Warnings: A few bad words and some rather childish jokes
Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds, I make no profit from this, I just like to play in their world.

Gordon squinted out across the roiling water, the pitchy darkness broken only by the all-too-bright halogens from above which were blinding him. Finally he spotted something moving about and he clambered his way carefully over the hull of the capsized yacht to grab at it. It took a couple of attempts, but finally he snagged the item and dragged it back to where he had started from, blindly loosening clasps as he moved. Reaching the victims once more, he paused to survey them. Two of them were on their feet, though one had lost an alarming amount of blood from a shark bite. The third was on a stretcher and out cold. Given the swell and the rising wind they could not use the elevator, so harnesses were the order of the day.

"Alright!" he yelled. "You two are going up. I'll help you get these on."

"I'm not leaving Chris!" the woman shouted, gesturing to her unconscious colleague.

"Ma'am he'll be perfectly safe." he called back at her. "But my first responsibility is to get you two off this boat before it sinks."

"Isn't your aircraft keeping it afloat, though?" the man asked weakly, his words whipped away by the wind and almost inaudible.

Gordon shook his head.

"They're doing what they can, but the more waterlogged she gets the heavier she is. They can only take so much weight. Now let me put these round you."

It was hard work in the cold and wet, but he took the time to be sure the straps were secure before turning his back to the wind and ducking his head, then keying his transmitter.

"T4 to Thunderbirds One and Two. Passengers secure. Haul them up T2."

"F-A-B." he heard in his earpiece.

"Are you still going to try to stretcher the third up?" Scott asked.

"Negative, the wind's getting too strong."

"Agreed. Can you get him back into Four?"

That was a very good question under the circumstances, but he answered cheerfully in the affirmative nonetheless.

"Of course! T4 out."

Turning back into the wind, he saw that the other two were now several metres up in the air, and rising steadily. The wind was blowing them about dreadfully, and he thought he could hear at least one of them screaming, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. The stretchered victim was his problem, and what a problem the man was going to be. There were sharks circling about - hungry sharks, given all the blood in the water from the two people who had not made it. Usually he would just slap an oxygen tank onto the victim and haul them back down to Four underwater, but that was not going to be possible here. He was going to have to bring the submarine closer and load on the surface, but to do that he would have to leave the victim here alone and risk swimming through the water himself.

If only they had a few more operatives, he thought wistfully, checking that the stretcher was secure and not likely to slip into the water while he was gone. Then he would have support in Four to bring the craft closer. Alan had offered to join him, but Gordon had turned him down knowing full well that his space-happy brother would never be able to handle the submersible in this sort of weather. None of them could. It took experience and lots of practice. Besides, Alan was needed up in Two to help the other victims aboard.

Fitting his mask again, he dove smoothly into the turbulent water and began swimming as fast as he could, using the propeller pack on his back to speed himself along. He had left Four twenty metres out, and Scott had attached a line from One so she would not drift away. Twenty metres was really nothing in swimming distance, especially for a former Olympian, but fighting this current and surrounded by angry predators it seemed like miles. Hauling himself up the side of the craft, he was aware that he had company of the predatorial kind and he dragged himself quickly up to the hatch and inside. He would not get the chance to do that trip again without being molested and he would not have made it now had he been towing the victim. Pulling off his mask with one hand he closed the hatch with the other, opened the airlock to the main cabin and hurried into his seat.

"Thunderbird Four to Thunderbird One. I'm in, Scott - release the tether."

"Tether released." Scott reported. "You okay, Gordon? You sound a bit breathless."

"Oh, nah, I just love swimming with sharks at mealtime." he replied, able to joke about it now that it was over. "Adds a bit of spice to the same-old, same-old, y'know?"

"I could have winched you across." Scott disapproved.

"Not without letting go of my baby." Gordon told him cheerily. "And Virgil can't let go of the yacht or she'll go straight down."

He knew Scott would be fuming, but his concern now was how he was going to manage the next step.

"This is going to be tricky." he muttered.

"Sorry, Thunderbird Four, I did not read you."

