Scotch Mist

by Polly Amber

Thunderbirds is a Gerry Anderson production licensed by Carlton International Media limited. The character of Marjorie Cholmondley-Brown is my own creation.

Chapter 1

A gleaming, silver and blue rocket streaked over a shimmering, turquoise ocean. It appeared to be almost invisible, as it reflected the midday sun in a blinding flash. If you had blinked, you would have missed it, for this magnificent craft was the fastest in the world. Its jet engines blazed streams of fire across a cloudless blue sky. Thunderbird One was the impressive scout craft belonging to International Rescue. It was the first to reach the scene of a disaster, and it was required on almost every rescue mission.

Pilot Scott Tracy, flew wearily over his Pacific island home. He opened a communication channel and radioed his father Jeff, who was waiting at their base.

"This is Thunderbird One, requesting permission to land."

"Permission granted. Good work Scott."

Thunderbird One hovered in the sky, as the mighty craft resumed an upright position. Scott then fired the retros, and began a reverse descent into what appeared to be the family's swimming pool With a churning, grating sound, powerful motors hauled the pool, plus several tons of water to one side to reveal a hidden underground chamber. With expert precision, Scott manoeuvred his craft into the docking position, where it was secured firmly by mechanical clamps. While it was being trundled back into it's pre- launch position, Scott took off his sweat-stained uniform, placed it in a laundry bag and changed back into civilian clothes. As he left, he secured the hatch and stepped out onto the gantry. Although he was exhausted, he felt a smug sense of satisfaction - another job well done and another success for International Rescue. He stepped from the gantry and stood with his back against the wall. He then grasped two fake lamp brackets, which activated a swivel mechanism. A section of the wall turned around, and Scott found himself once again in the living room and operations centre of Tracy Villa - The secret headquarters of International Rescue.

One of his younger brothers was engrossed in a chess match with a studious looking young man who was clearly winning the game.

"Th-that's ch-checkmate, I believe, Gordon."

"Aw sucks!" The copper haired young man slammed down his last remaining chess piece in submission. "I don't know why I bother. You always wipe the floor with me."

"B-but that was q-quite a ch-challenging game, Gordon. Y-you're getting b-better each time. You c-can b-beat Alan and s-sometimes Virgil."

"Huh. Anyone can beat Alan," retorted Gordon, earning him a sulky glare from the youngest member of the family, who for once bit his tongue and chose to ignore the remark.

"Oh. Hi Scott," acknowledged their father Jeff, who was sitting at his desk shuffling some papers. "Virgil is on his way home. So everything went smoothly?"

Scott yawned and slumped into an armchair "Yeah, no problems. We managed to locate the potholers, and we were able to use the Mole to get part of the way to them. They were just kids, about Alan's age. You know it never ceases to amaze me how stupid some people can be. After a night of torrential rain, these silly kids decided to go pot holing. They took one torch between the four of them, a few mars bars and a bottle of mineral water. They were totally ill equipped, and dressed only in jeans, trainers and cagoules."

"Bet you gave them a piece of your mind then Scott," interrupted Alan, who had been on the receiving end of Scott's sharp tongue many times himself. Alan had a somewhat reckless nature, which tended to land him in trouble. It was usually Scott who managed to get him out of it, but he knew that Scott's bark was worse than his bite

Scott felt a little guilty, remembering how one of the rescued potholers, a young girl of about seventeen, had burst into tears. He then softened and patted her on the shoulder, as he led them all to a waiting ambulance.

"Well, they knew nothing about the geography of the area they were exploring," he continued. "The rock was particularly porous in the area where they were trapped. Part of the tunnel collapsed due to the weight of the waterlogged soil."

"Wasn't it risky to use the Mole then?" interjected Jeff.

"No. We went through a layer of rock and came in as close as we could. Then Virgil had to use the suction equipment to remove the earth blocking their escape route. We were worried about water getting into the Mole's circuits. When we reached those kids they were up to their necks in water."

"Was anyone hurt?" asked Jeff.

"No. They were cold and hungry and mighty scared, but a night in the local hospital will soon see them okay. I just hope they have learned their lesson. If people took the right precautions, and a bit of time to check the weather conditions before embarking on their so called adventures, then there would be fewer calls on our services."

"Overworked and underpaid, eh Scott!" teased Alan.

Scott was too tired to rise to the bait.

"You do look all in, Son. You've been up all night. That's the second rescue you have been on, and it's not even lunchtime. Try and grab some rest," suggested Jeff. "I'll call you when lunch is ready."

