can see I'm the only sane one here and if you were to ask one of the others they'd probably tell you that I've developed some psychosis that I'm not aware of."

Lady Penelope contemplated what he'd said as she negotiated the steep trail. Behind her, laden with bags, Parker and Mr Brett puffed their way up the hill.

"I can't even guarantee you a decent meal," Alan was saying. "Grandma's heart isn't in it anymore. I'm a reasonable cook, I've had to learn to be, living alone on Th..." once again he belatedly remembered Angus Brett's lack of knowledge of International Rescue, "...on the mainland. But she won't let anyone else near the kitchen. She's cooking all day and practically everything's inedible."

"Do you know anything about what happened?" Lady Penelope asked.

"Only that he was seen getting into the plane, there was no mayday and no one saw a parachute. So it seems as though he... he was... already..." Alan's voice broke and he dropped the luggage. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket.

Lady Penelope stopped walking to give the young man a chance to gather himself together. She turned back to her two older companions. "This is a wonderful view," she said gesturing out over the green of the palm trees, the golden beaches and the blue Pacific Ocean. "One should take this path to the house more often. It offers so much more than the ride in the monocar."

Parker, dressed in his heavy chauffeur's uniform and carrying four weighty suitcases, was less enamoured with the suggestion.

Angus Brett gave a squeak of agreement and tried to ignore the blisters that were forming on his heels.

Alan sniffed and rubbed his nose. "Sorry," he apologised. He pocketed his handkerchief, picked up his bags again and started walking.

The others followed in that awkward silence that tends to follow such moments.

As they neared the villa they heard a shout. "Gordon! Get out of there! Penny will be here in a moment!"

"So what, Scott? It's not like she's never seen me in the pool before!"

"Get your butt in here! Now!"

Lady Penelope and Parker were stunned. This wasn't the playful banter that they expected to hear between the Tracy brothers. There was a real antagonism in the two men's voices.

"Welcome to our happy home," Alan said with more than a trace of irony. "We'll go the back way and give Gordon the chance to make up his own mind to get out of the pool."

Feeling somewhat bewildered, the trio followed him. They walked through a heavily pruned garden to the back of the villa and into the kitchen.

Grandma was cooking, but instead of the usual aromatic smells that both Lady Penelope and Parker associated with her art, there was a strong odour of burnt pots and overcooked food.

"Grandmama!" Lady Penelope greeted her. "How are you, my dear?"

"Lady Penelope," Grandma replied. "It's so good of you to come. You too, Parker." She held up her hands. "I'm afraid I'm covered in flour. Go through to the lounge and make yourselves at home." Angus Brett shuffled his feet. "Hello, Mr Brett."

"Good morning, Mrs Tracy."

Lady Penelope followed Alan through the door.

Almost immediately their ear drums were assaulted with the sounds of more shouting. "John Tracy!" Scott bellowed, pounding on the door. "Get out here now!"

The door slid open part way revealing John, still clad in his black pyjamas. "No."

"Aren't you dressed yet? You know Penny's coming today!"

"She's here." John put his headphones over his ears and took a step backwards. The door slammed shut.

"Huh?" Scott turned. "Penny..." He smiled in greeting, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "How are you? Did you have a good trip?"

"Most quiet," Lady Penelope admitted as she embraced him.

"Parker," Scott shook hands. "Mr Brett... Ah... Shall we go through to the lounge? I'm sure John won't be long."

Alan gave their guests an apologetic look. "I'll put your bags in your rooms."

They entered the sun-filled room to be greeted by the last two members of the Tracy family. As the greetings were made, Alan glanced at the row of portraits on the wall and was relieved to see that Scott had had the presence of mind to initiate Operation Cover-Up.

Virgil smiled at the visitors. "I'm covered in chocolate so I won't get too close. That's one of the disadvantages of living on a tropical island; the heat."

"Virgil!" Scott snapped. "Go and wash your hands!" Virgil glanced at his brother but made no comment.

"And once you've done that," Gordon sneered, "roll over and he might scratch your tummy."

Virgil gave him a neutral stare, but decided that it was easier to leave the room than argue with his brothers.

Gordon extended his hand in greeting and gave Scott a sideways look. "I'm dry and I'm clean, so I'll be civil. Thanks for coming, Penny. Parker."

Lady Penelope gave him a hug before she sat on one of the chairs. "I know I said it before, but I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am. Your father was a wonderful man."

Scott had reclaimed the desk. "Thanks, Penny. Sorry I didn't call and tell you personally, but I've been busy trying to catch up with everything." He indicated the papers lying about in front of him.

"He didn't even have time to tell us that he didn't have time to tell you," Gordon said. "It seems that the older members of this family have no conception of the proper way to break bad news." This time the sideways look was directed towards John, who had just entered the room, wearing his headphones.

"Gordon, shut up!" Scott snapped.

"How are you, John?" Lady Penelope asked. He didn't reply. "John?"

John didn't appear to hear her.

Alan, followed by Virgil, who was munching on a candy bar, returned. "Grandma says that lunch is ready," he said without enthusiasm.

Lunch was less than appetising. John had been about to grab some food and leave when he'd been ordered to stay by Scott. He'd glared at his brother and, grudgingly, had remained at the meal table still wearing his headphones. Scott, out of consideration for their guests, had sat at the table, but had not eaten. In contrast Virgil appeared to eat enough for the both of them. Gordon had been civil to Lady Penelope, Parker and Mr Brett, but had made his disdain for his older brothers obvious. Grandma kept on making little remarks that made it clear where she laid the blame for their misfortune. Alan spent the meal wishing he could crawl away and hide from the embarrassment that his family was causing him.

Grandma laid her cutlery on her plate. "How did you get here, Lady Penelope?" she asked.

Lady Penelope had been trying to wash away the taste of burnt eggs with a cup of tea. "We came in FAB3."

"Oh?" Mrs Tracy looked surprised. "Don't you think it would be prudent to fly by air taxi? At least until after the accident report comes out? You don't know what design faults they might find, and I should hate to think what might happen should those faults be present in your plane too."

Brains dropped his coffee mug. It landed on the table, splashing everything and everyone in the near vicinity, before it rolled off the edge. He quickly ducked down out of sight to retrieve it.

Angus Brett cleared his throat. "Where would you like me to read Jeff's will?" he squeaked.

Scott stood. "I guess the lounge is as good as anywhere."

Mr Brett cleared his throat again. "Ah... Isn't there somewhere more private?"

"Parker and I are quite willing to retire to our rooms, aren't we, Parker?"

"Yes, m'Lady."

"I'm, ah, afraid, that's it is not only you who is not a party to the will, Lady Penelope," Mr Brett admitted.

Scott sat down again. "Then who do you want?"

Angus Brett looked at his plate. "Jeff's sons."

"And?" Scott asked.

"Just... Just you, Scott. And John, and Virgil, and Gordon, and Alan."

Scott stared at the solicitor. "But what about Grandma?"

"And Brains?" Virgil asked.

"And Kyrano?" Gordon added.

"And Tin-Tin?" Alan exclaimed. "Dad always said he'd included everyone in his will. He said everyone who lived on the island was a part of his family and would be treated as such."

"I-I'm sorry," Mr Brett stammered. "But I can't go into the details now, but Jeff came to see me last time he was in Kansas and altered the details of his will. I can only say that the only people mentioned in Jeff Tracy's final will are his five sons."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"Don't worry," Scott eventually said. "We'll make sure you're all looked after."

"Yes," Alan nodded. "It's what he would have wanted. I'm sure of that."

There were nods of affirmation from the other three bewildered boys.

"Shall we go to the study?" Scott suggested. "That's private."

As Mr Brett and the five Tracy men walked into the study and pulled back the curtains to let in the light, Alan couldn't help but feel that this wasn't the room that he should be in. It had always been his father's private workspace; a place where the Tracy patriarch could retire and not be interrupted. Alan felt as if he were intruding into a sacred site.

His brothers appeared to feel the same as they stood around in an awkward manner, watching as Angus Brett pulled the leather chair out from behind their father's desk, placed his briefcase on the antique mahogany finish and withdrew some papers. He sat down and looked at five anxious faces.

"Better get it over with." Scott pulled up a chair so it was facing the desk and sat down. The others followed suit.

There was a rustling sound.

"Can't you stop eating for ten minutes?" Scott yanked a candy bar out of Virgil's hands and threw it onto the table in front of them. He ignored his brother's hurt look. "And take those headphones off, John!"

"I can hear okay," John replied.

Scott leant over and ripped the audio device off his brother's head. "You can listen to that later!" He sat back. "Okay, Mr Brett. We're ready..."

No one else moved from the dining room after the men had departed. Tin-Tin began sobbing and Lady Penelope handed her a dainty handkerchief.

"I am old," Mrs Tracy said. "I did not expect to be remembered. I am sure that Jeff thought that he would outlive me. But you..." she indicated the Kyranos. "I was sure that you would have been uppermost in Jefferson's thoughts when he made out his will."

"Do not worry yourself, Mrs Tracy," Kyrano said. "I have no need of material things."

"I know," she replied. "But even so..." Grandma looked at Tin-Tin's tearful face. "Now don't you worry," she said with conviction. "I am sure that the boys will look after you. Jeff brought them up properly."

"I-I am sure th-that I-I am not d-deserving of any i-i-inheritance," Brains stuttered.

And Grandma didn't deny it.

Angus Brett, having just disclosed the contents of the will, lay the document on the table in front of him. "So," he said, "in a nutshell, everything your father owned is divided equally amongst the five of you."

"Great! So we're rich," Gordon said in a flat voice. "I'd give every cent away if it meant I could have him back."

There was a murmuring of agreement from his brothers.

Mr Brett cleared his throat. "I'm, ah, I'm afraid it's not that easy, Gordon. I've been looking into your father's finances... and it appears that he wasn't as well off as everyone thought... Including me, I might add."