"Just looking at my options, One." Gordon spoke up. "I think what I'll have to do is lock onto the hull with the clamps, then pull the stretcher over the nose."

"You're going to get blown about." Scott told him. "I'll lower a guide cable."

"F-A-B."

Carefully extending the clamps, he made sure that he got a good grip on the hull before tightening them. Then he was up and through the hatch as quickly as he could be. The yacht was still sinking, and if he was not quick, she would now take Four with her. Scott, bless him, came right down to just a few metres above where Gordon was to lower the cable which stopped it being blown about so much and cut the risk of Gordon losing an arm trying to catch it. It was dangerous to fly so close to the waves in this weather, but Scott was an excellent pilot and pulled it off as though everything was calm, somehow even managing to keep the thruster blast from burning him to a crisp in the process. Using a harness he had brought with him from Four, Gordon latched himself to the stretcher, then to the guide cable. Now if they were thrown overboard by wave or wind, Scott could lift them clear. Step by careful step, he moved towards Four and Scott manipulated One to follow their progress and keep the cord taut. Sometimes it got too tight, lifting him up, and other times it was slightly slack, but never for long enough to voice a complaint. Finally he reached the safety of the hatch, and set the cable free. They had made it.

Alan closed the outer hatch and everything was suddenly quiet, the hull doing an excellent job of blocking the noise from outside. Letting the winch slack off a little, he eased the victims down to the floor and began undoing the harnesses. The man had lost consciousness and needed a fresh bandage on his leg - the one Gordon had applied was soaked through - but the woman was struggling to free herself.

"It's okay, you're safe now." he told her.

She stared at him.

"Chris! You've got to get that line back down. You've got to save Chris!"

"Hey, easy there. My buddies are looking after him. Can you stand up? Are you hurt?"

"What? No... no I'm, oh Greg! Greg!"

"Lets get him out of this harness and down to the sickbay." Alan suggested. "He'll be okay."

He paused to pull a blanket out and wrap it around her shoulders, noting that she was shivering, then went back to his task. He was just settling Greg onto the stretcher when the his headset radio clicked on.

"T2 to T3, we've had a change of plans. T4's bringing the final victim up in the pod."

"F-A-B, T2." Alan answered, finding it hard to remember to use the new call signs instead of names. "I'm heading through to the sickbay now."

"F-A-B. I'll warn you when we go for pickup. T2 out."

"This way." Alan urged the woman, noting that she hobbled as they headed down the corridor.

She was very pale, and he got her settled in a chair, handing her a mug of hot chocolate before attaching a VSM to Greg. The readout was good: his blood pressure was a little low but not dangerously so, and his pulse was strong. Next he changed the bandages, carefully using his body to shield the sight of the wound from the woman. It was messy but not life-threatening, and the pressure was slowing the bleeding nicely. Hooking up a bag of PolyHeme to compensate for the lost blood, he finally turned back to the woman to see that she had not moved.

"Hey, it's okay." he assured her, crouching before her and wrapping a hand around hers. "You should drink, it'll make you feel better."

"My husband. Chris. I want to see him..."

"They'll bring him here just as soon as he's aboard." he told her. "This is the best place to wait. Here, do you want some more milk in that?"

"What? Oh, no. How's Greg?"

"Just sleeping now. He's going to be just fine. What about you, though? Are you hurt anywhere?"

"I don't think so. It all happened so fast."

She finally took a sip of the chocolate drink and he smiled at her.

"There, how's that now?"

She blinked at him, but before she could answer Virgil's voice broke into the silence.

"T3, prepare to drop for pickup."

"Give me a minute, V... T2." he stumbled over the callsign.

Taking the mug from her, he set it aside on a flat surface.

"I just have to strap you in - we're going to pick up our equipment now, and the ship'll rock about a bit. We don't want you getting hurt. Alright. How's that? Not too tight? Good. Okay T2, we're good to go."

"F-A-B. Descending now."

Scott held his breath as Virgil hovered over the heaving ocean. Less than ten metres below, the pod was being thrown about violently, several times submerged completely only to resurface again moments later. Thank god it was watertight. Even so, Gordon and his passenger must be getting more than a bit queasy.