Scott acknowledged weakly. He was looking forward to a hot shower, lunch, and an opportunity to catch up on the sleep he had missed. He made his way to the privacy of his room. He wanted to just collapse on to his bed, and sleep for a solid eight hours, but he was aware that his discarded uniform was filthy, and his hair and face, caked with mud. Flinging the bag of clothes into the laundry basket, he walked to the bathroom and ran the shower. While the warm water was massaging his aching shoulders, he heard the distinctive whine of Thunderbird Two’s powerful engines, as it came in to land on the palm fringed runway. Virgil would be even more exhausted than he was.

Both of them had been called out the previous evening. Firstly to the Australian Outback, where a bush fire was raging out of control. The authorities had realised they were fighting a losing battle. Their equipment was having little effect on the ferocity of the flames. They called for assistance from International Rescue, when the fire threatened to engulf a nearby town. Several homes had already been destroyed, and the town's remaining inhabitants had been advised to pack their most prized possessions, and then evacuate the area as quickly as possible. A few stubborn people had refused to move, but the main concern was the local hospital. It lay right in the path of the fire, and many of its patients were recovering from major surgery, and were too ill to be moved.

Scott had been first on the scene to assess the situation, and then set up a mobile control unit. He was swiftly followed by Gordon and Virgil in Thunderbird Two, which carried a pod containing the Firefly, water cannons, and earth moving equipment. The fire authorities had been battling for hours. Virgil and Gordon realised that not even their far more sophisticated equipment could quell the firestorm swirling around them. As soon as one blaze was extinguished, another sprang up to take its place. The fire was merely playing leapfrog with them.

Gordon had been assigned to the Firefly. He was alarmed at the speed the fire was travelling. Virgil noted the rising panic in Gordon's voice as he reported that fires were springing up all around him, threatening to encircle him. The exterior of the firefly became almost red hot, and the temperature inside the cab was threatening to overwhelm him. Scott, who was monitoring the conversation, could hear Gordon's voice becoming weaker. Gordon felt as if he was being baked alive! Scott immediately ordered him to pull out. Gordon swiftly reversed the Firefly to safety, but when he tried to open the door of the cab, he cried out in agony. The metal handle on the inside was red hot. When Gordon pulled his sleeve away he saw an ugly red burn puckering the palm of his hand. He pulled his sleeve over his other hand, and managed to open the door. Wheezing and gasping, he tumbled on to the scorched ground.

Gordon declined the offer of medical assistance, and despite his injury, refused to stand down. The fire was hurtling nearer to the hospital and every available pair of hands was needed. After a brief consultation with his brothers, Scott decided that they would use the earth moving machines to create a barrier around the hospital. Then they would try to alter the course of the fire and force the flames to retreat down an already scorched path of destruction.

It had taken several more hours to get the blaze under control. Eventually the raging inferno had dwindled to a manageable fire, which could be left in the hands of the local authorities. Tired and dirty, Virgil, Scott and Gordon headed for home. Just as they were nearing the island, John had radioed with another call to rescue the trapped potholers. Scott flew directly to the scene. Virgil landed briefly to drop off Gordon, who had sustained superficial burns to his right hand, and to exchange the pod containing fire-fighting equipment for the one containing the Mole and underground rescue equipment. Then he too, flew off to join his brother.

Virgil entered the room, twenty minutes after Scott and just as dirty. As he walked in, one of a row of portraits on the wall started to flash. It was the portrait of his brother John, on board Thunderbird Five.

Virgil groaned and clapped a grimy hand to his sweat stained brow. "Surely not three in a row!"

"Go ahead John," announced Jeff.

"Father, I am receiving a faint call that appears to be coming from a remote island in the Scottish group known as the Western, or Hebridean Islands. A man has reported seeing a plane crash into the sea. He says that he has not been able to contact the coast guard, as the island has no electricity and the batteries on his radio are low."

"Did you receive any calls from the plane before it went down?"

"Negative. There must have been a sudden malfunction. I have checked with the coastguard, and they have not received any calls."

"Hmmm," murmured Jeff thoughtfully.

"Are we going to respond Father?" queried John. " I was informed by the coastguard, that they are experiencing dense freezing fog. They will not be able to safely mount a rescue unless visibility improves... by then the crew will almost certainly be dead."

"Okay, John. We're on our way!" Jeff hit the alarm button.

"Just our luck. They say accidents always happen in threes," complained Virgil, swiftly downing a mug of coffee that Kyrano had just brought in.

"G-gee V-Virgil, that's tough! You don't even have time for a sh-shower or a sh-sh-sh..." Brains' stutter was always worse when trying to make the small talk he thought was expected of him. The Tracy boys had never teased him, but they sometimes had to bite their tongues, and resist the urge to finish off his sentences. Gordon glanced at Alan and saw a smile flicker across his lips.