Scott looked at the solicitor. "What do you mean, not 'as well off'?"

"I mean... And I'm sorry to have to tell you all this... but it appears that your father has made several large purchases over the last few years..."

The five Tracy brothers looked at each other, certain that they knew what those purchases were for.

International Rescue.

"And..." Angus Brett continued on. "He has exceeded his available capital."

"Meaning?" Scott asked.

"Meaning... that... towards the end of his life... your father was borrowing heavily."

"So there's no money left?" Alan asked.

"Not only that, but he has left several large debts..."

"That's okay," Gordon said. "We've all got our own savings. We can pay them back, right, fellas?"

His brothers nodded their agreement.

Mr Brett cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, I'm not talking a few hundred dollars, but closer to several billion. I have a letter from his accountant to prove it. Would the five of you have that much money between you?" He handed the letter to a numb Scott. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad tidings."

There was a rustling sound. Virgil was eating the candy bar again.

Those in the lounge looked up when six extremely solemn looking men paraded back into the room. John was wearing his headphones again and he retired to a chair in a corner.

Gordon flopped into another chair, on the other side of the room. "Well," he announced. "You can all count yourselves lucky you weren't mentioned in the will 'cause you're better off than we are. We're broke."

"More than broke," Virgil had seated himself at the piano. "We're in debt... Up to here," he added waving the hand that wasn't holding a packet of sweets above his head.

"A debt as big as this island," Alan groaned.

"I'm sorry." Mr Brett was clearly at a loss as to what else he should say.

"But... Jeff Tracy was one of the richest men in the world!" Lady Penelope exclaimed.

"Yeah!" Parker agreed. "H-Everyone knows that."

"Apparently one person knew that wasn't true, so he minimised the risk to others," Scott said, his elbows on his father's desk, his head in his hands. "That's why we're the only ones mentioned in his will."

"But what about insurances?" Lady Penelope asked. "I would assume that Jeff would have had adequate life insurance."

The five Tracy sons perked up slightly at the idea.

But Mr Brett was shaking his head. "I don't think you should get your hopes up in that regard. The insurance companies will take their time in paying out," he explained. "Under the circumstances, because of the size of the debts, they may form the opinion that... Jeff..."

Everyone looked at him.

"...So the debts could be repaid..." Mr Brett hesitated. "...Took his own life."

"No way!" Scott exploded. "He'd never do that!"

"Especially not in a way that would risk other people's lives!" Virgil exclaimed.

Alan agreed. "There's no way he'd fly a plane purposefully into a mall!"

"He was a fighter," Gordon stated. "He wouldn't give up. He'd fight until he'd paid the money back somehow!"

"Knowing Jeff, I would agree with you," Mr Brett soothed, "but insurance companies are never keen on paying out, especially on large claims. They would want to fully investigate the circumstances behind your father's death. And their investigations would take time... It's time that you don't have," he added.

"You mean these debts have got to be paid soon?" Scott asked.

"Not necessarily soon, but each debt is accumulating interest at an astronomical rate. Should you wait too long even your father's insurance might not be enough to repay what is owing."

The room fell into silence.

"I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news," Mr Brett said. "Especially at a time such as this. But I'm sure you understand the urgency of the situation."

"We understand," Scott replied. "Thank you for being so up front with us."

Silence descended again.

"If there's any way I can help?" Lady Penelope asked.

"Thanks, Penny. But I think this is one time where we can't call on you," Scott told her.

"You realise that we're all going to have to get real jobs," Gordon said.

"We've got the skills, but who's going to employ us?" Alan asked. "As far as the world knows we could have been pretending to be working for our father when in fact we've been lazing about doing nothing. We haven't even got decent references."

"And even supposing that we do all manage to walk into suitable jobs straight away," Virgil reached into his bag of sweets. "There's no way that we'll earn enough to pay the debts! Not with that amount of money owing."

"And look at what we'll be giving up!" Scott indicated their row of portraits on the wall. To Mr Brett the gesture meant nothing other than the loss of their way of life. To everyone else it meant the end of International Rescue.

"John!" Alan gave vent to his frustrations. "Will you say something?! We're talking about the end of everything Dad worked for!"

John looked even more miserable as he adjusted his headphones.

"Well said as usual, John." Gordon's voice dripped with sarcasm. "You always know the right thing to say."

"Shut up, Gordon," Scott snapped.

"And you're just as bad!" Gordon snapped back.

"Why you..."

"I know it's been a shock to you all," Mr Brett interrupted, "and you need time to think and to talk amongst yourselves. I feel that if I were to stay I would only be in the way. Perhaps... Would you allow me to call for an air taxi?"

Lady Penelope stood. "No. I won't hear of it. I will fly you home, Mr Brett. As you said, this is something for the family to discuss and we would be in the way." She turned back to the Tracys. "Please, all of you, remember that I am only a video call away. If I can help in any way, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thanks, Penny," Scott mumbled. "We'll be in touch... One way or another."

04 Four: The Sale

Parker pulled open the stately double doors that led into the lounge. Swinging opening these doors always gave him a feeling of pleasure and contentment. Unlike modern doors that quietly slid open at the wave of a finger, the manual manipulation of two large slabs of oak, gave him a... sense of occasion! Of grandeur!

He entered the room, closing the doors behind him. His mistress was seated at a table laden with a silver tea-service; a delicate china cup at her elbow. It was, he noticed as he drew closer, still full of Earl Grey and cold. "M'Lady?"

Lady Penelope appeared to awaken out of her reverie and looked up at him. "Yes, Parker?"

"Was the tea not to your likin'?"

"Tea?

Parker indicated the cup.

"Oh!" Lady Penelope picked it up and regarded it with distaste. "I'm afraid it is past its best."

"Yes, m'Lady." Parker began packing the tea service on its tray. "Would H-I be right in h-assuming that h-if H-I were to offer you h-a penny for your thoughts, H-I would be wastin' me money?"

"Quite probably, Parker. I can't believe that he is no longer with us."

"Mr Tracy?"

"Mr Tracy," Lady Penelope confirmed. "He was such a vibrant, caring, generous man. It seems impossible..."

"Yes, m'Lady," Parker agreed.

"And that poor family!"

"They're takin' h-it 'ard."

"Very hard. Alan was right. John barely said a word while we were there."

"H-And Mister Virgil's packing h-on the beef."

"While Scott appears to be, ah, losing 'the beef', just as quickly. And Gordon's hair! What that chlorine is doing to it! I wish I could introduce him to my hair stylist for some remedial work."

"H-I sent 'em h-a sympathy card, but H-I saw that they 'adn't h-opened the mail bag. H-I'm sure Mr Tracy would 'ave 'ad plenty of h-acquaintances 'oo would've wanted to send their condolences. There wasn't h-a card h-in the place."

"I noticed that too. It's as if they are trying to cut themselves off from the world."

"No wonder, with the press botherin' them. H-After h-all these years h-of tryin' to h-avoid the spotlight."

"They must be feeling like they are trapped in a fish bowl."

"H-And knowin' that they're goin' to 'ave to give h-up, H-International Rescue," Parker shook his head. "That's been their lives. H-It was Mr Tracy's dream."

"They possibly could have coped with Jeff's death if they knew they could still carry on with his work," Lady Penelope mused. "But now..."

"H-And to cap h-it off, that lawyer codger goes h-and tells 'em they're broke, wiv h-a debt the size of Mount H-Everest!"

"That is what is really worrying. This whole affair has knocked them badly. I shudder to think what that news has done to them. I wish I could help, but I don't have that kind of money. Even if I were to sell the family home..."

"M'Lady!" Parker exclaimed, aghast at the idea.

"I wouldn't. And it's such a monstrosity that the only people who would buy it are developers who would knock the manor down and build some characterless subdivision, or convert it to flats, or something equally disgusting. No, if nothing else one must be assured of a roof over ones head that one can call home." Lady Penelope sighed. "That poor family," she repeated. "I wish there was something I could do to help them..."

Alan entered the lounge to find most of his family present. As he'd expected Scott was sitting at their father's desk, pouring over some documents, and Alan had decided to do something about it. "Scott, we can help you with that!"

Scott looked up and for once there wasn't anger in his face, but sadness. "What, Alan?"

"You don't have to shoulder all the paperwork. We're all in this together. We're equal 'beneficiaries' under the will, so therefore we should help with the running of the business. You're not cut out to be stuck behind a desk all day. Let us help!"

Scott indicated the papers in his hands. "This isn't to do with business. It's the Air Accident Inspector's interim report."

At his words the room was stilled. "What does it say?" Grandma asked.

"Hang on. Gordon should hear this too. I'll get him." Virgil left the piano and went to the balcony.

"I'll get John," Alan offered. "I guess he's in his room, asleep."

Virgil was leaning over the balustrade so he could yell down towards the pool. "Gordon...! Gordon...! Come up here!" He waited; a frown on his face. "It's no good. He's not listening to me."

"Let me," Tin-Tin offered. "Gordon," she called. "Please come inside for a moment."

"Okay. I'll be with you in a minute."

Alan re-entered the lounge, followed by John. The latter was in his pyjamas and was in the process of tying his robe about him. He claimed a seat and adjusted his headphones.

Soon afterwards they heard footsteps coming up the outside stairs. "What's up?" Gordon asked.

"Scott's got the A.A.I.'s report," Tin-Tin told him.

"Oh." Gordon walked past the empty seat next to John, placed a towel on the chair beside Brains, and sat down.

Grandma claimed the seat beside John. "What does the report say, Scott?"

Scott cleared his throat and summarised the document. "It says that Jefferson Tracy was seen boarding his plane. The control tower received a request from him to take off, which was granted. His plane left the airport. Five minutes later it was seen on radar to do a sharp dive. It crashed into the Sunflower Mall injuring 116 people, 18 critically. 36 people were killed..." He paused. "Including the pilot."

