ALMOST THE END by TB's LMC RATED FRT

A dangerous rescue at an old mine in the middle of Iowa leads to a nightmare for International Rescue. Could this be the end for our brave boys in blue?

The man groaned as he pulled one large boulder atop his leg. Dust and pebbles rained down around him and he coughed twice, waving his hand in front of his face, trying to clear his breathing space. He heard a few creaks and groans, but he knew no more of the roof would fall. His calculations had been precise, down to the centimeter. Nothing was going to happen that was not part of his plan.

Surveying the scene around him, he took in the pile of dirt and bits of fallen rock. As the dust began to settle, he studied the layout of the old termite-infested wooden beams, some of which had fallen to the tunnel floor, some of which still held their place in the ceiling above his head. Cracked just so, they would give one millimeter at a time over a precisely calculated period of hours so that they would finally give way with nothing but a tap when the time was right.

Coughing one last time, he cleared his throat, picked up two handfuls of dust and coated his long-sleeved red and black flannel shirt with it. Then he smudged some dirt onto his cheeks and forehead. Large hands moved to dark brown hair where thick fingers drew dirt throughout the wavy locks. When he was finished, he looked for all the world like a man who'd been down in the old abandoned mine and had gotten trapped beneath a pile of rubble when the ceiling above caved in.

Precise. Exacting. Planned to the letter. Nothing forgotten. Nothing overlooked. Perfect. The man smiled to himself as he picked a small CB radio up from the pile of earth he'd wedged himself into. His thumb depressed the red button on the side, and he spoke.

"Calling International Rescue."

Shredding the last piece of paper that had been sitting on his desk for over a week begging for attention, Jeff sighed and absently scratched his temple. He removed his glasses and placed them on the desk, looking up at the far wall just in time to see the eyes of his youngest son Alan's video portrait begin to blink.

"There's never one thing over but another one begins," he said to himself as he opened the line of communication. "This is Base to Thunderbird 5. Go ahead, Alan."

"Father, I've received a faint distress call from a man claiming he's trapped in a collapsed mine. Coordinates are reference IR-24, northeastern Iowa, about sixty miles north of the Dunkerton Ghost Town."

"Are there any others trapped down there with him?"

"No, he said he was the only one. Seems he was just out exploring when he knocked into a beam and everything came crashing down. He sounds all right, but he's stuck in a pile of rubble."

"What about local authorities?"

"Well, the closest team that can handle situations like this is about eighty miles away in Cedar Rapids. But they aren't available right now. Seems the day for mines collapsing -- they've got one twenty miles north of their base."

"F.A.B., Alan," Jeff replied, all business as he pressed a red button. Lights began to strobe on and off and he could hear the klaxon wailing throughout the island, requesting its residents to proceed to the center of International Rescue's command center: a spacious, innocent-looking living room within the sprawling villa on Tracy Island.

Alan's feed winked out just as Jeff's two oldest sons, Scott and Virgil, entered the room from the kitchen. They were soon followed by middle son John and fourth son Gordon. Kyrano, Brains, Tin-Tin and Ruth weren't far behind.

"What do we have, Dad?" Scott asked. His crisp, barked tone spoke of his years as an Air Force man. He had followed in the steps of his father and made quite a name for himself as an ace pilot before he'd left it all behind to become Field Commander for International Rescue.

Jeff briefed his family on the situation in Iowa. Within minutes, Scott had backed against a nearby wall. His hands firmly grasped two light fixtures, and the wall suddenly spun him around and out of sight. He was on his way to Thunderbird 1, the world's fastest air vehicle, and International Rescue's reconnaissance and mobile control rocket plane.

"Pod 5, Father?" Virgil asked, more out of habit than anything. He heard his father reply in the affirmative as he turned and backed against a large floor-to-ceiling painting of the rocket ship Jeff Tracy himself had traveled to the Moon in so many years before. The painting tilted backward, and Virgil slid off it onto a slide which would spirit him down a long chute far below the villa into the craft he was responsible for, Thunderbird 2.

Copper-haired Gordon had been instructed to serve as double crew with Virgil for this one. By the time he arrived in Thunderbird 2 via the passenger elevator, Virgil already had his uniform half on, and Gordon went to fetch his. They heard the rumble of Scott taking off in Thunderbird 1. Adrenaline pumped through their veins. The rescue seemed straightforward enough, and the brothers were looking forward to saving another life.

Neither of them had an inkling of the danger they were walking into.

"Roger that, Alan, I have coordinates on my map. Course locked in. ETA to Danger Zone now 48 minutes, present speed."

"F.A.B., will inform Base. Thunderbird 5 out." Orbiting high above the Earth, Alan Tracy opened a channel to Thunderbird 2. "This is Thunderbird 5 to Thunderbird 2."

"Loud and clear, Alan."

"Feeding coordinates to you now."

"F.A.B., received and registered on the map. Course...locked in. ETA to Danger Zone now 1.6 hours, present speed."

"Understood. Will inform Base. Thunderbird 5 out." Alan now pressed another button that opened a special line to Tracy Island. "Base from Thunderbird 5. Come in, please."

"Base here."

"Thunderbird 1 ETA to Danger Zone now 46 minutes. Thunderbird 2 ETA now 1.5 hours."

"F.A.B. Have you been in contact with the trapped man?"

"I haven't been able to raise him, Father. I'm not even sure he heard me respond the first time."

"All right, Alan, you keep trying. Let me know when the 'Birds have landed."

"F.A.B. Thunderbird 5 out."

Sitting in the large, black, leather-bound chair behind his heavy oak desk, Jeff began drawing up what he called paperwork on this rescue. This "paperwork" consisted of creating a new rescue file on his computer and beginning to fill in as many of the details as he could. Not only did his doing so give Scott a head start on it upon his return, but it kept Jeff busy. And when his sons were flying into danger, he needed to stay that way.

Realizing this was a rather routine rescue, Tin-Tin and Brains figured they wouldn't be needed, and headed down to the laboratory. An intelligent and highly educated woman in her own right, Tin-Tin Kyrano wore many hats both within the family and with International Rescue. One of the things she enjoyed doing most was working side-by-side with the young genius who had played the largest role in designing and building International Rescue's fleet of vehicles and equipment. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began to help Brains with his latest round of experiments.

Her thoughts strayed briefly to Alan, and then sent up a silent prayer for the safe return of the men who had become her family. She always did the same thing when they left on a rescue. It was like a ritual that helped keep the butterflies in her stomach down to a minimum.

Little did Tin-Tin know how much that small, silent prayer would be needed this day.

"Thunderbird 5 from Thunderbird 1. I have arrived at Danger Zone. Will contact you as soon as Mobile Control is set up. Thunderbird 1 out."

Scott landed the red-tipped silver rocket plane less than half a mile from the mine entrance, where scans showed there were no tunnels. The last thing he needed was for his 'Bird to cause further damage to the shaft where their victim was trapped, or to fall herself into the earth. He moved quickly, taking the Mobile Control unit from Thunderbird 1's belly and hauling it a couple hundred yards away, where he had it assembled and operating within four minutes.

"This is Mobile Control calling Thunderbird 5. What is Virgil's ETA?"

"Thunderbird 2 will be arriving in eighteen minutes. There has been no further contact from target."

"F.A.B. Contacting Base now." Scott closed the channel and opened a second one. "Mobile Control to Base."

"Base here. What's the situation?"

Scott inserted a small bud into his right ear and clipped a transmitter no larger than a cigarette lighter onto his light blue uniform sash, about two inches below his left shoulder. The flip of a switch on MC's control panel transferred communication to these mobile units. In his hand he held a combination thermal and structural scanner which could read heat sources, such as generators or living beings, as well as provide a layout of what was beneath the earth down to one hundred feet.

"On my way to locate target. From the general coordinates Alan was able to get after the initial call, I've got a pretty good idea where the guy is." Scott loped across the mixed rocky and grassy terrain. He'd gone a couple hundred of feet when a pink and green shape appeared on the monitor. "I have target on my scanner, Base." He studied the lay of the tunnel as its outlines became clear around the trapped man. "Looks like it's a single shaft extending west and east of target's position."

He jogged along above the tunnel line, alternately watching the monitor and watching his step as he dodged obstructions. "I see no branches on this line, Father. Looks like the only way in is the entrance a hundred and fifty yards west of target."

"F.A.B., Scott. Keep in touch."

"Will do, Father."

Scott returned to Mobile Control and fed the information from the scanner into its powerful computer. Only a few minutes passed until he heard the familiar whine of Thunderbird 2's engines as she approached.

"Mobile Control to Thunderbird 2."

"Thunderbird 2 here."

"Virg, you'll have to land her opposite of where I am, five hundred twenty yards north of Thunderbird 1's position. It's the only spot large enough without any tunnels beneath it."

"F.A.B. What do we need on this?"

"Bring the Lite-Packs and shovels. From what Alan said, you're going to have to dig the man out. I'm feeding you the layout of the mine shaft."

"F.A.B. Commencing landing."

Scott watched as Virgil set his mammoth ship down across the way. Nobody flew that ship like his brother, not even Gordon, who was Virgil's backup if ever he was unavailable to pilot her. Thunderbird 2's engines shut down and soon she was rising into the air on her four hydraulic stilts, leaving Pod 5 beneath her as though laying a giant green egg. The door to Pod 5 lowered like a flap until it rested on the ground, creating a ramp up to the cavernous unit.