A soft beeping from the control panel threatened to distract him, but he blindly switched off the alert. This weather was putting a terrible strain on One's hull and wings - it was not designed to be buffetted about like this for long periods and he knew he was going to have to spend hours replacing stressed panels when he got home. But first they had to get home.

The pod disappeared again, lost under a particularly large wave while it hung in a trough, and suddenly Thunderbird Two swooped down. Just as the pod popped up, the air in it providing buoyancy, it was covered and caught, the strong magnets tugging it into place and holding it there. He could not hear the engines screaming, but he could see the flare as Virgil pushed the motors to deal with the sudden increase in weight and loss of manoeuvrability, and there was a heart-stopping moment as it appeared they would not gain height quickly enough to miss the next wave... and then they did.

Now all that remained was to drop the victims off at the nearest town. He would escort Virgil that far, waiting while the victims were unloaded, watching the camera detector. Then, when Two was out of sight, he could head home himself. At home it would be mid-morning now, lunch being prepared, the weather warm and balmy. He smiled to himself. Yes, in a couple of hours time, this would all be forgotten, and he would be stretched out on the beach with a full stomach and not a care in the world. He simply could not wait.

"Hey Virge?"

"Mm?"

"What has fifty heads and fifty tails?"

"Gordy..." he began to protest in dismay.

"Fifty pennies!" his brother giggled.

Virgil closed his eyes, feeling his headache returning.

"Hey what about this one?" Alan took his turn. "Why did the one-handed man cross the road?"

"Gee, I don't know Alan," Gordon responded far too brightly. "Why did the one-handed man cross the road?"

"To get to the second-hand shop!"

Virgil groaned, re-opening his eyes as he felt the faintest hint of turbulence through the controls.

"How old are you guys again?"

They ignored him.

"Wait, I've got a better one."

"Don't you mean a worse one?"

"Why do birds fly south in the winter?"

"I dunno."

"Because it's too far to walk!"

The radio crackled to life, and Virgil flicked the comm switch gratefully even before Scott could speak.

"Receiving you loud and clear, Thunderbird One, go ahead."

There was a pause as Scott readjusted his train of thought, and Gordon took advantage of it.

"Hey Scott!" he yelled. "Where do you weigh a whale?"

"Oh God, they're not still at it are they?"

"They just started up again." Virgil sighed. "I'm hoping if I ignore them they'll go away."

"At the whaleweigh station!" Gordon finished the joke.

"If they don't, you could always bludgeon them to death." Scott suggested. "No jury in the world would convict you when they heard the whole story."

"Don't tempt me."

"How do you get rid of a boomerang?" Alan put in.

"What's your ETA?" Scott asked.

"Ah, now ninety-seven minutes. Yours?"

"Throw it down a one-way street!"

"Alan that was awful!" Scott snapped.

"Don't encourage them!" Virgil begged. "They're going for awful, remember?"

"Oh yeah?" Scott asked. "Well lets see if they can top this one. Hey guys! What's brown and sticky?"

Virgil grinned. He knew this one. Glancing back, he saw that his younger brothers did not, and he smirked at their confused and suspicious expressions - after all, one of the rules of the contest was that the joke had to be clean enough to tell to their grandmother. The loser had to do just that with the winning joke. At the dinner table. In front of their father, and Kyrano, and Tintin.

"ETA now twenty-two minutes, V." Scott continued more calmly. "Weather's deteriorating a bit over here now. Not too bad yet, but wet and windy. It'll get worse by the time you come through."

"Understood. Recommendation?"

"Three degree diversion west. It'll add about half an hour to your ETA, though. Or you could raise altitude to about 160 and go over it."

There was a great deal of whispering going on behind him now, and Virgil grinned at the image of his brother. Scott winked back, picking up what it was for: they had the boys stumped for now. The peace would not last, unfortunately, but Virgil would enjoy it as long as it did.