There was silence, apart from Tin-Tin's tears, as his words sunk home.

"D-D-D-Do they know wh-wh-wh-what c-c-c-caused the c-c-c-crash?" Brains stammered out.

"No. They've removed the remains of the plane to a sealed hangar so they can examine them fully."

This time the silence lasted longer.

"So that's that," Virgil eventually said. "I think a part of me was hoping that maybe he'd been bopped on the head and his plane stolen, but I guess that report's pretty conclusive." He reached into his pocket and pulled out something to eat.

Alan realised that he'd been holding onto a similar dream. "I suppose we're going to have to start thinking about the funeral. Virgil, you can decide on what music to have. John, you can come up with some appropriate poems or readings or something..."

"Alan!" Scott interrupted. "There's not going to be a funeral. Not a conventional one anyway."

His family stared at him. "What!?"

"The report says," Scott explained. "That the explosion when the plane crashed was so intense that there's... that..." He struggled for the words. "That there's nothing to bury."

Hearing a choked sound from his grandmother John put his arm around her shoulders to comfort her.

Tin-Tin's sobs grew louder.

Scott continued his explanation. "They had to use a DNA scanner to confirm the identity of the pilot."

Gordon found himself back in the pool. He had no recollection of leaving the lounge and walking or running down the steps. He didn't remember diving in. All he was aware of was the reassuring caress of the waters on his body. He dove down to the bottom of the pool feeling the water embrace him. Comforting him and protecting him from the knowledge that one of the people that he'd held dearest had gone forever.

Still in the lounge, Alan looked at his family. He couldn't remember ever seeing them all so depressed.

Scott was talking to Brains. "Because it's 'experimental' the A.A.I. needs the plans for the plane."

Brains nodded. "I-I can do that... I-I, ah, would like to talk to the inspector, Scott."

"I'll get him on the phone."

A short time later Brains was taking with the chief Air Accident Inspector. "Do you have a-any i-idea wh-wh-what c-c-c-c..."

"Caused the accident?" the A.A.I. guessed. "Not as yet. That's why we need the plans."

"I-I will send them th-through shortly," Brains stated. "I'll s-send e-everything I have. Photos, pictures, diagrams... Ah, S-Scott has your email address?"

"Yes," the inspector said as Scott nodded.

Brains hesitated. "I-I know it's irregular. B-But could I, ah... W-Would it be acceptable if I were to w-watch?"

The inspector frowned. "I don't know that that's a good..."

"I'll sit back. I-I won't t-touch anything," Brains promised. "I-I n-need to know wh-what happened as m-much as you do."

The inspector shook his head. "No. I'm sorry but we can't allow it."

For a moment Brains looked as if he was going to plead his case. Then he nodded. "I-I u-understand."

While this was going on, Alan was looking at the unopened bags of mail. They were bigger than usual and he had no doubt they were full of sympathy cards. He decided that maybe at this time everyone needed to know that others had remembered them and, like Lady Penelope and Parker, wanted to offer their support. He pulled a bag open.

"What are you doing?" Scott asked.

Normally Alan would have been tempted to be flippant, but instead he gave a straightforward reply. "I'm going through the mail." He sat on the floor and started stacking the envelopes in piles, labelling each under his breath as he did so. "Sympathy... Sympathy... Account... Scott... John... Sympathy... Gordon... Sympathy... Grandma... Me..." He opened the envelope and read a message of condolence from one of the men who'd been his main competition during his racing days. Then he resumed stacking the mail. "Sympathy... Tin-Tin... Sympathy... Sympathy for Virgil... Tracy Ind..." He looked at the letter more closely. "'The Estate of Jefferson Tracy,' he read out. "This one's from 'Walker and Crawford'. Aren't they the company's solicitors?"

Scott held out his hand. "Give me the Tracy Industries ones. I'll look at them later." He dropped the envelope onto the desk.

"Here's one from Aunt Bella," Alan said, opening an envelope and removing the card. A white fluffy bear, with mournful eyes, stared back at him. "Sorry to hear you're not well," he read and chuckled. "Typical. She's gone and sent us a 'get well soon' card. She probably liked the picture."

Ignored by his family, he resumed his self-appointed task.

Some time later Scott made a phone call. "I got your email, Mr Brett."

"Hello, Scott. How is everyone?"

Scott shrugged and gave an enigmatic reply. "Coping."

"I may have some good news for you," Mr Brett explained. "It's one of those wonderful coincidences that happen in this world. I was thinking about your problem before I saw another of my clients. In the course of our meeting he happened to mention that he would like to buy an island. He's envisaging a tropical paradise. Naturally I thought of you."

Scott blinked at the solicitor. "An island?"

Mr Brett nodded. "Yes. I hadn't mentioned anything about your situation and I haven't told him that I'm working for you. But he's an extremely wealthy man. Without getting into specifics I told him about your dilemma and he's interested in taking on your debts in exchange for your island."

"Tracy Island?" Scott clarified.

"Yes," Mr Brett nodded.

"Our... Our home?"

"Yes," Mr Brett repeated.

"But we've never considered selling it. We've never even thought about it."

"I can believe that, and I know it seems to be a drastic measure, but as it could be the solution to your problems, I urge you all to think about it. I don't need to remind you that the interest on the debts is growing."

"No, you don't," Scott agreed.

"I'm emailing through the contract now," Mr Brett told him. "Then the five of you can discuss it between you."

"Yes, Sir. We'll do that."

"I'll catch an air taxi and see you tomorrow," Mr Brett offered.

"Thank you," Scott replied. "We'll read the contract through and give you our decision then." A beep from the computer told him that the email had arrived. He opened the attachment and printed out five copies. Then he went to the patio and leant over the railing. "Gordon! Would you come up here?"

"In a minute."

"Now, Gordon! It's important! Get up here!" Scott spied a figure in the distance, sitting in the shade of a palm tree. "Come inside, John!"

John didn't move.

Gordon, deciding that his two choices were to either show John up by being first into the lounge or to flaunt Scott's authority, launched himself out of the pool and up the stairs.

Scott made an angry sound and lifted his wristwatch communicator. "Come in, John..." There was no reply. Scott made another angry exclamation and sent a tactile signal to his brother's watch.

A moment later John was looking back at him through the video monitor in the timepiece. "What?"

"Come inside."

"Why?"

"Because I said so!" Scott changed channel. "Alan! Get in here now!"

"Okay, Scott," Alan agreed. "I'm on my way."

"No..." Scott contradicted himself. "Meet us in the study. We'll discuss this in private first."

"Discuss what?" Alan asked.

Scott hung up on him.

Gordon looked uncomfortable. "Do we have to meet in the study? Can't it be here?"

"The study's more private," Scott reminded him.

"I realise that, but... It doesn't feel right somehow. It was Dad's. Why don't we meet in one of our rooms, or the library?"

Scott considered the suggestion before firing up his watch again. "Alan! We're meeting in the library."

Alan, who was hovering reluctantly outside his father's study door, was glad of the change of venue.

"Anyone seen Virgil?" Scott asked as he led two of his four brothers down the hall.

"At a guess," Gordon said. "Since he hasn't been depressing us all with his piano playing, he's in the kitchen."

"I'll go get him," Scott said. "You guys meet us in the library. Get something dry on, Gordon."

"I am dry."

"I'm not going to enter into a debate with you. Just do it!"

Scott found Virgil going through his grandmother's baking, trying to find something edible.

Virgil held out a tin. "Would you like a biscuit?"

"No."

"You should eat something, Scott. You haven't had anything in days."

Scott ignored the comment. "The five of us are having a meeting in the library."

"Meeting? What about?"

"If you'd stop thinking about your stomach for five minutes, Virgil, and would just go to the library you'd find out!"

Virgil tried not to sound aggrieved at his brother's accusation. "Okay," he shrugged. "I'll bring the tin. The others might feel like having something."

"This is a meeting, not a social function!"

"But..."

"And you are not to eat in the library! We don't want crumbs on the floor."

"Okay," Virgil agreed again with little enthusiasm. He stopped by the pantry on the way out and grabbed some snack bars.

John and Alan had set up a table and placed five chairs around it by the time Scott and Virgil arrived.

Gordon arrived seconds later, towelling down his hair. "What's this about?"

Scott waited till they were all seated. "I've been talking to Mr Brett. He thinks he's found a solution to our problem." His brothers listened attentively. "It's going to mean big changes to us all."

"Whatever happens it's going to mean changes," Virgil said. "What's his suggestion?"

"He said one of his other clients is willing to take on our debts in exchange for Tracy Island."

"What!" His brothers stared at him.

"Here are copies of the contract," Scott handed them around the table. "I want us all to read it and then we should make a decision..."

The five of them spent the next ten minutes perusing the documents. The only sound in the library was the occasional rustle of paper as a page was turned, and the crackle of a snack bar wrapper.

Eventually Scott laid his papers down on the paper. "Seems straightforward enough. Anyone have any thoughts?"

"What about International Rescue?" Alan asked. "If we leave Tracy Island we've got no chance of keeping it going."

"We haven't anyway," Scott reminded him. "With no money we can't afford to. I've been going over the figures... Do you have any idea how much the organisation costs to run?" Four brothers shook their heads. "It's no wonder he went into debt."

"But to sell the island..." Virgil sat back in his chair. "Father loved it here. Don't we have any other options?"

"If you can think of any I'd love to hear them," Scott told him.

"John could go on a speaking circuit," Gordon suggested.

"If you don't have anything sensible to say, Gordon..."

"It's not only us we've got to consider," Alan noted. "What about Grandma and Tin-Tin and Kyrano and Brains? Where are they going to live?"