Barely five minutes passed before Virgil and Gordon ran out of the pod, down the ramp and across the ground to the mine entrance, where Scott met them. The scans had showed no obstructions -- the rescue looked as routine as they got.

Gordon, however, gave voice to something that was on all their minds. "Almost seems too easy."

"Well, you know what always happens when you think it's too easy," Scott replied as Gordon turned to head for the entrance. Virgil turned to go as well, then stopped and looked back at his brother, quirking a small smile in his direction. Scott's eyes seemed to say Watch yourself down there. as they met Virgil's. His younger brother's returned look was half-sarcastic, half-serious, as if to say, Stop being a mother hen. and Don't worry. all at the same time.

All five Tracy siblings were close, as close as any brothers could ever be. But there had always existed between firstborn Scott and second son Virgil, three years his junior, a special connection rivaled by no other. From the time Virgil was born, Scott was his constant companion. It was said that whenever baby Virgil was crying, all Scott had to do was walk into the room and he would become instantly silent. As they grew up, the bond they'd been born with only strengthened, carrying them through adolescence, first dates, proms, college and many, many miles of separation, sometimes for months at a time.

The family had long ago grown accustomed to the two men finishing one another's sentences, holding entire conversations without a word spoken and sometimes even moving with a rhythm that almost made you think the two were Siamese twins joined at the hip. In the field this innate ability to read one another's minds had proved invaluable on more than one occasion.

Each of the brothers was highly trained and highly skilled -- experts at what they did for a living. They protected each other. They cared deeply for each other. And they would die for each other. As Scott watched his brothers disappear into the hole that would lead them underground, he had no idea that his commitment to Virgil and Gordon as their oldest brother and field commander was about to be put to the ultimate test.

The man waited patiently, but with each transmission from the unknown Tracy that came through on his CB, his excitement rose. The small unit crackled to life once more and his ears perked up. "Hello, if you can hear me, this is International Rescue. Two members of our team are on their way into the mine as we speak. They should reach your position in approximately twenty-five minutes. If you can respond, please acknowledge this transmission."

He smiled as he palmed the CB. Raising it into the air, he suddenly and forcefully swung it down, smashing it against the boulder covering his leg. Pieces went flying everywhere, effectively ending the CB's usefulness.

"I acknowledge your transmission," his low and menacing voice replied. "And I am ready."

"Thunderbird 5 to Mobile Control. I transmitted to the victim, but I'm still getting no response."

"Well, he's registering warm on the thermal, so I'd wager he's still alive. Maybe more debris fell after his initial call and made his radio inoperative. Virg and Gordo should reach him in a couple of minutes."

"F.A.B. Thunderbird 5 listening out."

Scott was antsy. It wasn't unusual for him to be on pins and needles after sending his brothers into a dangerous situation, but for some reason he was even more concerned than usual. A mine out in the middle of nowhere, a single man trapped. As he looked up from the MC unit, his eyes moved across the landscape. At least fifty of what could only be described as mounds rose up from the earth at evenly spaced intervals beginning on the other side of Thunderbird 2.

He knew from having grown up in Kansas that these were Native American burial mounds. The Indians who used to inhabit the plains of the Midwest were said to have buried their most important tribal citizens beneath these huge mounds of earth along with their possessions and anything they would need for their journey to the Spirit world. Since these mounds lay within the protected boundaries of an old reservation that had been turned into a national park, they lay undisturbed, as the U.S. government, at the request of the Sioux tribe whose land this had originally been, would not allow the graves of their ancestors to be disturbed.

Between where he sat and Thunderbird 2, a small chain of rock and earth made a miniature mountain range as far as the eye could see in either direction. He surmised the old mine beneath to either have been a coal mine or perhaps even a gold mine. But as he turned his head to look toward Thunderbird 1 on his right, he suddenly realized something. There they were, quite literally in the middle of nowhere. There was a man who purportedly had been exploring the old mine on his own when it had caved in and he'd been trapped.

Scott rose to his feet and turned in a complete circle. His eyes searched for something his brain logically told him should also be present. There was Thunderbird 1. There was Thunderbird 2. There was Mobile Control. But there was no car. Or truck. Or Jeep. Or hovercraft. Or anything. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

How had their victim gotten there?

"Hello! Can you hear me?" Virgil called out. The industrial-strength yellow flashlight he held in his hand illuminated up to about five feet in front of where he and Gordon walked, but beyond that it was pitch dark. "Hello! We're from International Rescue! Can you hear me?"

"Help," came a weak response.

"He's alive," Gordon said cheerfully.

"Yeah, sounds like we're almost on him," Virgil replied. He raised his left hand to the side of his mouth and called out again. "We're almost there! Just hang on!"

The two men continued along the tunnel, which was barely high enough for 6'1" Virgil and 6' Gordon to walk upright in. Soon the flashlight showed the beginnings of a pile of dirt and rocks. "Looks like we've hit where it caved in," he commented as he made his way around it to the left. "Watch it, we're going to have do some fancy maneuvering here."

"F.A.B.," Gordon replied. He watched Virgil's back and his own feet alternately as the pile of debris became larger and larger until at last they both had to get on their hands and knees.

"We're here!" Virgil called out. "Can you see our light?"

"Yes," a man's voice answered. "Help me, please. I'm trapped."

Virgil stopped in mid-crawl and shone the light out in front of him. Squinting his eyes to focus his vision, he soon saw something that didn't look at all like rocks or dirt. "I see him, Gordo," he said. "I can see his hair. Come on."

"Right behind you."

They continued crawling along the rubble until there was barely two feet left for them to squeeze through. Virgil belly-crawled until he could touch the trapped man. He reached out and placed his hand lightly on the victim's head. "We're here," he said calmly. "Are you injured?"

"I think...my legs...are broken," the man replied in a deep voice. There was a hint of an accent to it, but the man's nationality was the furthest thing from Virgil's mind at this point.

"Okay, Gordo, he's trapped and he's facing away from us. Get the backboard out and get it ready. I'm going to scoot around and see what we're looking at here."

"Okay," Gordon said as he removed what was known as a Lite-Pack from his back. It was basically an eleven pound backpack that contained everything from a First Aid kit to rope to at least twenty other gadgets that were useful in situations such as this.

Strapped along the length of the pack that rested against his back was a one-foot by two-foot board. Gordon unhooked it from the pack and, palming his own flashlight, pressed a button on the board and scooted back out of the way. The board beeped twice and then began to unfold itself until it was laid out at six feet long and two feet wide. It was an instant body board, which they would have to use to secure the victim for transport back to the surface.

As Gordon worked at getting the board and First Aid kit ready, Virgil had pushed himself another seven feet along and come around so he was facing the injured man. At last he could see his face, which was dirty but seemed to be without any wounds. His eyes were closed, and as Virgil moved his hand up to find the man's carotid for a pulse, the eyes opened.

For a moment, Virgil was taken aback. He had never seen eyes so black. But then he smiled at the man in an attempt to put him at ease and keep his spirits up. "How are you feeling?" he asked as he took the man's pulse.

"In pain," the man replied. "Are there two of you?"

Virgil nodded as he counted heartbeats silently in his head. "Yep, my buddy's just a few feet away ready to help get you out of here."

"Good," the man replied. He moved his right arm, pulling it out of the dirt that had been covering it. He moved his left arm in the same fashion. Now both rested atop the pile of dirt. Puzzled, Virgil cocked an eyebrow at him. Then he watched as the man twisted slightly to the right. It almost looked like he was reaching for something Virgil couldn't see.

"It's just your legs that are injured?" he asked as he pulled the shovel he'd been carrying along the top of the rubble.

"Actually," the man replied as he straightened himself and pulled his right leg out of the dirt, "I don't believe I'm hurt at all." Virgil frowned, but before he could even spare a thought as to what was going on, the man's right hand darted out. Virgil felt something cold press into his neck. It was the last sensation he was aware of before slipping into unconsciousness.

The stranger worked fast. From down and to his right he produced a small metal box, which he quickly opened. Then he reached around behind his head to the back of his neck. Within seconds the face of the cave-in victim peeled completely away, revealing his true identity.

It was none other than Belah Gaat.

"Mobile Control to Gordon."

"Here, Scott."

"What is your status?"

"I've got the body board out and am standing by for Virgil's instructions. Hang on a minute." Scott listened as Gordon called out to their brother. "Virg, do you need help?"

Scott could barely hear a voice replying and couldn't understand at all what it said.

"I think something's wrong with his voice, Scott. He says he got a lungful of dust and his voice went."

"His voice went? Because of dust?"

"Yeah," Gordon replied. "But he says he can get the guy out on his own. Maybe another forty-five minutes or so 'til you see us."

Scott's fingers drummed nervously on the MC console. Virgil's voice went because of a lungful of dust. Why did that not sound right to him? Still, Gordon had been the one relaying the conversation...maybe he'd just left something out. And he hadn't seemed too worried. Best thing was just to let them get the guy out of there and have done with it. Finally he replied, "All right. Keep the line open, Gordo. And watch your step."

Gordon frowned. "Why? Is everything okay?"

"I don't know," Scott replied, looking at the landscape for the fiftieth time. "I don't know."

"You hear that, Virg?" Gordon called over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I heard," came the hoarse reply. "Don't worry, he's harmless."

Gordon repeated the words to Scott. Somehow, it didn't make him feel any better.

"How do you suppose he got out there then, Jeff?"

Still seated at his desk, he turned his head to look up to where she stood to his right. "I don't know, Mother. I guess it's possible somebody dropped him off. Or maybe he walked."