"Shave," finished Brains.

Alan's face cracked into a broad grin, he tried to suppress a chuckle. Gordon, who seemed to have an almost telepathic link with his youngest brother (not to mention the same type of schoolboy humour) laughed out loud and earned a swift rebuke from his father.

"Gordon," snapped Jeff. "I'm sure there is something useful you could be doing, even with an injured hand. Kyrano could do with some help in the kitchen."

"Yes Sir," replied Gordon meekly, and bit his lip to stop himself laughing again.

Jeff turned his attention to Virgil. "Go and get yourself cleaned up. Scott will go and make an initial assessment If the plane has deliberately ditched into the sea, there may have been time for the crew to don lifejackets. If they have managed to escape they won't last long in the water. Thunderbird One will be able to use heat-seeking equipment to locate them. Alan, you can go with Scott to operate the winch and the camera."

"F.A.B., Father. I can also give him a prod if he starts to doze off at the controls."

Alan raced toward the passenger lift. He was the pilot of Thunderbird Three, a huge red space rocket. But as rescues in space were few and far between, he shared duties on board Thunderbird five with John, and assisted Virgil and Scott, when required.

Scott dashed into the room looking dishevelled. His hair was still wet from his shower and standing up in spikes. "I'm on my way, Father. Tell John to fill me in with the details."

"Sorry, Scott," apologised Jeff. "I know you have just got in, but it's just one of those days."

Scott shrugged and grabbed the lamp brackets, which swung him out of sight.

Grandma who had been sitting, quietly reading, on the balcony, noisily slammed her book shut, prompting Jeff to glance in her direction. She regarded him with a tight-lipped stare.

"Something on your mind, Mother?"

"Well since you ask.... yes. Can't you see that young man is plain exhausted? He went out twice yesterday, and that's his third call out in the last twelve hours. You're not glued to that seat behind your desk, Jefferson Tracy!"

Chapter 2

Scott accelerated to a maximum 7,000 mph as he crossed the equator and flew north.

"How long will it take to reach the Western Islands?” asked Alan from the cramped passenger seat.

"About another hour, I guess. I should start thinking about getting some warm clothes on. It's the depths of winter in that part of the world."

Thunderbird One was equipped for every change in climate. It carried all weather protective clothing, skiwear and climbing equipment. Plus several changes of clothes and uniforms.

"Perhaps we could look in on Penelope after the rescue," suggested Alan.

"We'll have to see. We can't just go landing on her front lawn; she has got her cover to maintain. But it would be nice to see her again."

Alan switched on the navigational computer and called up a map of the Western Islands. He began to study it intently. After a while Scott called to him.

"Hey Alan, you've gone quiet. I need you to keep talking to keep me awake."

"Oh, I was just looking at the map. There is a heck of a lot of islands here. Can you call up John and ask him if he has been able to pinpoint the transmission of that call?"

"Why don't you call him yourself?"

Alan flicked a switch and John's face appeared on the screen.

"Hi Alan. I suppose you want to know if I have been able get a fix on that call."

"Yes, John. We should reach the British Isles in another hour."

"Well no, Alan, I haven't."

Alan was taken aback. The instrumentation on board Thunderbird Five was almost capable of picking up a needle in a haystack, and John was usually super-efficient.

"Why not?"

"Probably because of interference. It could be due to the storm they had earlier. The transmission was very brief and I was unable to track it. The man I spoke to had a strange accent."

"Scottish," cut in Alan.

"Yeah, some strange mangled dialect, anyway, he said that he had no electricity, and the batteries on his radio were low. Then I lost him completely, but I have managed to narrow it down a bit. The call came from somewhere in a group of islands in the South."

"Yeah I've got them.... Talk about a drop in the ocean."

"Sorry. It's the best I can do. They're all uninhabited as far as I know. Used to be a testing ground for chemical weapons in the early part of the twenty first century."

"Chemical weapons! Are they clean?" asked Alan in alarm.

"Yes they've been cleared. I checked them out with the British Government, and they have been deemed safe for habitation, but they have just been left to let nature take its course."

"Okay, John. Thanks."

"Good luck" John prepared to sign off but Alan called him back.

"Oh John, before you go, has anyone else reported seeing the plane go down?"

"Well, no. Now that you mention it, they haven't. Well, not to me anyway."

"Don't you think that's odd? When a plane goes down surely there's more than one witness."

"I don't know, Alan. We're talking about a remote area here."

"Well, has anyone reported a plane missing?"

"Not as far as I know. Do you want me to check with the coastguard?"

"Yes," replied Alan. "Yes, I do."