"And where are we going to live?" Gordon asked.

"Father's got property all over the world," Scott reminded him.

"Well why don't we sell them?" Gordon asked. "We can't sell our home."

"Because we have a buyer for the island and it's worth more than the other properties put together... Who knows how long the other places could be on the market? And all the time the debt's getting bigger."

"So you're saying we should sell the island, cut our losses, and run?" Alan clarified.

"I'm saying it's an option... and that at the moment it's the only real option we have."

"Okay, I'm going to play the devil's advocate," Gordon said. "Supposing we go ahead with this plan to sell Tracy Island. What do we do about International Rescue? What about the infrastructure of the place? What do we do about the Thunderbirds and the rest of the equipment?"

The five of them looked at each other.

"We're going to have to destroy them," Scott said. At the resulting outbreak of complaint he held up his hand. "I know. I hate the idea too. But what else can we do? It's not like we can store them anywhere... I mean, at a pinch, Thunderbird Four could be stored in a shed somewhere, but where could we put Thunderbird Two and Three?"

"I can't destroy Thunderbird Two," Virgil declared. "Why don't we just seal up the hangars so no one can get in?"

"That's fine until someone decides to reline the pool or extend the plane hangars into the cliff," Scott pointed out. "Then our secret will be exposed and someone else will have their hands on our equipment... possibly the wrong person... Someone who'll use them for their own ends. Do you want Thunderbird Two to be used to bring the world to its knees?"

"No," Virgil said quietly.

"Do you have any other suggestions?"

Virgil shook his head, clearly unhappy.

"Anyone?" Scott asked.

No one did.

Scott took a deep breath. "I can't see that we have any option... Hands up all those who want to sell Tracy Island." He raised his hand.

No one moved.

Scott dropped his arm and glared at them all.

"I think you'd better rephrase that, Scott," Gordon suggested.

"For Pete's sake! Okay! Hand's up all those who think we should sell Tracy Island because we have no other option!" He demonstrated how he expected the others to proceed.

Five brothers looked at each other.

"I know we're all thinking the same thing," Alan said. "We don't want to sell, but we all know that we have no choice. And, honestly, what have we got to keep us here? We came to this island so we could operate International Rescue in secret. Now we can't afford to keep International Rescue going, we've no reason to stay." He sighed. "I don't want to do it, but I'll be the one to set the ball rolling." He raised his hand.

John looked at the men seated about the table, and then, with obvious unwillingness, raised his arm.

"Just so long as we find somewhere safe to hide Thunderbird Four," Gordon stated, lifting his arm off the table.

They all looked at Virgil. "I don't know that I can," he said.

"All you care about is your precious Thunderbird!" Gordon stated. "You don't care about the rest of us, or Grandma, or Tin-...!"

"Don't care!?" Virgil rejoined. "You're the one who's put a proviso on his vote to save his Thunderbird. None of us have that option!"

"Virgil..." Scott began.

"No!" Virgil got to his feet and started pacing. "I'm not only thinking about Thunderbird Two. I'm thinking that father didn't live here solely because of International Rescue. He lived here because he loved it! He loved the clear skies, he loved the Pacific Ocean. He loved the fact that we were all able to live and work together. He LOVED Tracy Island! And I don't know about you guys, but so do I!" He turned and looked at his brothers. "What about Grandma? She's sold her home! Where's she going to live? With us? Alone? And do you realise that if we leave here we'll all end up going our separate ways? None of us want to be tied to a desk at Tracy Industries head office. We want to be out doing what we're good at and enjoy! I'd want to be doing something to do with engineering. You'll want to be flying all over the world," he pointed at Scott, before switching his attention to Gordon. "You'll probably end up doing oceanographic research at the bottom of the sea somewhere... You'll be touring with a racing team," he reminded Alan. "And you'll probably sign up with a space station, John. We could end up miles... fathoms... half a world away from each other. Have any of you thought about that?" He leant on the back of his chair and glowered at his brothers.

Alan tried to sound reasonable. "I'm sure we all have thought of that, Virgil. The problem is that, whatever happens, we can't stay here. If we do stay what are we going to live on?"

Virgil flung his arm towards the window. "There's an ocean of fish out there. And Kyrano's garden."

"Fair enough," Alan agreed. "But you said yourself that we're going to want to do what we love. To do that we need money... or at least contact with the outside world. What are you going to do? Tinker with Thunderbird Two for the rest of your life? Sooner or later you're going to need money for tools, parts, fuel... And you won't have any. Sooner or later our place on the island would become untenable and we'd have to leave. And when we leave we'll have nothing to start again with. No one will want to know us. The name of Tracy will mean nothing. This way's hard, but the alternative is harder."

Virgil sat down heavily on his chair; folded his arms on the table and buried his head in them. "I can't," he mumbled into his sleeve.

John reached out to his brother, giving Virgil's shoulders a comforting squeeze.

Scott made as if he were going to mimic the gesture, but stopped himself.

An alarm went off.

"I don't believe this," Scott moaned. "We can't go on a rescue now." He glared at Alan. "Didn't you turn it off?"

"No. I hadn't thought that we might be shutting down International Rescue."

Virgil sat up again. "What do we do?"

"We can't go," Gordon stated. "It's as simple as that."

"Why not?" Alan asked. Four brothers looked at him as he leant forward, concentrating on his eldest brother. "Scott, you've been going through our inventory, haven't you?"

"Yes..."

"Are we short of anything?"

"No," Scott shook his head.

There was a knock on the door to the library and Tin-Tin poked her head inside. "I-I'm sorry. I-I wasn't sure if you'd..."

Scott stood. "We heard it. Come on, fellas."

She opened the door completely and stood back to let them through. "What are you going to do? You're not going to respond, are you?"

"Why not?" Gordon asked. "It's probably going to be our last rescue. We may as well make the most of it."

Scott made a beeline for his father's desk and opened a radio link. "This is International Rescue. Go ahead."

"Ah! International Rescue! Good! We need your help! There's been an accident in a research warehouse."

"What kind of accident?"

"Chemicals have mixed together to form a gaseous hazard. It's lethal..."

Scott frowned. "Can't you evacuate the area?"

"We have. But there's two workmen trapped in a sealed room inside the building. They can't get out because of the gas and we can't get to them. So far we've been lucky because it's a heavy gas and there's no wind today, but if we get so much as a breeze, that gas is going to be blown over a highly populated area. If it touches the skin it means instant death."

"Nice," Gordon muttered.

"Can you give our expert the details of the chemicals?" Scott asked.

Brains listened, nodding, as various elements of the periodic table were read out. "W-We can deal with that."

"Thank heavens," the man sounded relieved.

"T-Take filters one and eight, V-Virgil."

"F-A-B."

"Which part of the world are you?" Scott asked, making notes.

"Oh, sorry. I forgot to tell you. The United States. Kansas... but I guess you know where that is after your last rescue."

Everyone looked at each other. No one said a word.

"A-Are you still there?" the caller asked.

"Sorry," Scott apologised. "We were just deciding how we're going to handle this. We'll get back to you when we've made our plans." He disconnected the link, sitting back in his father's chair. "Kansas..."

"That's irony for you," Gordon said. "The part of the world were we started, is the part where International Rescue is finishing."

Scott looked at his brothers. "Who wants to go? Virgil? Gordon? Alan? John?"

"Try and stop us, Scott."

"Of course we want to go."

"We can't back out now."

"Definitely."

Scott looked down, running his finger along his father's desk. "I wish I could come."

"You don't have to stay, Scott," Alan told him. "We need you at the danger zone. It wouldn't be the same without you ordering us about."

"I-I'll stay here," Brains offered. "I can k-keep communications open and I'll have a-access to my c-computer database."

"Okay..." Scott was a mixture of reluctance and desire. "This is what we'll do. I'll take Thunderbird One. Gordon can come with me..."

"Huh?" Gordon said. "Why?"

"Because we can't afford personality clashes while we're on a mission. Until you start getting along with Virgil and John I'm keeping you as far apart from them as possible."

"Until I start getting along?!"

Scott ignored him. "Alan and John, you both go in Thunderbird Two." He looked uncertainly at his eldest brother. "Leave the headphones at home, okay?" John gave him a look that clearly read 'what do you take me for?' "We'll need the suction unit and the polyplastic bag as well as those filters. Which were they again, Brains?"

"O-One and eight, Scott."

"One and eight. Have you got that Virgil...?" Scott looked at the group in front of him. "Where is Virgil?"

"He went into the kitchen," Tin-Tin told him.

"Typical," Gordon said. "Leave him. We don't need him. I'll fly Thunderbird Two."

Scott scowled at the aquanaut. "We're not leaving anyone! I told you, you're coming with me!"

Virgil entered the lounge. He placed what looked like a thick-shake on the desk in front of Scott. "There. Drink that."

"What?"

Virgil folded his arms and stared down at the still seated Scott. "It's an energy drink. You've had nothing to eat in ages. I'm not having you flake out at the controls of Thunderbird One."

"I don't want it."

"Either you have it or someone else is piloting Thunderbird One."

"No way!" Scott protested. "If this is the last time we fly Thunderbird One, I'm flying her."

"Then get that down you!" Virgil was in a stubborn frame of mind. "We're wasting time arguing."

"He's right, Scott," Alan backed his brother up. "You need to eat something."

Grumbling to himself Scott sipped at the drink. "There!" He said when he was a quarter of the way through. "Happy now?"

"No. Finish it," Virgil ordered.

"Virgil, who's in command here!?"

"It won't be you if we don't believe that you're up to it. Right, Guys?"

He received a "Right," from Alan, a nod from John and, surprisingly, agreement from Gordon.

Now truly angry, Scott downed the remainder of the drink in one gulp and then pointed at his brother. "You and I will have this out later. In the meantime we have a rescue to carry out."