"But Scott said that mine's at least forty miles from the nearest populated area."

"What are you getting at?"

"I don't know. I didn't like the sound of Scott's voice. He's worried."

"He's always worried when they're out on a rescue, Mother. That's his job."

"I still don't like it. If Scott says something isn't making sense to him, it makes my hair stand on end."

Jeff turned away from his mother and looked at the row of five video portraits on the opposite wall. His eyes rested on the portrait of his eldest. Mine, too, Mother, he thought grimly. Mine, too.

Belah removed Virgil's International Rescue hat and smeared cosmetic glue all over his forehead, cheeks, nose, chin and neck. Carefully but quickly, he fitted the mask he'd been wearing over Virgil's head, pulling it down and smoothing the fake skin along Virgil's face. He reached around and put more glue on the back of Virgil's neck, then pressed the bottom of the mask against it, again working quickly to smooth it along the contours of Virgil's skin.

He then looked around behind him. Almost eight feet away he could see the outline of the other brother kneeling on the pile of dirt. Belah reached down with his left hand, picked up the small boulder that had been covering his left leg, and quickly lifted it into the air. It smashed against a wooden beam only half a foot behind Belah. The beam began to groan as the ground shook, and dirt and rocks came raining down on them from above.

Gordon cursed and called out, "Virg!" He received no reply. The world around him shook some more. As he shone his flashlight toward where Virgil had been trying to get the victim out, the beam gave one last loud groan before collapsing altogether. An avalanche of earth fell about five feet in front of him. When at last the earth stopped moving and the dust had settled, Gordon stared ahead of him in horror.

Virgil and the injured man were completely cut off. For all Gordon knew, they'd been buried alive. He jabbed the emergency button on the side of his com watch. "Scott!" he cried out. "Scott!"

As the ceiling collapsed, Belah had grabbed Virgil and hauled him the other direction, off the pile of rubble and into the tunnel beyond. He had Virgil's powerful flashlight and the metal box in one hand, and had hooked his right arm around under Virgil's armpits and was dragging him along behind him. Belah was a large, well-built and muscular man, but Virgil was slightly larger than he.

But Belah Gaat didn't mind the struggle. After all, the similarity in size was what was going to make this plan work. He fought the urge to laugh out loud as he pulled Virgil along for another fifteen feet or so before he stopped and propped the man up against the wall.

"Time for a quick change," he said, and reached for Virgil's yellow sash.

"Gordon, what is it? What is it??"

"Scott, one of the beams has collapsed! It's cut me off from Virgil completely!"

Scott was halfway to the mine entrance before Gordon had even finished his sentence. "Is it bad? Can you dig through?"

"Hang on, I'm checking it out." Scott ran into the entrance and waited as the picture in his watch face moved. He could tell Gordon was using his shovel to test the dirt that had fallen. "I think I can dig my way through without any trouble. It's pretty loose. I could use an extra hand, though."

"Right, I'll get a shovel and be with you inside ten minutes," Scott replied. "Virgil, this is Scott, can you read me?" He received no response. "Virgil, talk to me, can you hear me?" Nothing. "Dammit! Mobile Control to Base, come in!"

"What is it, Scott?"

"Father, another beam inside that shaft broke. It cut Gordon off from Virgil and the victim. Gordon thinks we can dig our way through fairly easily, but I can't get Virg to answer me."

Jeff closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "Right, Scott, get in there and get them out."

"F.A.B.!" Scott replied as he reached Pod 5. He ran inside, unstrapped a shovel and flashlight from the wall, and sprinted back across the grass. "Son of a bitch," he swore as he raised his watch to his face again. "Gordon, report!"

"It's coming away all right," Gordon said. "I can't get Virg to respond, though."

"Neither can I. I've already informed Base. I'm on my way into the mine now. Keep digging and calling out."

"F.A.B."

Gordon worked frantically, but having to lie almost completely on his belly gave him little leverage as he scraped away at the fallen rocks and dirt. The normally laid-back young man felt fear grip his heart. "Virgil! It's Gordon, answer me! If you can hear me, call out!" He stopped digging and listened, willing himself to hear his brother's reply. But there was none to be heard. "Shit," he said as he resumed his digging. "Shit, shit, shit."

Belah had succeeded in completely removing Virgil's clothing. He then took his own clothes off and put them on Virgil, then stepped into the International Rescue uniform. As he slipped the sash over his head and slid his feet into the boots, he chuckled with self-satisfaction. "Almost a perfect fit, just as I planned."

Picking up the metal box, he opened it and pulled out a second mask. Still chuckling, he carefully unfolded it. The top, sides and back were covered with chestnut-colored hair. He reached into the box again and took out a small plastic container. Opening it, he reached in with one finger and pulled it out moments later. On the end of it was a contact lens. He placed it on his eyeball and then did the same with a second one. Then he threw the container back into the box, pulled out the cosmetic glue, and rubbed it all over his face and neck.

It was only another five minutes until the mask was securely and perfectly in place, covering his own harshly Mongolian features. He worked his jaw around as he hiked Virgil, now disguised as the "victim" he himself had been playing, into a fireman's carry. He left the metal box behind and headed back the way they'd come. When they reached the pile of rubble, Belah dragged Virgil up on top of it, then worked at undoing his wristwatch.

Having successfully removed it, he put it on his own wrist and turned the flashlight off before throwing back down the tunnel. He closed his eyes and prepared himself. Belah Gaat knew enough about the brothers to know that facing Scott as Virgil would be the ultimate test of his skills. He needed a moment to focus his energy and prepare for a lengthy projection of magick -- it was the only way he'd be able to pull this off. Finally, he opened his eyes and raised the watch to his face.

"Can you hear me?"

Only ten minutes had passed since Scott had raced back into the mine, shovel in hand. He kept trying to reach Virgil, but to no avail. Climbing atop the pile of earth next to Gordon, he'd just dug his shovel into the dirt when his watch beeped and a voice came through.

"Can you hear me?"

"Virgil!" Scott cried, bringing the watch up so he could see in the dial. The sight that greeted him made a lump form in the back of his throat. "Jesus Christ, Virg, we haven't been able to raise you! Are you hurt?"

"No, arm got stuck under some dirt," Virgil replied. "Voice almost gone."

"I can hear that. Can you move? Are you able to dig from your end?"

"Think so. Flashlight's gone. Gotta find the shovel."

"How's the man we came here to rescue?" Gordon asked as he continued digging.

"Unconscious. We need to get him to a hospital."

"All right, if you can find that shovel, start digging, Virg," Scott said as he picked up his own shovel. "We'll have you two out of there in no time."

And indeed they did. It was only about fifteen minutes until Gordon's and Virgil's shovels clanged against one another -- a sound Scott and Gordon were more than relieved to hear. They cleared away a large enough hole and waited as Virgil fed the unconscious man through to them. Gordon and Scott secured him to the body board, then Gordon flicked a switch and a multitude of tiny jets whirred to life, turning the body board into a hover board. Gordon began guiding it back along the tunnel toward the entrance as Scott turned back to where Virgil was pulling himself through the hole.

"Virg! You all right?"

"Yep," Virgil rasped as he grabbed Scott's outstretched hands. Working together, they managed to scramble over the top of the debris pile and down the other side.

Scott shone his flashlight at his brother. "You okay, Virg? You look a little pale."

"Wouldn't you if you'd just gotten caught in a cave in?" Virgil retorted with a grin. "Let's get outta here."

Scott nodded and grabbed his brother's arm, leading him toward the exit. Toward safety. "I don't like the sound of your voice. What happened?"

"Oh, it's nothing," came the half-whispered reply. "Lungful of dust. It'll wear off."

"All the same, we'll have Brains check you out when we get back home."

"Sounds good," Virgil replied.

Scott looked sidelong at him once more as they continued on their way. He seemed fine, except for his voice. And as glad as he was to see Virg seemingly no worse for the wear, that bad feeling in his gut just wouldn't go away. It just wouldn't.

Beneath the mask, beneath contact lenses the color of burnt honey, beneath the man-made muss of chestnut hair, Belah Gaat smiled. It was working. Everything was moving along like clockwork. As far as anyone knew, he was Virgil Tracy. It was taxing, this magick of the mind. But Belah could do it. He had waited far too long to turn back now. He was ready.

Scott and Virg caught up with Gordon and the victim fairly quickly. Scott helped maneuver the hover board out of the mine and into the darkness outside. For night had fallen on the prairie lands of northeastern Iowa. Overhead, millions of twinkling stars glittered in the ebony sky. There was no moonlight, as it was the second night of the New Moon, which meant it was barely visible at all to the naked eye.

Belah walked alongside Scott, who was at the foot of the body board. "I want you in a bed, Virg," Scott said, slipping easily into his role as his brother's field commander. "Gordon will pilot 2 home."

"Sounds like a plan."

Scott nearly ground to a halt. "You're kidding."

Virgil stopped and turned to face him. "No. I don't feel so good, Scott."

Scott just watched Virgil's back as he turned to walk away. Now he knew something wasn't right. But just as suddenly as the feeling hit him, it seemed to dissipate like smoke in the wind. Forgetting why he was just standing there while Virg was going on ahead, Scott broke into a jog to catch up to him.

They reached the pod and its internal lighting came on as soon as Gordon stepped inside. He waited until his brothers had entered, then closed the pod door. Belah watched with keen interest as Gordon keyed something into a keypad to the side of the hatch. Before long he heard machinery humming. Two minutes later, clamps clicked into place, and he knew that Thunderbird 2 must have nestled atop her pod.