"One-sixty'd put me on a steep decline back to base." he observed blandly, careful not to let his amusement sound in his tone.

"True, but it'd keep your ETA about the same as it is now. Depends on w-"

Virgil straightened in alarm as his screen went blank.

"Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird One. Come in please. Thunderbird One, please respond. Thunderbird Two calling Thunderbird One, Scott, please come in. Can you hear me? If you can hear me, please respond. Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird One, are you receiving this transmission...?"

"Reading you, Two." Scott finally answered, on audio only. "Man that was weird!"

"What happened?" Virgil demanded.

"Must've been a lightning strike." Scott replied distractedly, clearly still trying to right the problems he was having. "I didn't see it, but it can't've been anything else. I'm really going to have to talk to Brains about upgrading the surge protection."

"Are you alright?"

"A bit rattled, but yeah. I'm okay."

"Want to try that answer again?" Virgil growled at him.

Scott's returning laugh was more than a little shaky.

"Yeah, maybe. The main comp's still down. I'm flying mostly manual. Instruments... heck, I can't even tell. I'm going to have to land, Virge. The readout says I'm still steady at 98,000 feet, but I know I must've lost at least 20. Maybe more. You're... um, you'll have to guide me down."

Virgil did not like the sound of any of that and was already increasing the power to full flight speed. On the way home they usually cruised, but he no longer had the luxury of wasting time. Beside him, Alan was now in the copilot's seat and working the radar to help pinpoint Scott's exact position.

"Alright, hold on. We'll be with you in approximately twenty-five minutes. Stay on the line - I'm just going to let John know what's going on."

"F-A-B."

Scott tasted blood and realised he was biting his lip. Irritated, he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Come on, Virgil, hurry it up." he muttered.

Usually he loved being alone in the sky, no-one in sight: the freedom and the independence of it all appealed to him. That appeal was completely lost on him at this moment. Right now he just wanted to see someone. Anyone. Anything that could tell him where he was.

He knew he had lost height, yet the instruments were frozen so he had no idea how much. His compass had gone haywire, the magnet overcharged by the surge when the lightning had struck, so he had no idea which direction he was flying in or how low he was. He had the shutters open, but they made little difference given that he was flying through thick cloud cover. He was adjusting manually every time he hit turbulence, but without the instruments he had no idea if he was helping or hindering his present situation.

Virgil had stayed on the radio with him for nearly fifteen minutes straight before having to break the connection because their father wanted an update. With the computer down Scott could not handle the long distance call, and he understood that Virgil did not want him listening in to the situation briefing. He would have done the same in Virgil's place. You did everything possible to stop the victim panicking, including keeping them out of the loop in some instances. None of it helped his nervousness now, though.

Was he over land? Over water? Was there a mountain just ahead that might suddenly appear out of the grey mist? What if he got struck again? The questions kept bubbling up in him, and it was getting harder and harder to fight them down. Easier when Virgil's calm voice was on the other end of the radio.

The lights flickered half-heartedly, and he froze. What was causing that? They flickered again, then dimmed threateningly. Flickered a final time, then came on full again. Letting out a sob he had not realised was forming in his throat, he looked down to see that the instrument panel had lit up with warning lights and error messages - the computer had come back online.

"Brains, you're a genius." he praised the engineer.

But it seemed he had spoken too soon. The computer was on, but not responding to commands - it seemed to have frozen once more. Losing patience, he pressed the main kill switch to reset it. Immediately the ship lurched and rolled, making him glad he had put on his full launch harness. It was hard work, flying totally on manual in this ship: as much as he loved her, Thunderbird 1 was definitely the most awkward of all to handle under adverse conditions. It was partly why he loved her, knowing that the others could never get her to perform to the level he did, but right now he would trade her in for something that was a tad less volatile. Manually regulating the balance between the chemical fuel and the nuclear engines was almost a fulltime job on its own. A second later, the computer came back online and automatically took over, yet it was overflowing with error messages which had to be cleared before he could regain control. In the meantime, with the manual controls locked, he was veering off to starboard and possibly also down though it was hard to be sure.