But they still faced one obstacle. Grandma Tracy was standing with her back against the wall, between the two lamps, blocking the entrance to Thunderbird One. "No!" she insisted. "You are not going. Any of you!"

"Grandma!" Scott exclaimed. "We have to."

"No, you don't."

"I said we would."

"I don't care. I can't lose you as well."

"Nothing will happen to us," Scott insisted. "We've got our safety gear."

Grandma could be as stubborn as a mule when she put her mind to it. "And how will that help you when you're in those Thunderbirds?"

There was a small sound from Brains.

"Grandma," John protested.

"The Thunderbirds are perfectly safe," Scott added.

"Are you sure?" She glared at him in defiance.

"Positive."

Virgil took a step to the side. Closer to the painting of the rocket.

Scott saw the movement. "Grandma," he said, creating a diversion while Virgil took the opportunity to make another surreptitious move. "The Thunderbirds have flown thousands of miles... Millions! And we've never had any problems except from outside influences."

Virgil inched sideways again.

"Don't you take another step, young man," his grandmother scolded him. "I can see what you are doing."

"Please, Grandma. Let us go," Virgil begged.

"The Thunderbirds are perfectly safe," Scott reiterated.

"Your father thought his plane was perfectly safe, and look what happened." She shook her head. "No! I'm not letting any of you leave this room." She folded her arms and glared at Scott.

He stepped out from behind the desk. "Take over, Brains," he instructed.

Brains obeyed the order.

"Don't you go anywhere near that desk!" Grandma spat. "It was my son's!"

Humiliated, Brains moved away.

"As you were!" Scott barked.

Brains stopped.

"I want you at that desk throughout this rescue," Scott told him. "We need your backup."

"No! I won't have it!" Grandma insisted. "He's not sitting there and you're not going!"

Taking advantage to the diversion, Virgil made a dash for his painting.

"No!" his grandmother cried.

"I'm sorry, Grandma," Virgil apologised as he tipped out of sight.

Grandma reached out towards the departing figure of her middle grandson. Scott, taking advantage of the distraction, ran over to the wall and took her place between the lamps. As he reached up to grasp them, intending to depress the hidden buttons that would send him swinging around into Thunderbird One's hangar, she grabbed his hand. "Please, Scott. Don't..."

Her anxious voice tugged at his heartstrings and Scott lowered his arms. "Grandma," he insisted. "Let us go. Do you think if I had any doubts about the safety of any of our craft I'd let my brothers use them?"

"But if I were to lose any of you too..."

"Grandma," Alan took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. "We will be okay. But there're two men out there who won't be if we don't help them. More than two if that gas spreads."

She looked at him, her eyes welling up with tears.

"Don't put their families through what we're going through," Gordon said. "Not when we can prevent it."

"I can't let you go," his grandma sobbed.

"Please, let us go, Grandma," Scott asked, as gently as he could. "This is probably International Rescue's last mission."

"Don't let it be a failure because we didn't arrive," Alan added. "We promise we'll all come home safely."

"Let us go... for Dad?" John pleaded. "Let us honour his memory with one last rescue."

"Grandma," Scott said, feeling helpless and hating the sensation. "Father wouldn't want us to give up when we can help."

"Mrs Tracy..." Kyrano stepped forward. "Come with me." He released the elderly lady from Alan's grip, and gently moved her away from the wall.

"Thanks, Kyrano," Scott said with obvious relief, and rotated out of sight.

Virgil, in Thunderbird Two, was joined by Alan and John. "Everything okay up there?"

"She practically blamed Brains to his face for Dad's accident, the poor guy." Alan fastened his safety harness. "Kyrano's talking to her. But you're going to be in trouble."

"I know. I'll have to deal with both Grandma and Scott when we get home..." Virgil flicked a switch. "And I guess I'm not in anyone's good books at the moment."

"We understand, Virgil," John said.

"We feel the same," Alan agreed. "But, at the moment, selling the island is the only answer to our problems."

"It's not that I can't see that, it's that I can't bring myself to do it. This place means too much to all of us."

"Well, don't worry about it now," Alan suggested. "None of us can afford to be distracted until we're home again."

Virgil nodded his agreement. "All buckled up?"

"Yep."

Virgil looked over his shoulder. "John?"

John nodded and put his headphones back on his head.

"I thought you were going to leave them at home," Virgil said, but John clearly had them set to block out all extraneous sounds.

"He'll get rid of them once we get to the danger zone," Alan promised.

Virgil rolled his beloved Thunderbird out of her hangar one last time...

To be continued...

Note: The idea for the suction unit and polyplastic bag comes from the 1967 Thunderbirds Annual.

05 Five: A Boring Rescue

Thunderbird One swooped down over the danger zone, avoiding the ominous, sickly green cloud which hung low over some of the buildings.

"Looks nasty," Gordon commented.

Scott looked at the anemometer. "Luckily there's no wind. That gas isn't going anywhere." He brought Thunderbird One down to land outside the cordon that surrounded the complex. He turned to Gordon. "What are we going to do with you until Thunderbird Two arrives?"

"I could have travelled with them. The only reason why I agreed to fly with you was to keep an eye on you in case you toppled over and crashed Thunderbird One."

"Don't you start," Scott growled. "I had enough of that rubbish from Virgil."

"Well, look at you!" Gordon protested. "Your uniform's hanging off you. If you lose any more weight we'll be able to put you in a field to scare off crows."

Scott clambered out of his seat. "Just keep your mouth shut and eyes open. I want to know the instant that gas starts moving. You can set up Mobile Control while I get the intell." He opened the hatch and stepped outside to greet one of the local rescue co-ordinators.

Grumbling to himself, Gordon did as he was told.

Scott surveyed the area as he listened to the co-ordinator. They were standing outside a research facility storage area; a collection of buildings, some well maintained, some derelict. In one, litres of chemicals had been stored, supposedly in secure containers. Somehow, and as yet no one had ascertained how, some of the containers had been breached and their contents mixed together. The result was the green gaseous cloud that hung over the buildings.

"Has the surrounding area been cleared?" Scott asked the local.

"Yep. There were some workers in those buildings over there," the local pointed to their right, "but they were evacuated as soon as we knew there was trouble. Those," he pointed to the left, "aren't used anymore. They're waiting for someone to take ownership and remove them."

"So we've only got the two men in the original building to worry about?" Scott clarified.

"That's right. They're in a sealed room. We have the protective clothing to enable us to walk through the building, but if we try to open the room the gas will enter and kill those men within seconds."

Scott nodded. "We have the equipment to circumvent that problem. We've just got to wait for it to arrive."

The local looked relieved. "Good. While you're concentrating on that we'll work on how we're going to deal with the gas that has already escaped."

"We can handle containment too," Scott told him. "Our system will neutralise the gas to a certain extent. We'll leave you to decide how to dispose of it."

The local looked relieved. "Great, I'll go let everyone know." He hurried away.

"Where's Thunderbird Two?" Scott asked Gordon.

Gordon, who had only just manoeuvred Mobile Control into position, shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't had the chance to get in contact."

Scott opened the link. "Mobile Control to Thunderbird Two. Where are you? What's your ETA?"

"Four point two two minutes, Scott," Virgil replied. "What's the action?"

"Firstly I want you to get here A.S.A.P."

On board Thunderbird Two, John had divested himself of his headphones. He looked at Alan and rolled his eyes.

Fortunately for him Scott didn't see him do it. "Then offload Alan and the rescue gear. While he and Gordon go in to rescue the victims, I want you and John to vacuum up the gas into the polyplastic bag. I assume you have it on board?"

Virgil sounded affronted. "Of course we do!"

"Good. John can operate the suction unit. You can take care of that and flying Thunderbird Two. Understood?"

"Understood."

"And try to minimise the air disturbance. We don't want to spread that gas cloud."

"F-A-B."

"Swing around and approach from the south. That'll be safest."

"Right."

"And come in vertically. Minimise the use of the VTOLs."

"Scott..." Virgil complained.

"What?!"

Virgil bit his tongue to stop himself from telling his brother that he would be able to work out what to do himself. "Nothing..."

When Thunderbird Two came in to land, Gordon waited until the pod door had opened before he entered the craft. A short time later he and Alan exited, dressed in their protective haz-mat suits, and with the equipment needed for the operation. Ten minutes after the mighty transporter had landed on the ground, she was in the air again.

"How was the trip?" Alan asked Gordon, as they checked their gear.

"Real barrel of laughs," Gordon grumbled. "If you so much as hint that he might not be fit to fly he blows up in your face."

"You only need to talk to him and he's like that," Alan reminded his brother. "It's his way of grieving. Like you spending all your time in the pool."

"I'm not in the pool now," Gordon reminded him. "If I can leave my problems at home then so can he."

"Does leaving your problems at home include going easy on John and Virgil?"

Gordon huffed. "How come you're managing to keep it together so well?"

"I keep reminding myself that however hard it is for us, it's only a blip on the radar of the universe..."

"Very 'new age' of you."

"Mind you," Alan continued on, "that doesn't stop me wanting to believe that it's a nightmare and that all I need is for someone to pinch me so I'll wake up... Ow!"

"Didn't work, did it?"

Alan rubbed his arm where Gordon had pinched him. "No," he agreed.

He sounded so sad that Gordon felt guilty. He cast his mind about for something to change the subject. "How was your flight?"

Alan sighed. "I thought Virgil might be able to last the rescue without eating anything, but no such luck. Once we'd left the island he produced a couple of bananas from somewhere. I've no idea where he'd hidden them."

"Typical. And John?"

"Just sat there. He put his headphones on and sort of dozed off."

"He's a liability. How's he going to be able to work if he's wearing those headphones?"

"He took them off when we got here..."

There was a shout from Mobile Control. "What's holding you guys up? Get that G-E-V moving!"