Scott helped Gordon secure the man on the hover board into a bed behind Thunderbird 2's cockpit. Scott then forced Virgil into one of the beds, with orders that he stay out of Gordon's way while they flew the victim to the nearest hospital. Virgil merely nodded before closing his eyes.

"You sure you're all right?" Scott asked, smoothing a lock of hair away from his brother's forehead. As he did so, something caught his eye -- something that just didn't look quite right. Or feel quite right. But just as quickly as a frown creased his brow, the doubt was gone again in a wave of dizziness.

"Yeah, just woozy," Virgil rasped.

You're not the only one, Scott thought as he bit his lip. It made sense that Virg would be woozy, but why did Scott keep getting hit with these dizzy spells? It didn't make any sense to him. Palming a small pen light that was in a nearby drawer, Scott turned it on and shone it into Virgil's right eye.

Scott's eyes widened. What the hell was that over Virgil's eye? He quickly shone the light in the other one. It looked the same way! He looked over at Gordon, who was frowning, then turned back to Virgil. A fog seemed to envelop his mind as he stared at the pen light. He needed to know if Virgil had a concussion. He needed to check his eyes.

He shone the light into one of Virgil's eyes and frowned. What the hell was that over his eye? Scott stopped what he was doing and blinked as he stared at the bulkhead. Then he looked back down at Virgil. His eyes. Had he checked his eyes?

"Scott?"

"What?"

"Is something wrong with Virgil's eyes?"

"What? I don't know. Why?"

"Well, this is the third time you've checked them."

"It is?"

Gordon nodded. Scott was confused as he looked at the pen light once more. Funny, he didn't remember having checked them. But Gordon said he had. Well, if Gordon said he had, he must have. At this point, Scott's mind was a bit too muddled to figure it out for himself. Instead, he put the pen light back into the drawer and rose to his feet.

"All right, Gordon, get this man to the hospital and then we'll take Virgil home."

"F.A.B.," Gordon replied, heading for the cockpit. Boy, he thought, Scott sure is acting weird.

Scott checked on the victim one more time. His pulse was strong and he didn't seem to be injured at all, for which Scott was thankful. Glancing once more at his sleeping brother, Scott shook his head slowly, wondering what the hell was making his gut twist up so bad inside him.

But there wasn't time for that now. He high-tailed it back to Thunderbird 1, revved up her engines and waited as Gordon fired Thunderbird 2's VTOL rockets and rose into the air. Since Virgil was down for the count, Scott decided to stick with his sister ship. He never let anyone fly alone on the way back from a rescue, not even Virgil. If there wasn't a healthy double crew on board, Scott always held back and flew in tandem.

The Thunderbirds landed at the closest hospital in a bustling city called Waterloo not twenty minutes away at their speed. Scott came over and gave Gordon a hand getting the victim out of Thunderbird 2 and into the Emergency Room. Gordon headed back out to 2 while Scott spoke briefly with a nurse and doctor, who were almost in too much awe of the man in the International Rescue uniform to pay attention to what he was telling them.

As Scott walked out of the hospital, he called Gordon up using his com watch. "How's Virg doing?"

"Seems okay. Vitals are good. He's fallen asleep, though."

"Fallen asleep? Virg?"

"Yeah, I know. I'm not sure he's as okay as he said he was. He gave in to you too easily."

"I was thinking the same thing. All right, I'm heading back to 1. I'll fly you back to Base."

"F.A.B."

The first fifteen minutes of the ride went smoothly enough. Scott relayed everything that had happened to their father back at Base, then stayed relatively silent as he thought of Virgil. Something wasn't right with him. Maybe he had a concussion. After all, the mine's ceiling had collapsed on him, rendering the man they'd come to save unconscious. It only made sense that Virgil had been injured as well.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something in his belly would not stop fluttering. It was the same feeling he'd gotten earlier that year in London right before all hell had broken loose and they'd almost lost both Penny and their father. He'd known something wasn't right then, and unfortunately his gut instinct had been dead on target.

But why was he having that feeling now? The victim of the cave-in had been rescued and was safe at the hospital. Virgil, though not at 100%, was alive and didn't seem to have any serious physical injuries. He and Gordon were unscathed.

Then why wouldn't that voice in the back of his head leave him the hell alone?

The doctor tending to the wounded victim noticed something strange as he felt his neck for a pulse. Something seemed very odd about the man's face, as though his skin were loose or something. Curious, the doctor unbuttoned the top button of the flannel shirt he wore. To his surprise, there was a line clearly showing the difference in color between the man's face and the skin of his neck and chest. The face was a pale white, whereas the rest of his body was darker, like he had a permanent tan.

As he began to peel the mask from the unconscious man's neck, four men entered the ER bay and ordered him to stop. He turned and nearly fainted from fright when he found semi-automatic weapons pointed straight at him.

"Is that the one he wants us to take, Sam?"

The one named Sam pushed the doctor out of the way, leaned down and inspected the patient's face closely. "Yep, looks like it. He's got the right mask on."

"What's going on here?" the doctor asked.

"None of your business," Sam replied. Without warning, one of his companions fired a shot. The doctor was dead before he hit the floor.

The largest of the group lifted the patient up over his shoulder and headed out of the bay.

"Sam," he said as they headed for the exit, "tell the Hood we've got Virgil Tracy."

Belah Gaat opened his eyes and sat up in bed. He took a moment to look at his surroundings and silently congratulate himself. He had done it. He was alone in Thunderbird 2 with the rat called Gordon. They were flying at what he figured was at least sixty thousand feet judging from the point at which he felt the craft level off.

A tiny communicator no bigger than a dime stuck to the inside of the International Rescue uniform shirt's neck vibrated against his skin in a prearranged code which told him another good piece of news: his men stationed at the hospital had the real Virgil Tracy. Things were just getting better and better.

The Hood decided to wait a few more minutes before making his move. Still seated on the bed, he leaned back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. Visions of his most recent failure moved to the forefront of his mind, playing out like a movie in front of his angry eyes.

Five weeks earlier he had traveled to the port city of Calcutta in India. There he had a prearranged meeting with two American scientists who'd been working for Degranada Laboratories in the United Kingdom. Disguised as a native Indian man, Belah had made his way to the city's central marketplace. In his hand he held a briefcase containing ten million American dollars. Being the untrustworthy man that he was, of course, Belah had no intention of actually giving the money to the men. His plan was to seize the nuclear device they were bringing and get away with both it and his briefcase of money.

Belah Gaat had big plans for this device. He'd been trying to get his hands on it for two years. His own scientists had built a gigantic weapon which awaited only this last piece of the puzzle to become operational. With this weapon he would be nearly unstoppable. Grandiose plans of bringing International Rescue to its knees and world domination filled his dreams and visions. At last he would have all that he desired, including International Rescue.

For his plan was brilliant in its simplicity. He would arrange for some disaster to occur, then lie in wait with his weapon. International Rescue would arrive on the scene and start saving peoples' lives, and then he would strike. Years of repeated failures to gain access to their technology had left him angry and frustrated. He had finally decided to show them that he meant business. And that business would come in the form of destroying one of their precious Thunderbirds, hopefully killing one or two Tracy sons along the way, and commandeering the remaining craft.

But things had not gone the way he'd planned. Nearly half an hour had passed since the time at which he was supposed to meet the men. He grew impatient and was nearly ready to turn around and leave, having felt he'd been stood up, when he caught sight of them approaching from across the market. He frowned, for neither of the men had anything with him. One of them should've been carrying a case the size of an apple crate, but their hands were empty.

"Where is it?" he barked as they came to stand in front of him. Both men looked nervous, looked like they really didn't want to be there at all. "Where is it?" he asked again.

"We...we don't have it," the first man replied.

"Then why are you here?" Belah growled.

The men looked nervously at one another before the second one said, "We couldn't contact you, we wanted you to know that it wasn't our fault we couldn't get it."

"It wasn't your fault," Belah repeated. "Then whose fault was it?"

"It was some guy, we don't know who he was. He said he worked for you and wanted to make sure we got the ZX-20 out of the country safely."

"What guy? I sent no one to you."

"That's what we figured," the first one replied. "We took him back to Degranada and tried to contact you, but the routing you gave us didn't work."

"That's right," Man #2 nodded. "Then we discovered the ZX-20 device was gone, it had been taken. We figured this guy had a hand in it and tried to get him to tell us who he really was, but he wouldn't."

"Yeah, and then some blonde lady and a guy dressed like a butler showed up."

Belah grew angrier by the second. His plan, all his grandiose dreams of taking over the world, of bringing International Rescue to its knees were fading fast. "Lady? Butler?"

The man swallowed hard. "We were going to kill the man, then kill them and try to find the device. But the bastard who was with the blonde shot the gun right out of my hand."

Belah seethed. His eyes had turned blacker than coal. International Rescue. His old foe. They had done it to him again. His body shook with barely concealed rage. "I have waited for two years to get the ZX-20. Two years! And now you fools have taken my prize from me!"

The first man cried, "But it wasn't our fault! We were lucky to escape with our lives!"

"You shall not fare so well this time," Belah said, his bass tones vibrating through their bodies. Within a matter of seconds, he'd pulled a laser pistol from his robes.

"Wait! No! You can't! We told you what happened!" the second man yelled. "It wasn't our fault!"