"F.A.B."

"What's wrong, Alan?” asked Scott. “You sound a little wary."

"I dunno. It's just an uneasy feeling. Call it bad vibes."

An hour later Scott was flying over the British Isles. He cut to cruising speed and swooped in low over the Hebridean Sea. The islands were shrouded by a thick mist. He opened a channel to his father.

"Go ahead, Scott," instructed Jeff.

"Have arrived at the rescue location. The time is 16.45 Greenwich Mean Time. There's dense fog, visibility is poor, and it's nearly dusk. I'm going in for another sweep with the thermal camera to see if we can detect any survivors. To be honest I have my doubts."

"F.A.B. Scott."

"I'll go down and operate the camera," volunteered Alan. "Keep her steady for me."

Alan left the cockpit and made his way to the hold. He opened a hatch in the side of Thunderbird One, and released the remote controlled camera. Using his instruments, he guided it down to the shallow, rocky seabed surrounding the small cluster of islands.

'This is going to take some time.' thought Alan. He had one eye on a screen relaying pictures from the seabed, and his other on the screen next to it magnifying pictures of the coastline Scott was flying over. He was hoping to spot a life raft or a dinghy, or even a body washed up on a beach.

After nearly an hour of painstaking searching, in murky water, there was still nothing. Scott called back to base. "We have just completed another search of the area and found nothing."

"Not even any signs of wreckage?"

"No nothing at all. The mist is so thick, it's hard to see anything."

"It could be that John's caller was mistaken. John has been unable to re-connect with the caller so it may even be a hoax."

"That's all we need. Some time wasting idiot, who just wants to bring a bit of excitement into his sad little life."

"Okay, Son. Call it a day and get back."

"F.A.B."

Suddenly, the camera picked up a small light aircraft lying on its side on a rocky ledge. Alan called out to Scott. "I've got it, Scott. I'm relaying the picture to you now."

"Any signs of life?"

"Negative. If there is anyone in that plane - they're dead."

"Can you get me a better picture? It's a bit fuzzy. I'll go lower and try to keep steady.""

"Okay, Scott I'll bring the camera round to the front of the plane. There may be bodies trapped inside."

"Can you see anything?"

"No, Scott. I can't see anyone. The plane's empty... Hey wait, what's that? ... No, it's just debris. Oh, that's a better picture. The plane looks rusty. Scott, this plane isn't the one. It's rusty and covered with barnacles. It looks like a military plane, a relic from the Second World War. It’s..."

Alan was unable to finish his sentence. A sudden explosion rendered him deaf, and he felt as if he was flying in slow motion. Then his head struck something hard and he lost consciousness.

Scott desperately battled to regain control of Thunderbird One. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow. The unexplained explosion had thrown the craft into a spin. He knew that he was going to have to make a forced landing. He had the choice between land or sea. The sea would be freezing. The pounding waves concealed dangerous rocks. Even if they managed to avoid injury, without a protective wetsuit, both he and Alan would succumb to the cold. Land would be the better choice; he knew that he had to keep the nose cone up to avoid a fatal crash landing. He looked around desperately for a clump of trees to cushion his landing, but the best thing he could find was a dense clump of bushes. If he could manoeuvre Thunderbird One towards them, they might stand a better chance of escaping unharmed. The ground was getting nearer all the time.

"Hold on Alan!" he called "It's going to get bumpy."

Chapter 3

Peering from the cover of a camouflaged bunker, a pair of black, evil eyes peered into binoculars, and watched with smug satisfaction as Scott wrestled to gain control of his stricken craft. A stocky, middle-aged man of oriental appearance gave a slow sinister smile.

"Good, good. My plan is working."

The Hood was an archenemy of International Rescue, and the evil half-brother of Jeff Tracy's loyal assistant, Kyrano. He had always coveted Thunderbird One, but today his quarry was Thunderbird Two. The booby trap placed in the old warplane had been intended to disable Thunderbird One, rather than to destroy it. Although the Hood hated its pilot, he was aware that he would be a useful person to have in his power. Besides he knew that when one Thunderbird arrived, the other would not be far behind. All he had to do was wait.

He retreated to his makeshift hideout, a disused underground bunker, a relic from the last world war. One of the rooms stored crude protective clothing and breathing apparatus, now regarded as museum pieces. In another room, black drums of oil were stored next to sealed red drums piled high to the ceiling. Bold black writing on each of the red drums read ' DANGER TOXIC CHEMICALS'.