Alan waved to Scott to show that he understood. Then he stepped into the cabin of a pod vehicle similar in design to the 'Thunderizer' and the 'Laser Cutter Vehicle', except that the front of the new vehicle was mounted with what appeared to be a large, clear sided box the size of a walk-in wardrobe. This vehicle had been christened with the unglamorous, but utilitarian name of 'Gas Evacuation Vehicle'.

Gordon squeezed in alongside his brother. "Let's get going before he blows a fuse."

"All set?"

"Yep."

Alan set the little G-E-V into action, driving forward through the gates of the cordon and into the warehouse complex. As they ventured further, closer to the danger zone they could see the cloud of green gas. Above it, made even more verdant by the green filter, hung Thunderbird Two, a long, thick hose snaking out of her underbelly.

"Got a bearing on the door to the warehouse?" Gordon asked.

"Yes. It's down one of these side alleys..."

Up in Thunderbird Two, Virgil and John looked down through that same green filter onto what appeared to be a surreal landscape.

"There's Gordon and Alan," Virgil commented.

John nodded.

Virgil looked at him. "Are you going to wear those headphones all through this rescue?"

"I can hear you." John shifted position so that he was standing by the controls of the suction unit.

"You know what Scott would say if he could see you wearing them."

"He can't see me."

Virgil sighed. "Ready?"

John nodded.

Scott was sounding angry. "What's the hold up, Thunderbird Two?"

"We're ready, Mobile Control," Virgil responded.

"Then stop mucking about and get on with it."

Virgil rolled his eyes. "If this is going to be our last mission he could at least be both civil and professional," he complained.

John silently agreed as he pushed a button on the suction unit's console.

A green light showed up on Mobile Control, letting Scott know that the unit was in action. "About time," he muttered.

"Problems?" the local controller asked.

"No. Nothing we can't handle," Scott informed him. "Have you got the frequency so I can reach our victims?"

"Here." The local handed over a piece of paper.

In a short time Scott was in communication with the two men trapped inside the warehouse. "This is International Rescue."

"International Rescue?!" The person on the other end of the radio link sounded impressed, but not relieved. "Wow! They have pulled out all the stops."

"Are you both all right?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, no worries. We've just made ourselves a coffee and were going to sit down and go through some of our papers. We're not in any immediate danger, so you can tell your colleagues not to take any unnecessary risks. We're quite comfortable."

"Thanks for that," Scott replied. "I'll pass it on. But don't get too comfortable, we'll have you out in no time."

"Okay. We'll look forward to it."

Scott sat back and frowned. As always situations like this, he was relieved that the victims were both safe, well, and appeared to be in good spirits. But this time the relief was tainted with the feeling that somehow International Rescue were being cheated out of the swansong they deserved. There should be flames raging, winds roaring, people panicking, TV crews fighting to get what footage they could and complaining that they couldn't film the best bits... There should be impossible situations, unattainable goals, and impractical solutions ... Something he could get his teeth into. Something that required him to be on peak form, pulling the answers out of a hat... Not a heavy green cloud of gas, slowly and surely being sucked up into Thunderbird Two's underbelly and a couple of scientists going about their work while they waited to be rescued.

Still, he reflected, maybe it was just as well that this rescue was so straightforward. He wasn't at the top of his game. None of them were. And he knew he should be worried about that...

As the G-E-V trundled down between the various research facilities and warehouses, Gordon and Alan found themselves feeling distinctly under-whelmed at the prospect of carrying out the rescue. "You know?" Alan began. "I always imagined that International Rescue's final mission would be something spectacular... Like having to rescue some scientists from a stricken space station that has been hit by an asteroid and is falling out of orbit. Something to capture the world's imagination and leave them talking about us for years afterwards."

"Yeah," Gordon agreed. "Or the World President is trapped on a sunken cruise ship that is taking on water, and we're the only ones who can save her..." He looked outside at the gloomy buildings. "Instead what do we have? Two guys that aren't in any real danger as long as they don't try to leave their office."

A one-sided version of the same conversation was taking place onboard Thunderbird Two. "I never thought our final mission would be so dull, did you, John?" Virgil asked.

John shook his head.

"I always imagined that our final rescue would be something memorable... Like rescuing a group of climbers from the boiling crater of a volcano and flying them out of there only seconds before it blows..."

John nodded.

"And all we're doing is sitting here like a giant vacuum cleaner."

John nodded.

"Being bored."

John nodded again.

His brother's continuing silence finally got on Virgil's nerves. "For Pete's sake, John! Will you say something?"

"What?" John looked at Virgil and there was something accusatory in his expression.

Virgil sighed. "I'm sorry. I know. I should take care of myself before I start hassling anyone else, shouldn't I?"

"Yes."

"We're all falling apart, aren't we?" Virgil looked down at the bag of nuts and raisins he was currently holding. "I mean, where did these come from?" He lifted the bag higher so his brother could see them clearly. "I don't remember taking them from the pantry... I don't even remember taking them out of my pocket..." He patted his thigh, found something there and pulled it out. "Want a chocolate, John?"

"No."

Without thinking, Virgil unwrapped the candy bar and began eating. He'd finished it before he realised what he was doing. "Look at me!" He screwed up the wrapper and threw it down in disgust.

"Move two degrees to starboard," John instructed.

"Two degrees..." Virgil, using his instinctive control of the big Thunderbird, shifted it her few metres to the right. "Better?"

John nodded.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Can you keep a secret, John?" Virgil eventually asked. "I know. Stupid question... But promise me you won't tell anyone else?"

John nodded.

"The real reason why I wanted to get out of the lounge before anyone else was to see if my uniform still fitted."

John raised an eyebrow in query.

"The top's okay... a bit snug maybe, but at least I can move in it."

A wry grin creased John's face as he cocked his head, waiting to hear if there was more.

"But I had to borrow Scott's spare pair of trousers. I've got half a mile of trouser leg tucked into my boot!"

John burst out laughing.

"Don't laugh. He's probably wearing yours."

John stopped laughing.

"What are we going to do about the sale of the island?" Gordon asked. "Virgil's going to put us into more debt if he refuses to sell."

"Under normal circumstances I'd say that all we'd have to do to change his mind is get Scott to talk to him..."

"Except that this time," Gordon interrupted, "Scott's not gonna talk. Snarl maybe, but not talk. He hasn't forgotten Virgil's insubordination."

"Is that what you call it? I called it common-sense."

"True..." grudgingly Gordon had to agree with him. "...Especially since I'm the one flying with him in Thunderbird One. But you won't get Scott to see that. And once he's finished tearing Virgil to shreds, Grandma's going to get stuck in to the leftovers."

Alan agreed. "He doesn't do things by halves, does he? Maybe one of us should get injured to take the heat off him?"

Gordon's snort showed that he didn't think much of that idea.

The G-E-V had reached the warehouse. Alan swung the little machine around so it was facing the open door and sent it trundling inside.

The interior was dark. What little light was available from the light bulbs that hung high in the ceiling was largely obscured by the green fog that swirled around them.

Gordon was staring at a radar screen. The needle swung around a full 360 degrees and a dot of light showed their objective to be somewhere to their right. "That way," he pointed.

Virgil and John were concentrating on a screen as well. Since the gas was heavier than air, John had dropped the tube down so it was nearly touching the ground. He had little to do except watch the green haze disappear up the piping.

Virgil, similarly occupied, pulled out a packet. "Cracker?" he offered.

John shook his head and Virgil popped a couple into his mouth.

"Mobile Control to Thunderbird Two."

Virgil nearly choked. "Go ahead, Scott."

"What are you doing?"

"John and I are enjoying a stimulating conversation."

"Don't get smart with me. Are you eating?"

Virgil swallowed and hid the packet of crackers from the video camera. "Of course not."

"Just remember that's a Thunderbird, not a restaurant you're in control of," Scott stared his brother down. "Don't think I haven't forgotten what happened before, Virgil. You're already skating on thin ice."

Virgil ignored the threat. "What do you want?"

"I'm checking on progress."

Virgil looked at John who gave a thumbs-up. "Both filters are working well. By the time that gas reaches the inside of the polyplastic bag it's practically harmless."

"Well just remember that it's not. We can't afford any slip-ups just because this rescue seems easy. There's a lot at stake here. A lot of lives could be affected if so much as a microlitre of that gas makes it to a populated area."

"We're aware of that, Scott!"

"Don't let our last rescue be a failure."

"We won't!"

"Good! Because I'll be watching you!" Scott ceased transmission.

Virgil scowled at the blank screen. "Know what I would like to do, John?"

He didn't see John shake his head.

"When the time comes to destroy Thunderbird One, I want to be the one to push the button!"

Shocked, John stared at him.

Back on Tracy Island, Brains was sitting at Jeff Tracy's desk, though he was painfully aware that Grandma did not approve. She would bustle into the room, pick things off the desk, place them on a coffee table and, ignoring the engineer, polish the wooden top. Then, without replacing the desk's contents, except those that had belonged to Jeff, she'd bustle out again. Only to return with plates of goodies which were offered to Tin-Tin and Kyrano, but not Brains. Her next visit was to bring coffee, but none was offered to the mortified scientist.

"I'll get you something, Brains," Tin-Tin offered.

He shook his head; his face long and despondent. "N-N-No, thank y-y..."

The computer beeped, telling him that an email had arrived. Checking the subject column, Brains found that the email was addressed to him.

He rang the A.A.I. "Y-You wanted to talk to me?"

The Air Accident Inspector seemed on edge. "Yes... Look this is a highly irregular request, but this plane you've built is unlike anything we've come across before. To make matters worse it's so badly damaged..." Tin-Tin started crying and was comforted by her father, "... that we're finding it difficult to work out which part is which. There're some components that appear to have no bearing on your plans whatsoever. So... We need your help. Is that offer to come and observe still open?"