Without a word, Belah fired, the blast tearing through the man's chest. He fell to the ground in a pool of blood and bits of blasted-off flesh. His companion froze in fear. He wanted to run, but he was rooted to the spot, staring at the man who'd just killed his partner. Once again, Belah fired, this time ripping into the second man's belly, killing him instantly.

Peasants in the market place began screaming in terror and running to get away from the man who'd just committed cold-blooded murder in their usually safe city streets. Belah turned and ran for the city's boundary. He could hear sirens wailing and knew the police were on their way. A valiant citizen tried to collar him as he ran past carts and wagons of the peoples' wares, but Belah shot him in the head before the man even got to him.

Zigzagging through the streets and alleyways, Belah ran into two more people, a man and a woman, who simply didn't get out of his way fast enough for his liking. With nary a moment's hesitation, Belah shot them both, then leapt over their lifeless bodies. He was almost to the city's perimeter, and the large wooden gate that awaited him there.

As he reached the gate, however, five Calcutta policemen rushed at him, firing their machine pistols. Thankful for the bulletproof body and leg armor he wore, Belah fired round after round of laser shots at them, killing three of them as he ran out of the city. There he had a car waiting. He jumped in and sped away, and was miles down the road before the police had even gotten into one of their Jeeps.

The more Belah relived this most recent failure, the more his anger grew. He opened his eyes and rose to his feet, eyes nearly glowing with hatred and thoughts of revenge. This was it. This was his most brilliant and brazen plan ever, but it would work. He knew it would work. This would be the end. The end of International Rescue's interference in his plans forever.

"Today," he whispered as he walked toward the cockpit, "Tracys will die."

Piloting Thunderbird 2, Gordon kept thinking about Virgil, wondering if he'd gotten a concussion or what. It was more than a little unusual for Virgil to let Gordon fly "his baby" without a fight. Virg had given up too easily, indicating something was definitely not right with him.

It was with some surprise, then, that he heard his brother enter the cockpit behind him. He twisted his body to turn and look at him. "Virg, what're you doin' out of bed? Scott told you to stay there 'til we got home."

Virgil reached down and unfastened the loop that held his machine pistol in place. He removed the gun from its holster and leveled it at Gordon's head. The sight of his own brother pointing a weapon at him made bile rise into the back of his throat. "What are you doing, Virgil?" he breathed.

Gordon's eyes widened as the man who looked like his brother replied in a voice that was definitely not Virgil's, "Nobody tells me what to do. Especially not a Tracy!"

"Shit!" Gordon cried, whirling back around to face the control panel. He was seconds away from hitting the emergency beacon when he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed into his right temple.

"I do not think you wish to do that, young Gordon," the man said venomously. "Otherwise you shall find your brain matter splattered all over this cockpit."

Gordon froze, his heart racing as his mind worked. He was strapped into the pilot's chair, meaning he wouldn't be able to move quickly enough to avoid getting shot. If he tried to hit the emergency beacon, he'd be dead before his finger reached the button. Whoever this imposter was who knew his identity, it was definitely not Virgil. And whatever he was up to, Gordon started having a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that the man was going to succeed.

Scott was about ready to explode. His mind and heart were both telling him something was terribly, terribly wrong. He had just reached out to open a line to Thunderbird 2 when Gordon's voice came wafting through his speakers.

"Thunderbird 2 to Thunderbird 1."

"Hey, I was just about to call you. Everything okay over there?"

"Not really."

Scott's heart literally ground to a halt. He knew it. He knew something was wrong! Gordon's voice sounded very strained. "What's going on, Gordon?"

"Well, it looks like I've got a fault in the fuel line here, Scott. I think it might be leaking."

"What caused that? She was fit for duty when we left Base."

"Can't be sure, but I'm losing altitude pretty fast."

Scott opened the viewing window down and to the right of his gimbal-slung chair. Sure enough, Thunderbird 2 was slowly falling out of line with 1. "What do you recommend?"

"I say we head back to someplace out of the way, like around that mine somewhere, maybe, so I can land her and we can take our time getting her fixed up. Maybe that old ghost town."

Scott smiled. Gordon had always had an odd interest in deserted towns. He always said they creeped him out enough to keep him from being able to stay away. That it was so eerie to walk around and see houses and churches, stores and other buildings that used to be occupied by people. People who had left for any number of reasons, left their homes and land and gone to who-knew-where.

"The ghost town sounds fine. Keep her steady, Gordon."

"F.A.B."

At first, Scott felt a little better. Something had been wrong, but it didn't sound like it was anything life-threatening, and between the two of them, they'd probably have the fuel line fixed up in no time and be on their way home. But then dark thoughts entered his mind. Thoughts that came from he knew not where. They were not his own, but he had no idea whose they were. Only that they were foreboding.

Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Something still wasn't right.

"You did very well."

"I kind of had an incentive," Gordon retorted, eyeballing the gun now being held six inches from his head. "Who are you?"

"An old friend."

Gordon frowned. He was facing the front of the cockpit, slowly lowering altitude so Scott wouldn't get suspicious of the fake reason he'd given for wanting to make an emergency landing. He slowly turned his head and was struck by how much the man looked like his brother. Of course, now that he knew it wasn't Virgil, he figured the guy had a mask on.

A mask. There was only one man Gordon knew of who could disguise himself so perfectly as to fool two grown men into thinking he was their brother. "My God," Gordon breathed, turning back to face the control panel. "You're the Hood."

Belah chuckled. "Very good, Gordon. I see my reputation precedes me."

"What have you done with my brother?"

"Oh, Virgil is safe, for now. He was the "victim" that you and Scott left at the hospital."

"Oh, my God," Gordon breathed as everything suddenly became clear. "You were the victim in the mine. You set the whole thing up to lure us there. Then you...you caused that second cave in, didn't you? So that you could...could change Virgil into the victim...and..."

"And change myself into Virgil. Very, very good. It's a shame you're a Tracy. Otherwise, I might have use for a mind as sharp as yours."

"Fuck you," Gordon replied. "If you hurt one hair on Virgil's head...Scott's gonna fucking kill you, and I won't be far behind."

"The only one who will be doing any killing," Belah growled as he jabbed the gun into Gordon's temple, "is me."

Thunderbirds 1 and 2 landed just outside the edge of an old, now-deserted town named Dunkerton, forty miles northeast of Waterloo, where they'd taken the victim to the hospital. There was one main road that ran through the middle of town. Scott landed first, straddling the broken blacktop of what was left of the only way into the city from the west. He opened the hatch and hopped down from his ship, walking towards where Gordon was in the process of landing Thunderbird two right on the road, nose directly facing him.

Scott waited a few moments after 2's engines were cut, but Gordon did not emerge. He raised his watch to his face. "Gordon, what's going on?" At first he received no reply. Frowning, and feeling his stomach begin to churn, he said, "Gordon? Come in."

The Hood had instructed him not to move. But Gordon could see his older brother out the front cockpit windows. Scott was outside of Thunderbird 1, standing there in the open like a sitting duck. He was vulnerable, and Gordon feared it would take nothing for the Hood to kill him. He couldn't let that happen. He just couldn't. He jumped when he heard Scott's voice come over the airwaves. He wanted so badly to answer, to scream at him to run, to get back into his ship and get out of there. But the Hood still had the gun pointed at his head.

Scott called out to him again. He could hear the worry in his voice and he wanted to throw up. The Hood had them. He had Virgil, he had Scott, he had Gordon and both Thunderbirds 1 and 2. No, Gordon thought. I won't let him have us all. He swung his wristwatch up to his face and cried out, "Scott! Scott!! Run! It's—"

Belah hollered and slammed the butt of the pistol into the side of Gordon's head. The pilot slumped down in his chair, unconscious. Blood trickled down the side of his face, dripping onto his light blue uniform shirt like falling drops of rain. "Stupid fool," Belah growled.

"Gordon!" came the frantic cries from his older brother. "Gordon, what happened?!?"

Belah reached out and flipped a switch that turned on Thunderbird 2's external speakers. "Hello, Scott Tracy," he said. His voice was rich with self-righteousness and nearly giddy with triumph.

Scott's blood ran cold. Who the hell was that talking to him from Thunderbird 2? He spoke into his watch again. "Gordon, answer me. Answer me!"

"He is unable to speak to you right now."

"Who the fuck are you? What've you done to my brothers?"

"They are both alive. For the moment."

For one of the first times in his life, Scott felt completely helpless. There he was, standing on a deserted road in the middle of nothingness in between the two Thunderbirds. He was an easy target, and he knew it. Fear started at the top of his spine and worked its way downwards as he heard a panel open on top of Thunderbird 2.

"Now, Scott, we will discuss what you are going to do. I have a gun pointed at Gordon's head. I have your automatic weaponry pointed directly at you."

"Where's Virgil?" Scott whispered.

Belah laughed. "He's not here, Scott. Haven't you figured it out yet? Gordon did, rather quickly, too. Don't tell me he's smarter than you are."

Scott's mind raced. The cave in, Virgil and the victim being cut off from Gordon, them digging through, pulling the injured man out, then pulling Virgil out...him telling Virgil he looked pale...pale...

Oh...oh, my God. No. Oh, no.

The Hood laughed again. "I see by the look on your face that you have finally come to see my superiority here. You thought I was your beloved brother Virgil. Didn't you?"

Emotion welled up in Scott. Virgil had been the man they'd left at the hospital. Well...at least that meant he was safe. Didn't it?"

As if reading his mind, Belah continued. "My men have Virgil. And he is still alive. As is Gordon. Now, if you want to ensure they remain that way, then you will board this craft."