The Hood drummed his fingers impatiently on a table and cursed to himself. He was not in the best of moods. He realised he had been double-crossed and was plotting his revenge. A crooked Government Official who had been ordered to destroy the stockpile of chemicals, had seen an opportunity to line his own pockets. He sold the cache to a terrorist organisation. The leader of that organisation, the Hood himself - had been assured that transport for this cargo would be taken care of. The promised ship should have arrived yesterday, but there was still no sign of it. The Government Official appeared to have vanished from the face of the Earth. The Hood mentally added his name to the many others on his hit list. But one name topped that list - International Rescue and in particular Scott Tracy. The Hood, who gained his name from his ability to disguise his appearance, donned a battered oilskin coat and muddy boots. Then he placed a latex mask over his face and topped it with a tousled brown wig. He squeezed his ample form through a hatch at the top of his bunker, and watched as Thunderbird One, trailing smoke and flames, neared the ground.

Scott closed his eyes. This was it. He aimed for the clump of bushes and hoped for the best. He braced himself for the impact. He heard a scraping, grating noise, as Thunderbird One dragged along through the foliage, then its tail hit the ground. A sudden jolt reverberated up his spine. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck and cried out as a fire extinguisher fell from its mounting and smashed across his console, catching his left wrist.

"Ouch! Oh great! There goes my communicator."

He winced as he moved his head, and began to feel a little dizzy. He held the bridge of his nose until the dizziness subsided. His neck was hurting. He massaged it and rotated his shoulders. Then he wiggled his fingers and toes. He was still in one piece, but the same could not be said of the radio. It shorted out in a shower of blue sparks and the whole console panel went dead. Suddenly, Scott snapped to his senses and remembered that Alan was still in the hold.

"Alan?" he called, as he began to unbuckle his seatbelt. "Are you okay?" Receiving no reply, he was just about to check on his brother, when he heard a voice calling to him from outside,

"Hey! Are you alright in there?"

Scott peered through the window. The stranger emerged from out of the mist. "Are you alright?" he repeated

Scott opened the hatch and called out to the man who was hurrying towards him. "Yeah, I think so. Do you know where I can find a phone or a radio?"

The man stopped about four feet in front of Scott. He gave a twisted smile, raised his arm and fired a knockout dart into Scott's neck. Scott had the sensation of being stung by a bee. He looked at his shoulder and pulled out a tiny dart. He just had time to utter a quizzical, "why?"

He toppled from his cockpit. He was unconscious when he hit the ground.

Chapter 4

At the stately home of generations of the Creighton-Ward family, Lady Penelope was supervising the last minute preparations for one of Foxleyheath's most important social events.

This year it had fallen to her to organise the Candlelight evening soiree in order to raise funds for the church roof. One hundred thousand pounds was needed. Lady Penelope sighed. She had sold just thirty-five tickets.

"Now should we arrange the chairs in a semi circle, Parker? Less formal, I think."

Her assistant, Aloysius Parker, carried on, obliviously arranging the chairs in regimental lines.

"Parker.... I said..." began Penelope and then she stopped, realising that Parker was still ignoring her.

"Parker!" she called sharply.

He jumped smartly to attention, and began to pull wads of cotton wool from his ears. "I beg your pardon M'lady. H'ai didn't quite catch what you said."

Penelope smiled. She couldn't blame Parker for the precautions he was taking. The voice of Marjorie Cholmondley-Brown had the musical resonance of fingernails being scraped across a blackboard. As chairperson of the Women's Institute, Church Council and almost every other charity in Foxleyheath, she took it upon herself to offer her services as soprano every year. No one dared refuse her. In spite of her domineering character, she was what was known as a 'good egg'. But this year's ticket sales had sadly reflected the public opinion of her dubious talents.

"Penelope, my dear," boomed the sturdy middle-aged lady, as she strode noisily across the wooden drawing room floor. Parker noticed a line of chairs vibrating as if registering the after effects of a small earth tremor. "Penelope, how lovely to see you again."

Penelope felt herself being clasped to the tweedy bosom of Lady Cholmondley-Brown who smelled ever so slightly of dog. Trying to disentangle herself from the old girl's vice-like grip, she gesticulated to Parker to take her coat.

"Thank you, Parker." Lady Cholmondley-Brown thrust a heavy overcoat into his arms. Then she opened her handbag and took out a throat spray. "I hope we get a good turn out, tonight."

"Yes, so do I."

"I think I will have another little practice session. Go through a few scales to lubricate my vocal cords" Parker groaned. "I do hope we have an audience who are able to appreciate the art of music," continued Lady Cholmondley-Brown. "You know, Penelope, the last time I did a recital my aria was completely ruined by one of those infernal mobile telephones."

"Oh dear, do excuse me, Marjorie," interrupted Penelope "I need to go over some last minute details with the kitchen staff. Parker here will to see to your needs, But you will have to speak up, he's a little hard of hearing."