Brains nodded, feeling that at last he was going to be given the opportunity to do something constructive. At last he would be able to do something for Jeff Tracy and his family.

"Good. Ah... When can you get here?"

"Wh-When do you need me?"

"The sooner the better. A lot of people are demanding the answers to this one."

Brains thought. He couldn't leave his post while International Rescue were on duty, but his need to find out what went wrong was so strong it hurt. "I-I should be able to leave l-later today. I'll be in K-Kansas tomorrow."

"Fine. I'll arrange to have someone meet you at the airport," the A.A.I. offered. "See you then, Mr Hackenbacker."

Brains blinked at the unaccustomed name. "Oh, ah, yes. See you t-tomorrow." He hung up the videophone and then called Mobile Control. "Do you h-have a moment, Scott."

"Yeah," Scott sighed. "Nothing much is happening."

"The A.A.I. needs my help. Ah, I t-told them I'd leave today. W-Will that be possible?"

"They need you? I thought they didn't want you near the plane."

"It d-departs too much from a s-standard jet," Brains told him. "I-I was thinking of leaving when the resc-cue is over... I-If that's all right w-with you?"

Scott gave him a tired, humourless smile. "If you can help solve this mystery, Brains, we'll all appreciate it."

"I-I'll do my best."

"I'll call you when we're packing up... And Brains," Scott leant forward. "I still can't believe that you had anything to do with it."

Brains managed a smile. "Th-Thank you, Scott. That means a l-lot."

Virgil, having run out of food, was whistling. He stopped. "I suppose they checked all the surrounding buildings..." He brought up the onboard computer and punched some numbers into it. "Let's do a scan..."

Scott was feeling jaded, although he wasn't prepared to let anyone, especially his brothers, know the fact. He started when Mobile Control beeped at him. "Go on, Thunderbird Two."

"Scott? Didn't you say that they'd checked all the buildings inside the cordon?"

Scott didn't appreciate the perceived innuendo. "You heard me."

"I've run a scan and I've got four, possibly five people about half a kilometre from the danger zone."

Scott sat upright. "Anywhere near the gas?"

"Negative. But it would pay to check it out."

Scott frowned in thought. "Okay, Virg... Thanks..." He remembered himself. "I mean. Affirmative, Thunderbird Two. I'll dispatch Alan and Gordon while you're offloading the gas."

"F-A-B." Virgil turned back to John. "He was almost human for a moment there."

Alan and Gordon had reached the doorway leading to the office that held the two scientists. Taking care to ensure that the box at the front of the G-E-V was lined up with the door Alan pressed it up against the wall.

"Contact," Gordon said, pushing a button.

A silicon gel oozed out of the edges of the G-E-V's box creating a seal between it and the wall. A motor hummed into life draining all traces of gas from the box's interior.

Alan watched as a row of lights flashed up green. "Seal complete. No complications there."

"So no dramas then," Gordon said as he sidled past Alan and opened the dividing panel.

"Just as well. I don't want any while we're dealing with our victims."

Gordon walked up to the door to the office and pressed a touch plate. The door hissed open revealing the two scientists reclining back, coffee mugs in their hands. "Hi, guys. Ready to go?"

At once the two men were on their feet. "I'll say!" said one. "We're missing the big game. The radio transmission in here's terrible!"

Gordon directed them into the G-E-V and shut the door. Then he ensured that the opening to the G-E-V's box was sealed tight. "Okay, Alan," he grunted.

Alan watched the green lights wink off as the seal against the wall was dissolved. "Okay, people. Let's get out of here." He backed the G-E-V up and swung it around.

A short time later they were out in the bright sunlight. "We're clear, Thunderbird Two," Alan announced. "Increase suction."

Virgil responded with a F-A-B as John increased the power to the suction unit.

Virgil looked at the video monitor. "Apart from that office it's an open plan warehouse," he said. "Want me to move Thunderbird Two so you can suck out the interior?"

"'Kay," John nodded and raised the articulated hose so it wasn't dragging on the ground. When he could see that the Thunderbird was in position he lowered the hose again, moving the nozzle so it was pointing inside the building.

The G-E-V trundled out of the cordoned area. Its doors opened and the two scientists stepped out to be greeted by their friends, families and colleagues. After thanking their rescuers, they were led away.

Alan and Gordon walked over to Scott.

"So that's that, then," Gordon said. "International Rescue is finished."

"Nearly," Scott told him. "Virgil's picked up signs of life in some of the 'deserted' warehouses. I want you two to check it out while Thunderbird Two finishes clearing the area and starts packing away."

Alan pulled the hood of his haz-mat suit back over his head. "F-A-B."

Scott returned to Mobile Control and radioed home. Brains answered immediately. "Y-Yes, Scott."

"We've completed the rescue successfully. Alan and Gordon have gone to check something out and Virgil and John have nearly finished securing the area. You can leave when you're ready."

"Are you sh-sure? I can wait."

"No. The sooner you leave, the sooner you can find the answers we need. Call me when you reach Kansas."

"F-A-B, Scott."

Gordon and Alan had divided the warehouses to be searched between them, and Alan wandered, without enthusiasm, down his share of the alleys, scanning the surrounding area with his portable victim locator. He came to an intersection and stared at what appeared to be a never-ending street, bordered with a never-ending row of industrial buildings. He raised his microphone. "Found anything yet, Gordon?"

"Negative. I've only just got to my search zone. This place goes on for miles!"

"Tell me about it," Alan agreed. "It's a rabbit warren."

"I was thinking a maze, but either metaphor will do... Have you found anything yet, Alan?"

"No. I'll try down here. I'll call you if I find anything."

"F-A-B."

Alan strode down two blocks of warehouses, still scanning with his victim locator. He was almost surprised when it registered something. Treading carefully he moved forward and watched as the signal grew stronger.

He walked past another alley and found himself outside an especially decrepit building. He found it hard to believe that anyone would willingly go into this hole, but the signal was definitely coming from its interior. He pulled the door open and slipped inside.

There was no artificial light in the foyer to the building, but there was enough light from the door to tell him that rather than an open plan building, this one comprised of a number of rooms. It was probably this framework that kept the roof supported.

"Hello," he called. "Is there anyone here?"

He was still getting an affirmative response from his victim locator, but apart from that there was no sign of life.

He walked down the hallway. Many of the doors to the rooms leading off the passage were missing and he only glanced inside as he walked past. "Hello?" he called again.

He came to an intact door and with care pulled it open. He was surprised to discover that where he'd expected darkness a light bulb was shining in the hallway.

Mystified he moved forward. Most of the doors leading off here were solid wood and locked.

At the end of the passage he came to a heavy door, locked and bolted, but with a glass panel installed in the top section. As he looked through the glass he saw a pale figure.

The figure looked up.

Alan did a double take, his heart thumping against his chest. He pushed the hood of his haz-mat suit off his head in an effort to see more clearly. In the artificial light of the room, and through the grimy glass the figure had taken on the appearance of a ghostly apparition.

Alan couldn't believe his eyes.

The figure saw him and hobbled over to the window. It gestured wildly, trying to make Alan comprehend something.

Alan's confused mind didn't understand. Nor did he hear the steps coming up behind him. It wasn't until something heavy came crashing down that he even knew that anyone was there.

The room's occupant was helpless as the guard struck Alan over his head and the young man sank bonelessly to the ground.

The figure watched in horror and fear...

Fear for the health of his youngest son...

06 Six: Alive?

"All packed away?" Scott asked his brothers when they'd reached Mobile Control.

John and Virgil nodded. "We're ready to leave whenever you are," Virgil added. "Have you heard from Alan and Gordon yet?"

Scott shook his head. "No. Not yet..."

John nudged Virgil and pointed.

A haz-mat suit clad figure stepped through the cordon and into the safe area. The hood was pushed back revealing a head of straw-textured auburn hair.

"Find anything, Gordon?" Scott asked.

Gordon shook his head. "No. Like the local guy said the place is deserted." He looked at Virgil. "Maybe Thunderbird Two's scanners aren't working properly."

"They are working perfectly!" Virgil said in indignation. "There're definitely people in a building somewhere inside the cordon."

Scott held up his hand to prevent an argument. "Maybe Alan's found them. I'll give him a call..."

"We've had a bit of excitement here, Abe," the man said. He was tall and casually dressed, with a face that only his mother could love. Several scars spoke of untold, unspeakable stories in his life; and one of them twisted his mouth out of shape, mangling his words. Behind him, looking equally reprehensible, were two of his henchmen.

'Abe' looked at him from the videophone screen. "What do you mean 'excitement', Miles?"

"One of the warehouses around here has sprung some kind of gas leak. They've evacuated all the other buildings, but we laid low until it was clear."

"What kind of gas leak?" Abe asked.

"Dunno. But the gas was green. It must have been serious, they called in International Rescue."

Abe had the same reaction that a lot of people did when they heard the organisation's name. "International Rescue!"

"Yeah. One of their guys was snooping around. I guess he was checking if there was anyone else who needed rescuing."

"Did he see anything?"

"Yeah he did," Miles rubbed his fist into his hand. "He'll be lucky if he remembers it though." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wristwatch. "I got a souvenir," he grinned. The watch beeped and he examined it. "Must be an alarm."

Abe looked startled. "What if it's a homing device?"

Miles clearly hadn't considered that idea. "I'll chuck it in the river. Then they can waste their time dragging it for their pal."

Abe looked even more alarmed than before. "What did you do to him?"

"Just gave him a little love tap on the back of the head. When he wakes up he's gonna have a headache the size of Mount McKinley."

Abe amended his original question. "What did you do with him?"

"Put him in the most secure place we've got. He's in with our other 'guest'."

"You did what! Don't you realise that his colleagues will be looking for him? And where he was searching is the first place where they'll look!"