Scott swallowed hard. Who was this man that could fool them into thinking he was Virgil, and into thinking that Virgil was the cave in victim? And then he knew. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. "You're the Hood," he breathed. "You sonofabitch."

"You should be nicer to me, Scott. I have a hair trigger."

"No!" Scott cried out, waving his hands in the air. "No, wait! I'll do as you say. Just let my brothers go. You have to let them go."

Belah laughed. "Very well. Remove all weapons and that watch and toss them aside." Scott pulled his gun out and threw it off in the distance. As he removed his watch, he pressed a tiny button on the side. A button he knew would bring help. But would that help be in time?

"Good. Now walk toward Thunderbird 2. I shall open the hatch in the nose. I will have my gun at Gordon's temple as you enter. If you make one false move, I will kill him instantly."

"No false moves," Scott said quickly, hands raised in the air. "I'm coming to the ship now." Steely resolve filled Scott's mind and heart. He would do anything to save his brothers. Anything. And if that meant giving himself over to the Hood...then so be it. He made his way to the nose hatch and hoisted himself up into it.

"Hurry, Scott. You have five seconds to enter the cockpit or Gordon dies."

Scott scrambled to the back of the nose compartment where the small lift waited. Forcing himself to remain calm, he entered and waited as it rose into the cockpit. He couldn't help the cry that escaped his lips when the lift clicked into place.

"Gordon!"

For sitting in one of the passenger chairs was his younger brother, unconscious and bleeding. The entire right shoulder of his uniform was soaked in blood. His heart skipped several beats when he saw what looked like his own brother Virgil holding a gun to Gordon's head. But just as quickly, he could easily tell it wasn't Virgil, though the facial resemblance was striking. How had the Hood tricked them so easily before? How had neither Scott nor Gordon realized this wasn't their brother?

"Ah, you are wondering how it was you did not realize I was not your gallant brother, are you not?" Scott didn't answer. His blue eyes had gone almost black as he stared his enemy down. "Of course you are. You forget, my dear Scott, that I have powers greater than that fool Kyrano, greater than anyone you have ever known. I can get anyone to do anything."

"What is it you want of me?" Scott said in a low, quiet voice. "What will it take for you to let my brothers go?"

"Sit down in the pilot's seat and strap yourself in. And remember, one wrong move and Gordon dies."

Scott did as he was told, seating himself in the pilot's chair...Virgil's chair...and buckling the harness around him. "Now what?"

"Now we wait."

A good hour-and-a-half passed with Belah inspecting various parts of Thunderbird 2's control panel while Scott sat stoically in the pilot's chair. Finally his impatience got the better of him and he asked, "What the hell are we waiting for?"

At that exact moment, the tiny communicator inside Belah's shirt vibrated. "That is none of your concern. It is time."

"Time to do what?"

"Destroy Thunderbird 1."

"No!" Scott cried out as he turned to face the Hood. Belah jabbed the gun into Gordon's lolling head and Scott held his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, don't shoot. Don't shoot. I'll...I'll destroy her."

The corners of Belah's mouth curved into a smile as he watched Scott take a deep breath, finger poised over the switch that would bring Thunderbird 2's weapons to life. He inched forward, caught up in this glorious moment where he would force Scott Tracy to destroy his own Thunderbird. He knew he had won.

He didn't notice someone stirring behind him.

But Scott noticed. Out the corner of his eye he saw Gordon move ever so slowly. Hope rose within him. They had him. They had the Hood. "I thought you wanted our technology," Scott said quietly, stalling to allow Gordon a few more moments. "Why do you want me to destroy it?"

Belah shrugged. "I have Thunderbird 2. And I have you. I don't need anything else."

Without warning, Gordon grabbed his machine pistol from the holster on his waist. In his overconfidence, Belah had not even disarmed the man he'd cold-cocked. Whipping the gun out and leveling it at Belah's chest, Gordon growled, "You don't have a goddamn thing, you bastard." A shot rang out, echoing in the silence of Thunderbird 2's cockpit. Scott looked down and to his right as Gordon sank back into the passenger seat.

The Hood was dead.

Scott immediately opened a line to Base. "Thunderbird 2 calling International Rescue." He received no response, and put in the call again. Finally the face of Kyrano appeared in the monitor.

"Your father is not here, Scott."

"Kyrano? Why, where is he?"

"On his way to save you. He and John left as soon as they received your emergency signal. They are flying Tracy One."

"All right. I'll contact them."

"Scott?"

"Yes?"

"My half-brother...where is he?"

"He's dead."

Kyrano placed his head in his hands for a moment, then looked back up at his old friend's son. "Are you certain?"

Scott nodded and replied, "Yes. He's right here on the floor." Kyrano frowned as Scott continued. "I have to get Dad on the line. Thunderbird 2 out. Thunderbird 2 to Tracy One."

"Scott? Scott!"

"Father, listen to me, we don't have much time here."

"What's going on? I couldn't raise any of you!"

"No time to give details. Gordon's injured, but I think he'll be okay," Scott reported as Gordon nodded in his direction. "Virgil's being held captive by some of the Hood's men. We know they nabbed him at that hospital in Waterloo, but we're not sure how many men there are, or where exactly Virgil is."

"What's the action?"

"Well, first I have to get rid of a body."

"A body?"

"We killed the Hood. He...I almost had to destroy Thunderbird 1."

John's voice wafted through the airwaves. "No."

"Almost, Johnny. He didn't count on Gordon, though. Once we get him outta here, I'm going up in Thunderbird 1 to do reconnaissance and see if I can't find some evidence of where Virgil is."

"All right. We should be with you in about thirty-five minutes, Scott. How was the Hood communicating with his men?"

Gordon and Scott looked at one another. "I'm not sure, Dad." Scott unstrapped himself from the pilot's chair and crouched next to Belah's body. He felt along his pant legs and torso, checked his pockets, the holster and the yellow sash, but he could find nothing. "There isn't a radio or anything on him."

"Well, get him out of my Thunderbird," Jeff ordered, his voice harsh. "In the meantime, once you're airborne, I'm going to have Alan keep an open line between all three of us."

"F.A.B." Scott closed the channel and turn to where Gordon had risen unsteadily to his feet. "Gordo. You all right?"

Wiping some of the dried blood from the side of his face, Gordon nodded slowly. "Think so."

Unable to contain his emotions, Scott moved forward and enveloped his younger brother in a hug. "You saved our lives, Gordo. And my Thunderbird." Gordon wrapped his arms around his brother. "Thank you."

"All in a day's work," he said jovially. "Now let's get that bastard out of here."

Scott backed away, nodding his head. He moved around to the Hood's head and lifted him under his armpits while Gordon grabbed his legs. Silently they carried the body into the elevator and waited as it descended to the nose compartment. Alternately pulling and pushing, they were able to get the Hood out of the hatch, where he fell to the blacktop below with a thud.

"You all right to do a check on 2 while I take off?" Scott asked.

Gordon watched as Scott jumped down onto the pavement next to the Hood's body. "Yeah. Just make sure that sonofabitch is good and dead before you leave me here alone with him."

"I'll do better than that, Gordo," Scott said, picking up the Hood's feet and beginning to drag him away. "I'll make sure he's nothing more than a few handfuls of dust."

Gordon nodded and closed the hatch before making his way back to the cockpit. He had a bit of a cleanup job to do, to get rid of the blood on the cockpit floor, plus he needed to clean his face up and put on a clean uniform shirt.

But as soon as the lift clicked into place in the back of the cockpit, Gordon's eyes rolled in the back of his head and he collapsed to the floor.

Scott dragged the man who had tried time and time again to gain access to his family's technology...and to his family members themselves...out onto the prairie grass. The first thing he did was reach down and rip the Virgil mask from the Hood's head. "You are no Virgil," he said venomously. "You never could be." He then worked at removing Virgil's clothing from the Hood's lifeless body. "And you could never deserve to wear his uniform."

As Scott removed the uniform shirt, something caught his eye. He grabbed the collar and folded it back. It was so dark outside, though, that he couldn't see well enough to know what he was looking at. Raising his watch to his face, he spoke. "Gordo, turn 2's external lights on, would you? I can't see a damn thing out here." When the lights didn't go on, Scott frowned and looked toward Thunderbird 2. "Gordon?"

Gripping the shirt in his fist, Scott raced back to 2's hatch. "Gordon!" he called out. "Open up!" But the door did not slide open. "Damn," he cursed, reaching down into the flap-covered pouch on his utility belt. He pulled out a small device that looked like a complicated calculator. Keying a few numbers in quickly, it wasn't long before he had the hatch open.

He hiked himself up inside and pressed a button to call the lift. It came down, he entered, and waited for it to rise. When he reached the cockpit, he was hit with a sense of déjà vu as he found himself repeating what he had the last time he'd been in this very place. "Gordon!"

His brother was sprawled out face-down on the floor. He knelt down and turned him over, then felt for a pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found one, but it was weak and thready. "Damn you, Gordon, for not telling me how bad you were." He lifted Gordon into his arms and carried him back to Thunderbird 2's small sick bay. Laying him in a bed, he checked his vital signs and found his breathing shallow and his heartbeat irregular.

Scott raced back up to the cockpit and jabbed a line open. "Tracy One from Thunderbird 2. Do you read me, Dad?"

"Loud and clear, Scott. We're about ten minutes out."

"Father, Gordon's collapsed. His breathing is shallow and his heartbeat's irregular. We need to get him some help."