Penelope allowed herself another wry smile as she heard Lady Cholmondley-Brown's voice haltingly barking out orders to poor Parker.

Grandma Tracy was in a quandary. The meat was almost cooked and the vegetables would be past their best if she waited any longer before she dished up the dinner. Should they eat now or wait for Scott and Alan to return? She decided that the decision should be up to Jeff.

"I would wait awhile. They should be on their way home now. I'll give them a call." Jeff was surprised when he received no answer. "That's odd. I told them to head for home nearly an hour ago. I can't raise them on the radio. Maybe they have found something after all."

"You could try Scott's communicator," suggested Virgil.

"I don't know why Scott didn't keep me informed... Base to Scott are you receiving me?” Still there was no answer. "Base to Scott... Come in Scott... nothing," uttered Jeff after a pause.

Virgil and Grandma exchanged anxious glances. "Alan," suggested Grandma "Try Alan."

Again there was no reply. An ominous silence fell upon the Tracy's living room. It was broken by Jeff. "I don't like it. I'm going to call John and see if he can get a fix on them."

John's handsome face darkened as Jeff relayed his concerns. Looking at a map on his computer screen, he magnified an image and projected it to Jeff. It showed a series of co-ordinates and a circle where the lines crossed.

"I can confirm that Thunderbird One is still in the Hebrides. It's not moving, so it must be on the ground."

This was the news that Jeff did not want to hear.

"Father.." began Virgil shakily, not wanting to voice what all the others were thinking. "You don't think that Thunderbird One could have crashed. Scott reported dense fog and bad visibility...."

"Oh Virgil...." cried Grandma wringing her hands.

"Now don't lets go jumping to any conclusions. There may have been some sort of malfunction, or some radio black spot…"

Jeff was trying to clutch at straws. Virgil interrupted, "But Father they don't answer their communicators. Thunderbird One is on the ground with its radio dead. It paints a bleak picture, I'm going over there."

Grandma looked accusingly at Jeff. "Scott was worn out. He should never have gone on that mission. Men make mistakes when they are tired."

She left the room with tears springing to her eyes. Tonight's dinner would be consigned to the bin.

Jeff put his head in his hands. His mother was right. He couldn't bear to think that something terrible might have happened to Scott and Alan. Seeing his father's distress, Gordon walked over and put his hand on Jeff's shoulder.

"Don't blame yourself, Dad. I doubt if you could have stopped Scott going out. He was like a shot from a gun. Scott's a first class pilot. He doesn't make mistakes, he's the best."

Jeff patted Gordon's bandaged hand. "You're all the best, but at the end of the day, you're only human. Sometimes I forget that. I'm sorry."

"It will probably take Virgil about five hours to reach the Outer Hebrides, but I know someone who could get there sooner."

"You're right, Gordon. I will give Penelope a call."

By eight forty-five, the evening, and Mrs Cholmondley-Brown were in full swing. She had just warbled her way through 'Tit Willow' and was now proceeding to murder what was supposed to be a moving love song. Penelope wished that Parker had left her some of his cotton wool. She felt sure that the poor audience would gladly pay the cost of the church roof repairs just to deaden the noise. She suddenly became aware of a harsh bleeping noise coming from her silver teapot. Mrs Cholmondley-Brown, who had ears as sharp as the Labradors she bred, stopped singing abruptly and glared at her audience. A large vein in her forehead started to twitch.

"I thought I had told you all to switch off your mobile phones!" she bellowed.

All eyes turned towards Penelope. She reddened and placed the offending teapot in Parker's hands. "Another refill I think, if you please, Parker."

Parker pulled the wadding from his ears. " 'As the old bat... I mean Lady Cholmondley-Brown finished 'er h'aria?"

"Yes, Parker. I think this evening will have to be brought to a close."

Once he had left the crowded room, Parker twisted the lid of the teapot to reveal Jeff Tracy's voice. "H'aim afraid 'er Ladyship h'is a bit tied up on h'account of 'er soiree."

"Her what?"

"It's some sort of musical bash, for charity."

"Well I need to speak to her urgently," demanded Jeff.

"Very good, Sir."

As he opened the wood-panelled drawing room doors, Parker could see Lady Penelope pointing toward the smoke alarm and apologising profusely. When she saw Parker, she realised that she was needed urgently,

"Oh dear. This is not the best of times. Tell Jeff I will be with him shortly." She clapped her hands to command the attention of her muttering guests.

"I would like to thank Lady Cholmondley-Brown, our soprano, Veronica Sommers, on violin, and also Reverend Charles Proctor for his accompaniment on piano. Now if you would all like to take a break, you will find refreshments available at the far end of the room."