"Come on baby," he muttered, fingers typing in override commands as quickly as it would accept them, "don't let me down. Come on."

The computer crashed again, and he tried again to reboot it. This time it seemed to be working and he tried turning. It started to work, but then the main lights flickered and went out.

"What now?" he groaned as the emergency lighting came on.

The computer had died completely now, not even beeping when he pressed the reset switch. Swearing, he tried to wrench the controls back into alignment by brute force, but the yoke did not budge. Everything had locked, and one of the flaps was cocked against the wind, leaving the ship performing constant barrel rolls until Scott wondered if his usually cast-iron stomach was going to rebel. With no instruments to tell him when he was off course and cloud cover obscuring his view of the surroundings, there was no way he could tell where he was going. He could only pray there was no-one coming in the other direction and that he was not losing height. Just then the radio spluttered back to life.

"Thunderbird 2 to Thunderbird 1, what's going on over there?"

"Virgil, thank god! I'm in trouble. The controls aren't responding, and I can't jettison because I don't know where I am. Can you tell me how close to the ground I am?"

"Hang on, we're nearly there. Just two more minutes."

"I... Christ, V, I don't think I can!"

"Alright Scott, listen to me - you've only got about three thousand feet. You have to get clear, Thunderbird 1. Do you read me? Get out now. Jettison and we'll find you. Do it now!"

"I'm rolling, Virgil! How do I know which way is up?"

"You're losing height. Just do it. We'll find you, Scott, just get out of there!"

Gordon held his breath, horrified. In the last minute, everything had gone from serious-but-under-control to an all-out crisis. Since the lightning strike, Thunderbird One had steadily been losing height, but only gradually. Yet abruptly it had dropped nearly ten thousand feet, and now Scott sounded like he was panicking. No, Gordon told himself. Scott does not panic. He never panics, and neither does Virgil. You're imagining it.

"The release isn't working! It must've locked with the power out."

"What about the manual release?" Virgil demanded.

"No good. It's not working. Can't jettison. I'm going to tr...hover but I don'...o thruster contr..."

"Alan!" Virgil roared. "Get that radio connection back up."

"I'm trying! It's not a fault at our end. I think... I think he's still receiving us."

"Scott listen to me. You're only eight hundred feet up, now. Can you see the ground? Scott, do you have any sort of control at all? If you don't, you've got to put on your full launch harness to protect you from the impact. Do it now, Scott. Dropping now past five hundred. We'll be in visual range in about eighty seconds, and we'll find you. Activate your emergency beacon emitter and just hang on. Past three hundred, Scott, make sure those straps are tight. Two hundred. One. Scott, brace for impact."

Virgil paused and for a second there was a painful silence. Gordon stared at the tension in the pilot's shoulders, trying to read him from behind. Scott and Virgil had always been close in ways that did not quite make sense. Scott had known when Virgil had broken his arm at the age of eight, for example, even though they'd been miles apart. Virgil had woken up in the middle of the night and dragged their father out of bed to find Scott who had crashed his car on the way home at age sixteen. Not to mention the number of times they finished each other's sentences or predicted what the other was about to do. It was stupid, but he was suddenly sure that if Scott was to die in this crash, Virgil would... well, he was not sure. But he thought Virgil would know, and so far he could not tell anything at all from his brother's posture.

Alan broke the silence, opening up a radio channel to John and reporting what had happened. Brains and their father were linked in, and there was a three-way conversation held, demanding answers that they just did not have yet. John reported that he was receiving a steady signal from the e-bee, but that Scott was not responding to hails either on his watch or through Thunderbird One's radio. Then Virgil silenced them all, announcing that they were arriving at the danger zone and that he was breaking off until they had assessed the situation. There was a click as the radio was switched off, then almost immediately a soft buzzing which indicated an incoming transmission.

"Ignore it." Virgil told Alan. "We'll let them know when we have some news."

"Dad'll be furious." Alan warned. "He goes ballistic when he gets cut o...oh shit."

"Language." Virgil muttered absently, but Gordon doubted he really cared.

They had arrived.