"F.A.B. I'll land and John will get 2 in the air. I'll use the jet to get him to a hospital. Any word on finding Virgil yet?"

"No, Dad, I never even got in the air." Then Scott remembered the shirt he held in his hand. In the lighted cockpit, he could easily see the small contraption hooked into its collar. "I think I know how the Hood was communicating with his men, though."

"How's that?"

"There's a small, round device attached to the inside of the shirt he was wearing." Jeff had no idea that the Hood had impersonated his second eldest son, and Scott didn't feel like opening up that can of worms right now, so he didn't mention that the shirt belonged to Virgil's IR uniform. "It looks like it's just a touch-pad. He must have worked out codes with them."

"I don't suppose there's any way of figuring out those codes," Jeff said.

That was when John broke in. "I'll have a look at it when we land, Scott. I might be able to figure something out."

"F.A.B., John. Meantime, I'll get Gordon outside so we can load him into the jet as soon as you arrive. Thunderbird 2 out."

Twenty minutes later, Gordon had been redressed in civilian clothes and loaded onto Tracy One, and Jeff was flying him to the hospital, where he would also be searching for his missing son. He didn't ask why the Hood's body was lying naked in the grass off to the side of the road, and the mask, boots and uniform pants lying next to him. He knew Scott had things well under control there, and figured he'd get the whole story after they got Virgil back safe and sound.

John and Scott quickly cleaned the blood from Thunderbird 2's cockpit floor, then John took a look at the communications chip the Hood had been using. "Yeah, it's touch-pad all right," he said as he removed it. "What's it doing inside a uniform shirt?"

"Long story, Johnny, just tell me if we can use that thing or not."

"I wouldn't chance it, not without knowing what his codes were. We might inadvertently tell them to kill Virgil."

Scott blanched at the thought, but quickly regained his composure. "All right. I'm going to head up in 1 and see if I can't find something that'll tell me where they are. I want you on standby here, to act as soon as I find anything."

"F.A.B.," John replied as he moved to the closet that held their uniforms. He supposed it wasn't really necessary to suit up, but he was, after all, on duty for International Rescue. Besides, jean shorts and a gray muscle shirt didn't exactly lend themselves to rescue operations.

Scott first picked up his discarded watch from the broken blacktop of the old road and strapped it on his wrist. He then retrieved two items from Thunderbird 1's small external storage compartment and made his way over to the Hood's body. He knew there was no way the Hood could be alive. Gordon had hit him right in the heart. But Scott wasn't going to take any chances. This cat had proven to have many more than nine lives in the past.

The thought of what he was about to do sickened him. He was in the business of saving lives, not taking them. And although Belah was already dead, the task he was about to perform was nothing short of gruesome. But as International Rescue's Field Commander and four men's eldest brother, Scott knew he had to be absolutely certain the sick bastard who'd done this to them didn't rise from the dead again.

Laying the larger of the two items on the ground, Scott uncapped the small bottle in his right hand and walked up to the body. Face twisted in anger, Scott used his foot to roll the body over so he wouldn't have to look at the Hood's hated face any more. Raising the bottle in the air, he tipped it over. The stark smell of kerosene seared his nostrils as he emptied the one liter bottle onto his target from head to toe.

Then, backing up to about two feet away, Scott picked up the other object from the ground, took aim and fired. It was a blowtorch, and flames shot out in a straight line, hitting Belah's body and searing his flesh. Within seconds, aided by the kerosene, the entire corpse was engulfed in flames, the abhorrent mask he'd used to fool Scott melting atop his chest.

Fighting the urge to vomit at the sickening smell of burning flesh, Scott turned away, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. He had to swallow rapidly to keep himself under control, but as he turned to look at it one more time, he knew that he'd done the right thing.

Straightening his shoulders, he strode back to Thunderbird 1, and was airborne inside two minutes. Now his thoughts were consumed with finding Virgil. If he was still alive.

Virgil awoke to the distinct sensation that he was suffocating. Yet when his tongue darted out to lick his lips, he realized there was no obstruction in front of his mouth. Why the hell, then, was his face so hot and disgusting? He moaned as he tried to open his eyes and move his arms and legs. He felt like he had a mouth full of cotton, and his limbs were sluggish, unwilling to respond to his brain's commands for them to move.

What in the hell happened to me? he wondered. As his senses slowly began to return, he heard a familiar sound -- that of a helicopter. More than one helicopter, actually. There were at least four, if his ears weren't deceiving him. When he finally blinked his eyes open, he found himself to be lying on a dirt floor inside some sort of shack. The inside was lined with tools hanging from hooks on the walls -- tools which looked like they hadn't been used in years. Their blades were rusty, their wooden handles, nearly rotted.

Forcing himself into a sitting position, he took stock of his body and decided he wasn't injured. He didn't feel a lump on his head, but he had one whopper of a headache. How had that happened? Where was he? He tried to think what he'd been doing. Last he could remember, he was getting ready to dig a man out of a pile of dirt and rocks inside a mine shaft. There had been a cave in, and the man had become trapped. He remembered crawling along the top of the rubble on his belly as Gordon was setting up the first aid kit and body board.

Virgil rubbed his head and groaned. Damn pounding headache. Then what happened, Virg? Think. Think! And what the fuck is on my face? That isn't my hair!

Reaching up to his face, his fingers found something soft and rubbery covering it. "Sonofabitch," he breathed. He dug his nails into his neck and peeled the syntheskin away strip by strip until at last he held bits and pieces of a mask in his hands. "Jesus Christ. The Hood."

He'd reached out to check the man's pulse, and then...then...what was it? As he threw the remains of the mask to the dirt, Virgil knew there was something he should be remembering. He'd reached out...the eyes. The eyes, that was it! He'd been struck by how black they were. He'd never seen eyes that completely black, so much so that they looked like they didn't even have irises. "It must've been him. It must've been the Hood himself."

He'd seen the eyes, and then the man...the Hood...had moved. He'd pulled his arms out of the dirt! That had confused Virgil. If he had been able to extricate himself from the rubble, why hadn't he done so until that moment?

And that's when the scene came flashing back to him. The man had reached down and whipped something out...something cool, something metal. Virgil had felt it press against his neck, and that was the last thing he remembered. He'd been drugged. That explained the cotton mouth, unresponsive limbs and splitting headache. But if the Hood had drugged and kidnapped him, what had happened to his brother?

"Oh, God, Gordon!" Virgil exclaimed as he pulled himself to his feet. Unsteady at best, he fell back into the shed's back wall, knocking into a shovel, a rake and a hoe. They clanged into the wall, making a lot of noise. "Well, whoever has me locked up in here must've heard that," he said to himself.

There wasn't a lot of light in the shed, but from what he could tell, there was no knob on the door. He walked over to it and pushed against it, but it didn't budge. He then felt around looking for anything he could get a grip on, but the door, though old and cracked, was smooth on the inside. There was nothing he could pull on to get it open.

Next he turned his attention to a small four-pane window on his left. When he looked outside, he couldn't see a thing. The sky was pitch black, dotted by millions of stars, but there was no moonlight. Surprised that no one had come to investigate after the racket he'd made, he wondered if there was even anyone around.

I guess I could just break the window, he thought. Turning to look at the various tools hanging on the wall, he decided the point-tipped hoe would be the best weapon he could have. Palming it in his right hand, he then grabbed the large shovel, figuring it'd probably do the best job of breaking the entire window out.

"Well," he said out loud. "Here goes nothing."

"Shit! They've killed him!" a man dressed in green camouflage cried as he approached a strange-looking group. The thirty or so men who comprised that group all turned their eyes to him as one.

A second man dressed similarly to the first asked, "They killed him? Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Yes. Fuck, man, we can't stay here. They'll have the cops out here inside an hour."

"You got that right," the second man replied. He turned to face the rest of the group. "All right, inside the helicopters, now! This mission is being called off! Return to the hangar!"

At first no one moved, then the first man hollered, "I swear to you, I saw them dump his body out of the big green ship -- the dark-haired one and the redhead. The Hood is dead!"

Suddenly the scene turned into one of somewhat organized chaos. Two dozen camouflage-clad men and twice as many in civilian clothes swarmed into four huge helicopters like an army of ants. Within minutes, the helicopters had all taken off.

On board one of the helicopters, the man who had ordered them all to leave turned and looked at the one who had seen the Hood's dead body. "Where's Jerry?"

"I don't know. We separated and then I couldn't find him."

"Well, what about him? And the guy we left in the shed?" he asked the first as they flew off into the night.

"Fuck 'em."

"Thunderbird 5 from Thunderbird 1!"

"Jesus, what the hell is goin' on down there? Dad told me—"

"Never mind that, Alan, I've got four bogeys on my radar and I want you to track them! They might have Virgil!"

"F.A.B., I've got a lock."

"I see something on the ground in the distance. I'm going to check that out and then I'll catch up to them. Don't lose them!"

"I won't," Alan replied. "5 out."

Scott's external camera had picked up movement about eight miles north of the ghost town. His instincts told him that was where he'd find his brother.

The sound of shattering glass pierced the silence. Virgil had heard the 'copters take off, and waited until they were well on their way before breaking the window. Poking his head out, he determined the coast was clear. He dropped the shovel out to the ground below, then hoisted himself up and tottered on the window sill for a moment. Pulling himself all the way out of the shed, he tucked into a ball and rolled ass over head until he landed on his feet and rose to his full height. Virgil quickly grabbed the shovel and poised, ready to strike.