She practically ran from the room. "This evening could not possibly get any worse," she cringed. "Now Jeff, What can I do for you?"

"Penny, I need your help. Thunderbird One has been disabled while flying over the Hebrides. I have lost contact with Scott. He has Alan on board as well and I can't raise either of them. I am afraid they might have crashed."

"Parker, fetch the Rolls."

"Is it trouble, M'lady?"

"Yes Parker, I'm afraid it is."

"But what about Lady Cholmondley-whatsit and 'er soiree?"

"We will have to take drastic measures, I'm afraid."

"What's this about a soiree?" asked Jeff

"I have thirty-five guests and three disgruntled performers to get rid of. But I will try to get there as soon as I can. Don't worry, Jeff, both your boys are tough and resourceful."

Penelope opened a cupboard door beneath the stairs and pressed a red button. "Oh dear. The things I have to do for International Rescue. This will ruin my social standing."

Almost immediately, a high-pitched shriek emitted from the drawing room. Penelope cast her eyes towards heaven and steeled herself to re-enter the room. She was met by a sight that would not been out of place in an Ibizan nightclub. The cream of Foxleyheath society stood dripping with foam, which was being sprayed from sprinklers concealed in the ornately carved ceiling panels. A few guests had hurriedly departed.

"I do sincerely apologise," announced Penelope amidst the confusion "There has been a malfunction in the computer system that controls the fire precautions. I will, of course, refund all ticket money and compensate you all for the damage to your clothes."

"Wouldn't hear of it, m'dear," smiled Colonel Metcalfe as he pressed a cheque for ten thousand pounds into her hands.

Lady Cholmondley-Brown was still shrieking while an avalanche of foam slid down her ample bosom, like melting snow on the roof of an Alpine ski chalet.

"Nice touch, Lady P.," said Ron Marple, the local wide-boy-turned-multi millionaire. "It's a pity it couldn't 'ave appened a bit earlier in the evening. Me ears are still ringing."

And he too handed her a cheque.

By the time Parker had driven the Rolls around to the front door, all the guests had departed and Lady Penelope was holding cheques to the value of thirty thousand pounds.

Parker gave a discreet cough. "I think we should go now, M'lady."

"Of course, Parker I just need to change into something a little more practical."

Penelope swept upstairs in her midnight blue gown, and returned five minutes later wearing a pink trouser suit, and a grey, warm full-length woollen coat. She closed the door on the sticky mess that littered her drawing room and set off for the highlands.

"What about your paintings, M'lady?" They'll be ruined."

"They're reproductions, Parker. The real Canelettos are in the safe. But Virgil will be most upset with me. It took him ages to copy them and they were good enough to fool many people. Oh dear, I suppose I had better call the cleaners back."

The tyres of the six-wheeled pink Rolls Royce crunched down the gravel drive towards the automatic gates. Parker put his foot down along the tree-lined avenue, which lead up to the Creighton-Ward Manor.

Soon the fields and hedges of rural England were hurtling past in a blur, as Parker made for the main north/south motorway. When he reached the interchange he was saluted by the tollbooth official and waved across to the red lane. There were ten lanes in each direction and each was colour coded. The red lane was for the sole use of emergency vehicles and special services such as the Federal Agents Bureau and Police. With his foot hard down to the floor, Parker accelerated the car to its maximum 400kph speed. They would be at London airport in five minutes, where a plane was waiting to whisk them and Fab 1 to Glasgow. Allowing for the sea crossing, they would reach the islands in less than two hours

Parker began to sing to himself. "Oh you tak the 'igh road and I'll tak the low road and I'll be in Scotland afore ye."

"Parker, do you still have any of that cotton wool?"

"Sorry, M'lady."

Chapter 5

Alan opened his eyes groggily. He was upside down in the hold of Thunderbird One. He winced as he moved, his whole body felt bruised, and he was sure that he must have broken something.

"Scott," he called. "Scott are you okay?"

When there was no reply, Alan felt alarmed. The last thing he remembered was hearing an explosion, and being hurled across the cargo bay. He stood up, and reeled as a wave of nausea and dizziness engulfed him. He sat down and put his head in his hands. He felt a sticky mass of congealed blood on his forehead. After a while, he tried to stand again, a little more slowly this time. His legs felt as if they belonged to someone else. Shakily, he made his way towards the cockpit. He paused behind the closed door, his heart suddenly pounding. He began to feel very sick. He figured that since his brother had not answered him, he must have been injured. Or perhaps even worse. Alan was afraid of what he would find. Fighting to get a grip on himself, he pushed against the door. It swung open. To Alan's relief he found that the cockpit was undamaged. But his relief soon turned to anger, when he found that Scott was nowhere to be seen.