"So?" Miles cracked his knuckles. "We can take 'em on."

"Miles..." Abe was trying to be patient. "We're not talking about some school kid playing truant. This is International Rescue. When he doesn't report back they'll have every member of the sheriff's department out looking for him! Not to mention the FBI, the CIA and the World Police."

"So, what do you want me to do with him?"

"Let him go, Miles."

"Let him go? But what if he's seen..."

"Who's going to believe him? You say you've knocked him out. Any memories are going to be put down to a concussion or something. Just tell whomever you hand him over to that one of the walls collapsed on him. There's enough falling masonry in that place that no one's going to think twice about it."

"And if he says what he's seen?"

"Like I said who's going to believe him? Everyone knows what International Rescue's last rescue was..."

Alan's head hurt. It was pounding so much that his eyes throbbed. He decided the best idea was to keep them shut. He groaned as he continued to regain consciousness and reached towards the back of his head to where the pain seemed to be most intense.

"No," a familiar voice said gently. "Leave it. You'll make it worse." His hand was guided away from the injury.

Alan froze. The voice was one that he would have given the world to hear, but, perversely, hearing it filled him with dread.

He tried to articulate his horror, and succeeded in exhaling a whimper.

"Lie still," the voice instructed. "If you move, the bandage will probably fall off."

Alan felt along his left trouser leg to the concealed pocket that contained a basic first aid kit. The pocket was open. He fought to make sense of what was happening.

The voice continued speaking. "That's the problem with head wounds; your hair gets in the way. I'll probably have to trim it if it doesn't stop bleeding soon." There was a pause. "Can you hear me, Alan?"

Alan groaned and managed to speak. "I'm dead."

"No you're not. But you are injured, so lay still, Son."

"I must be dead."

"Don't say that, Alan. You'll be okay." There was a pleading note in the other's voice.

Alan forced himself to open his eyes. Two bare incandescent light bulbs hung low from the ceiling, casting the other man into silhouette. Alan blinked against the bright lights as through a haze his eyes tried to focus. "If I'm not dead, I'm dreaming..." Once again he raised his hand to where his head hurt most of all.

"Don't touch it," the other man instructed, as he reached out and once again grasped Alan's wrist.

The touch shocked the life back into Alan. He gave a yell and rolled away from the other person, ending up pressed against the wall.

"Alan?" Worried eyes were boring into him.

"You're dead!"

"What?"

"You're a hallucination," Alan insisted. "I'm must be hallucinating!"

"Alan! You're badly hurt. Please calm down." The figure reached out and Alan shrank back. The figure retracted its hand and shifted awkwardly, giving a grimace that may have been a reaction to pain.

Alan stared at the other figure. "No. You're dead! Everyone knows that my father is dead," he whimpered.

"Alan," Jeff stated, "I'm not dead. Why do you keep saying that?"

Alan tried to sit up, his eyes not leaving the ghost of his father. "The plane crash... John found your registration number... The forensics proved it... Everyone knows... It's in all the papers and on the news..."

"What?" Jeff frowned. "What's in the news?"

"We're having to give up... to sell the island..."

"Alan! What are you talking about?" Jeff was sounding more alarmed than before. "Give up what?"

Alan took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and tried to get his emotions and a feeling of nausea under control. "Please tell me I'm not dreaming." He opened his eyes and fixed the apparition of his father with a pleading stare.

"Alan, none of what you've said makes any sense. Help me to help you." Jeff reached out again and this time Alan let him touch him. "I wish I could make this pad stick better... I know." He pulled his own shirt tail out. "Can I borrow your knife?"

"My knife?"

"Do you want me to get it out of your pocket?" Jeff asked.

"No..." Still staring at his 'father', Alan reached into another concealed pocket and withdrew a knife.

"Lucky they don't know about your pockets," Jeff said, as he cut a length of material from his shirttail. "I see they've taken your watch." He slipped the knife into his own pocket before hesitating. "Will you let me bandage your head?"

Alan nodded, and then wished he hadn't. "You are alive?" He sounded disbelieving as his father wrapped the cloth around his head.

Jeff sat back. "Yes, Alan. I am alive."

"And you're my father?" Alan asked.

Jeff looked him in the eye. "Who else would I be?"

"A trap," Alan hazarded. "A trap to make me tell you about us."

Jeff had done all he could with the meagre materials he had. He tried to get comfortable and grimaced again. He looked back at Alan. "How can I convince you that I am me?"

"Tell me something that only I'd know about."

"Like what?" Jeff thought for a moment. "Okay... How about this? When you were little you wrote Tin-Tin a poem and you wondered if I thought she'd like it. I believe that, apart from Tin-Tin, I was the only person you showed it to..." He chuckled. "If I remember correctly one bit went, 'I think you are pretty, Tin-Tin. I like the way you look in your skin.'"

Alan nodded. "It was terrible!"

"I thought it was quite good for a seven-year-old boy declaring his affection for a seven-year-old girl." Jeff took Alan's hand and placed it against his face. "See, Alan. It is me."

"You need a shave."

Jeff chuckled. "They haven't been game enough to leave me a razor."

Alan reached his other hand out to his father. "I can't believe that you're alive." He turned so that he could see Jeff better and his injured head rolled against the wall. He flinched, and sucked in a breath.

"Easy," Jeff said in concern. "Here, I'll sit on your other side." With an effort he got to his feet and hobbled around to Alan's left.

"You're hurt!" Alan exclaimed, when he saw blood on his father's torn trouser leg.

"I'm okay." Jeff brushed aside his son's concerns and sat down in the straw that had been his bedding for the last three nights. He put his arm about Alan's shoulders. "Tell me everything that's happened."

To Alan it was as if he'd slipped back in time to his childhood. His Dad would always hold him like that when he had grazed his knee or had felt ill. He relaxed against his father's shoulder as he had used to all those years ago.

"Why did you think I was dead, Alan?" Jeff prompted gently.

"Your plane crashed... Into a mall... People were killed... We thought you were too."

"People killed?! How many?"

"Ah... Thirty..." Alan struggled with the memory, "...six at the last count, if I remember correctly. No, hang on. That included you... except you weren't in the plane... So who was piloting? Who was in the jet?"

"I don't know," Jeff admitted. "They knocked me out when they grabbed me." He managed a dry chuckle. "Being kidnapped capped off a bad day."

"You changed your will..."

"Yes, I did. How'd you know?" Jeff realised that his 'death' would have prompted that will's reading. "Ah, of course."

"Why didn't you tell us, Dad?"

"Tell you what?"

"That you're broke. That you're in debt. We could have helped. We could have made savings. We could have cut back..."

"Alan? What are you talking about?"

"We all know," Alan continued on a little incoherently. "We're falling apart..."

"Alan?"

Alan started gabbling. "Scott's not eating, and Virgil's eating too much. Gordon's not talking to John and Virgil, and John's not talking to anyone. Grandma blames Brains and Tin-Tin keeps crying..."

"Alan, Alan! Stop, take a deep breath and start at the beginning," Jeff ordered. "I am not broke. I have never been in a stronger financial position!"

Alan looked at him in disbelief. "It can't be you."

"It is me, Alan," Jeff pulled him closer. "Please believe that it is me. I am alive..."

The door to their prison was pulled open. Miles stood there, revulsion on his face as he looked at the two men sitting close together. "What are you doing!?" His two henchmen sidled past him into the room.

Jeff got to his feet and hobbled forward so he was a shield for his son. "You leave him alone!"

"And leave him for you?" Miles pushed Jeff away and moved on Alan who was fighting the pain and nausea as he struggled to get to his feet.

"No!" Jeff managed to maintain his balance and grabbed at Miles' arm. "Don't hurt him!"

"Don't touch me!" Miles swung his fist into Jeff's face.

Stunned, Jeff was slammed against the wall by the force of the punch and slid to the ground. By the time he'd regained focus Alan was already hanging limply between the two henchmen and was being carried out the door.

Using the wall as support, Jeff inched his way upright. "What are you going to do with him?"

"It's none of your business," Miles snarled. "But I can guarantee that it's not what you had in mind... You're sick," he sneered, before he pulled the door shut, leaving Jeff alone in his cell.

Jeff hobbled to the door and peered through the glass partition. He watched as Alan was dropped without ceremony onto an old door that was going to be his stretcher. Grabbing the corners of the plank, the two henchmen picked him up.

Miles turned back to Jeff and sneered again, before his face changed to horror and he looked down at his knuckles.

Jeff watched as his son was carried through the door at the far end of the hall. He rubbed his face and realised that it was wet. There was blood on his hand...

"Alan should have reported in by now," Scott said as he frowned at Mobile Control.

"Maybe he's found them," Virgil suggested. "He's probably trying to convince them to leave." He was nudged by John. "What?"

John pointed towards the cordon entrance. Three men were there, two of them carrying something between them. A haz-mat suited arm was visible, flapping limply and dragging along the ground.

"John! Get the stretcher," Scott ordered. "Gordon! See if the paramedics have left yet."

With a, "F-A-B," both brothers set off at a run.

Scott and Virgil hurried over to meet the four men.

"What happened?" Scott asked, as he bent over Alan.

"D-Dad..." Alan moaned.

A pained look crossed Scott's face. "No, I'm not Dad."

"We found him in one of the warehouses," the big man supplied. "It looked as though one of the walls fell on him."

Virgil was checking his injured brother over. "I can only find a head injury."

"D-Dad..." Alan gasped out again.

John ran over, carrying the stretcher. He placed it so it was parallel to Alan's plank of wood.

"Lie still," Scott instructed. "We'll soon get you comfortable."

"As you fellows seem to have everything under control, we'll leave you to it," the big man offered. He held out Alan's watch. "We found this."

Taking the watch, Scott looked at him with gratitude and tried not to be