But he was alone. He crept around the other side of the shed, but there was no one. He didn't get it. If he'd been kidnapped by the Hood, why had he been left unguarded? And where were his brothers? As if in answer to his question, he heard a sound that was more welcome to him than he ever thought a sound could be. It was the familiar whine of Thunderbird 1's engines. He looked up, and in the distance could just make out her flashing lights against the stars.

"Scott!" he cried out, jumping up and down and waving his arms like a lunatic. "Scott! I'm down here!"

Scott's heart leapt when his video monitor showed his brother, dressed in that god-awful flannel shirt and a ratty pair of jeans, jumping around like a kid. He smiled broadly and landed his Thunderbird, a bit too quickly and abruptly, and was outside within seconds.

"Virg!" he called out to the form that stood near the shed. The men met halfway and enveloped each other in a fierce hug. Scott fought to control his emotions as he mumbled, "My God, I thought...I didn't think...Jesus Christ, Virg."

"I'm okay, Scott," Virgil said as he released his brother. "How are you?"

"Fine, just fine. We got him, Virg."

"Got who?"

"The Hood. He set this whole damn thing up."

"I figured out it was him in the mine. Are you saying...that you killed him?"

"Well, actually, Gordon did the honors."

"I can't believe it. I can't believe he's dead."

Both Virgil's and Scott's hearts nearly stopped when a low voice came from behind them. "Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated." They whirled around in tandem and found themselves face-to-face with a man about Virgil's size with a bald head and what looked in the darkness like Asiatic features. Scott recognized him immediately.

"That's impossible," Scott breathed, grasping Virgil's forearm tightly in his hand. "I saw Gordon shoot you through the heart. We dumped your body out on the ground. I...I took the uniform off you myself, and the mask!."

"Yes, you did. But then you left me for a while, did you not?"

"You couldn't have survived that bullet!"

Belah laughed as he took a step closer. "Technology is a wonderful thing, Scott." Belah ripped open the army-green button-down shirt he was wearing, balled his hand into a fist and banged on his chest. "Internal body armor," he gloated. "Wonderful material. Injected directly beneath the skin, it forms a malleable protective shielding which doesn't hamper movement, but makes you impervious to projectiles. I have a bit of a surface scratch, but nothing a piece of gauze won't take care of."

The two Tracys looked at one another, fighting to keep their jaws from hanging open. But then everything that had happened over the years, the way in which his father had almost died, how the Hood had almost won, had almost killed him and his brothers...it all came back to Scott, and he released his brother's arm, whirling on the Hood with barely controlled fury.

"You can't possibly have internal body armor everywhere," he ground out, taking a step toward his enemy. "I'll find your soft spot and I'll make sure the bullet from this gun," here, he whipped his machine pistol from its holster, "is the last thing you feel."

The Hood simply laughed again and shook his head as though bored with Scott and his antics. "Go ahead," he said. "Give it a try. I guarantee you that neither of you will leave here alive."

"It's two against one," Virgil said, coming to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother. "You can't possibly take us both."

"I can with this," Belah replied. He ripped his shirt open the rest of the way to reveal what looked like a small, thin, black box with ten tiny objects jutting out of it about an eighth of an inch. "Miniature missiles."

"Where the fuck did you get those from? I left you stripped bare, you didn't have a thing on you!"

"When will you ever learn, Scott Tracy? Not only am I of a superior intellect, but I always have a backup plan."

Scott seethed.

"I had them stored in one of the ghost town buildings, just in case. Along with the clothing."

"That still doesn't explain how you survived the bl—" Scott stopped short and turned to look at Virgil, who was giving him a rather curious look. "There was still a body there when I came back from helping Gordon."

"Yes. There was. It was that of one of my soldiers."

"But it looked like--" Scott stopped in mid-sentence. "Shit. I rolled him over. I rolled the body over when I came back. I didn't see his face. Shit."

"What I don't get," Virgil said, "was how the hell you fooled my brothers into thinking you were me?"

"With a little bit of magick," Belah grinned and tapped his cheek with his finger. "You forget, Virgil. I am the master of disguises."

"With a mug like that," Virgil said, "it's no wonder."

Belah just sneered at him and reached his finger down to a small, flat touch-button on the top of the black box strapped to his abdomen.

It was then that a sound came to their ears...a sound Virgil and Scott recognized instantly. It was Tracy One! Momentarily distracted, the Hood glanced up to see where the noise was coming from. Scott took the opening and lunged at Belah, and the two tumbled to the ground. Virgil kept trying to join the fray, but Belah and Scott rolled round and round so quickly he couldn't get a grip on either of them.

Tracy One flew over so low Virg could feel the heat of her afterburners. The backwash they created tore the three men apart, sending them spinning across the grassland. Belah sprang to his feet and hit the button on the box as Scott and Virgil came to their feet. Ten tiny missiles headed straight for the brothers.

Scott dove right and Virgil dove left. One missile grazed Scott's calf, but the rest of them sailed into the shed, which exploded as flames leapt tens of feet into the night sky. The brothers heard Belah curse in a language they both thought sounded familiar as they jumped to their feet.

The three men stood staring at one another. In the distance, Scott saw Tracy One coming right back at them. Then he felt Virgil elbow him in the ribs as he launched himself at Belah. "Call Dad!" Virgil cried.

Scott raised his watch to his face. "The Hood is alive! He's down here!" With that, Scott ran to break up the fight. "Let's go!" he cried, grabbing Virgil's arm in his hand and breaking into a dead run. Thunderbird 1 was only fifteen feet away. They had to make it. They just had to!

"Cowards!" the Hood cried as he rose to his feet. He took a rifle out of the holster that was secured to his back, turned on the laser sight and took aim. He had it pointed right at the back of Scott's head. But just as he was about to fire, he heard something that made him freeze.

He turned just in time to see one missile leave each wing of the jet heading straight for him. Belah stepped backwards, then turned around to run, but he just wasn't fast enough. The missiles hit the ground just behind his heels and exploded, launching him at least ten feet into the air. Arms and legs flailing, he fell to the earth with a thud. When Tracy One whooshed by overhead, Jeff looked out the cockpit window.

The Hood was lying on the ground. And he wasn't moving.

Seconds later, Thunderbird 1's VTOL rocket fired, and soon she was airborne. "Scott! Virgil!" they heard their father yell through 1's speakers. "Are you all right?"

Scott looked down at where Virgil sat in one of the two passenger seats at the bottom of Thunderbird 1's cockpit. The men smiled at one another, and Scott replied, "F.A.B., Father."

"All right. I've got Gordon on board. I'll let John know it's over. Let's go home."

"But what about the Hood, Dad?" Scott asked, a frown replacing his smile. "Are you sure you killed him?"

"Well, he wasn't moving after the missiles hit."

Scott and Virgil exchanged looks. "That doesn't mean anything. I saw Gordon shoot him at point blank range, but he's got some sort of body armor that kept him alive."

There was a moment of silence.

"Dad, I really think I ought to—"

Virgil reached up and touched the only thing he could reach on his brother -- his foot. "Let's just go home, Scott."

"But Virg, if he's not dead, he could do this to us again! I can't take that chance!"

"Listen to your brother, Scott," Jeff said softly. "I almost lost three of my sons today." Scott's face, which had borne the look of stubborn determination, melted into a look of softness as Jeff continued. "This was almost the end, son. Let's just go home. If he's still alive, we'll beat him again. Next time, we'll be ready for him."

Scott swallowed hard. Wavering for a moment, his face hardened as he turned his ship around. "Sorry, Dad. This is something I have to do."

Not a word was spoken as Scott returned to the where the shed had once stood. All that was left was a pile of rubble that looked like the remains of a pathetic bonfire. He switched on his external floodlights and trained them on the crater his father's missiles had created. Scanning north and south, east and west, Scott fully expected to see either a body or, at the very least, the Hood running away.

But he saw nothing.

Cursing under his breath, he widened his search as Virgil craned his neck to look out of the viewing window. His father's voice came to him over the airwaves. "Scott?"

"He's not here, Dad," Scott said, his voice low and full of disbelief. "He has to be here. He has to be!"

Virgil looked up into his brother's eyes and saw hatred burning there. He wanted to see the Hood dead as much as anybody, but his body was growing weak and his mind was becoming fuzzy. Right now all he wanted to do was go home.

"Goddammit, no! He has to be here!" Scott growled as he circled an even wider area. "He can't just disappear! Nobody can disappear like that!"

"The Hood can," Virgil said quietly, slumping down into his chair.

The sound of Virgil's voice made Scott's eyes leave his monitor and look at his brother. "Virg?" When he didn't reply, Scott repeated, "Virgil?"

"I...I just...I can't..." With that, Virgil lost consciousness.

"Virg! Shit!"

"What's happened, Scott?"

"Virgil's out."

"Scott, we've got to get him home. Now! The Hood is gone! There's nothing more you can do about him, but you can help Virgil!"

Taking one last look at his monitor, Scott ground his teeth together as he swung Thunderbird 1 back toward the ghost town. "Don't think this is over," he growled. "Not by a long shot."

Virgil stirred and his eyes fluttered open. "Scott..."

Scott forced a smile. "Are you gonna stay awake 'til we get home this time?"

Virgil half-smiled and nodded.

I swear to you, Hood, if I ever see your face again, any of your faces, I will kill you, Scott vowed silently. Aloud he said, "Tracy One from Thunderbird 1. Heading for home."

Jeff smiled as he eased his plane higher into the sky. "F.A.B."