"Scott, where the hell are you?" he yelled, then he whimpered as a stabbing pain shot through his skull. Alan saw that the hatch was open, but all he could see outside was pitch darkness, and a wall of thick fog.

"Scott are you out there?"

He leaned out of Thunderbird One, lost his balance and felt himself tumble a few feet. "Whoooooaaaaa. Owowow... OW!"

He felt his body being pricked all over. Thunderbird One had come to rest on top of a clump of gorse bushes As he stood up, he heard the sound of material ripping. He felt cold air rushing through the loose flap of his torn uniform. He rubbed the back of his sore and exposed thigh. His boots had saved his lower legs, and his padded jacket had protected his upper body from the needle sharp thorns. But his face was badly scratched and beginning to smart. Alan's discomfort was outweighed by the sense of urgency in finding Scott, before he succumbed to hypothermia.

The fog was beginning to freeze now. Alan could see his breath in front of him as he exhaled. He thought that Scott might have sustained head injuries in the crash, and was probably wandering around in a daze. If Scott was injured, he would be vulnerable. Alan didn't feel too good himself. His ears were still ringing from the explosion, and his head was throbbing. His sight was hampered by darkness, murky weather, and the double vision he suffered when he moved his head from side to side. He cursed himself for forgetting to grab a torch. He didn't relish the thought of climbing back over those bushes to fetch one; besides he wouldn't be able to assess the damage to Thunderbird One until morning.

He called Scott's name several times but was answered only by eerie silence penetrated by the calls of passing seagulls. He walked a short distance from Thunderbird One. When he looked back, it had been completely engulfed by the fog. Alan realised that it would be very easy for him to get lost. He took out a pocket compass and headed north. He decided to walk in a straight line counting his paces as he went. He could see no more than a few feet ahead of him. The ground beneath him was hard and uneven. He tripped over a protruding granite rock and fell spread-eagled on the ground. He picked himself up, but had only gone a few yards when he stumbled again. His legs felt wobbly. Icy drizzle stung his lacerated face.

Alan stumbled around blindly, calling Scott's name for nearly half an hour, until he felt his feet sink into one of the many soft bogs that lurked on the island to trap the unwary traveller. He could feel the water pouring over the tops of his boots and soaking into his socks. His toes went numb. The more he struggled to free himself, the harder the mud pulled him down. He managed to extricate his right leg and step onto solid ground, but his left leg was still stuck fast. He leaned over and grasped a clump of coarse grass. As he pulled, he felt his left leg slide out of his boot which disappeared into the oozing, sucking mud. He thanked God that his left foot was half a shoe size smaller than his right. He toppled sideways, and swore out loud when he wricked his ankle. He lay with tears in his eyes, and punched the ground in rage and frustration. He was soaked to the skin and shivering violently. His numbed brain started to kick in with an instinct of self-preservation. Alan realised that he was in danger of suffering hypothermia himself, and reluctantly limped back to Thunderbird One. As he was gingerly making his way back across the gorse bushes, his hand felt a piece of cloth that seemed to be caught on the thorns. He pulled and found himself holding a blue sash with the insignia of International Rescue!

Jeff Tracy, was sitting, as usual, at his desk. He was dishevelled and ashen-faced. Tin Tin had just brought him another cup of coffee When Alan's portrait started to flash, she gave a gasp and almost dropped the cup in Jeff's lap. Jeff switched on the microphone, and the picture changed to reveal Alan's lacerated face, lit by the dim emergency lighting in the cockpit of Thunderbird One.

"Thank God, Alan. We were worried sick. Where's Scott?" asked Jeff,

Tin Tin rushed towards the screen and ran her fingers over the scratches and bruises on the image of Alan's face. Tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh Alan. I was so worried about you."

"I'm okay, Tin Tin. It's Scott I'm worried about."

"What happened? We couldn't contact you. What's happened to Scott? Is he hurt?"

"I don't know, Dad. He's disappeared. There was some sort of explosion and I was knocked out. When I came to, Scott was gone."

"But that's completely out of character. He would never have left you unconscious like that."

"I think someone has taken him. I found his sash hooked up on the gorse bushes. There's no sign of him. There's no sign of anyone. It's eerie, no lights, no houses... It's just like being in a black hole." Alan's voice began to falter.

"Steady, Alan. Just sit tight. John managed to get a fix on you, and Parker and Penelope will be able to get to you sooner than Virgil. I'm sending him and Brains to assess the damage to Thunderbird One."