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PHOENIX RISING

By Meercat

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CHAPTER 1: INTO THIN AIR

Scott Tracy activated the comm unit on the Mobile Control console and called into the voice mic, "Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird One. Virgil, what's your ETA?"

"I'm 2.5 minutes away, Scott."

"Copy that, Virgil. The mega-silo is tilting toward the northeast, so that's the most likely direction of collapse. Advise you set down in the open field on the southwest side of the structure."

"How does it look?"

The eldest son of Jeff Tracy and the pilot of Thunderbird One examined the disaster unfolding in front of him--an explosion at an experimental super-granary and food storage mega-silo deep in the American heartland--and replied, "Bad, Virgil. One or more of the lower level granary pods inside the mega-silo exploded, causing a chain reaction. Three maintenance workers, two men and a woman, were servicing the internal systems. They're trapped between levels 45 and 46. They can't descend using their safety harnesses because of the fire, and they can't go up because one of them broke both his legs. If that wasn't enough, the heat is melting the internal supports on one side. I estimate a maximum of ten minutes before the whole thing topples over."

"Any communication with the trapped workers?"

"A brief one, when I first arrived. Since then, nothing."

"Okay, Scott. ETA now 1 minute."

Hearing the rumble of Thunderbird Two's powerful atomic engines, Scott secured his ship against intruders. By the time Thunderbird Two swiveled around for a landing, Scott stood on the ground next to his own vehicle, waiting.

The lumbersome dark green transport performed an unexpectedly graceful landing, touching down with a feather-light touch borne from years of experience by her pilot. The maneuvering jets turned off, leaving only a silver dust cloud in their wake. The full weight of Thunderbird Two pressed the wheat flat.

Virgil Tracy, the third of five sons to International Rescue's founder and leader Jeff Tracy, appeared through the hatch first, closely followed by his youngest brother, Alan, who normally piloted Thunderbird Three, the space rocket of the IR fleet.

The pair--one stocky, auburn-haired and tanned, the other slender, blond and fair--took one look at the precariously tilting silo and hurried to meet their eldest brother. As the three men in the distinctive uniform of International Rescue came together, the crowd gathered beyond the gates that led to the narrow old commercial road raised a clap and cheer.

The trio risked a glance to the crowd, noting the arrival of more vehicles and persons. Content that the crowd would pose no security threat, the brothers turned their entire concentration toward the rescue at hand.

"Any ideas, Scott?" Virgil asked.

"Only one. Our best bet is to get to them from above," Scott suggested.

"That mega-silo is 120 levels high," Alan countered, "and those people are trapped between 45 and 46. Wouldn't it be faster to go up from the bottom?"

"Under normal circumstances, yes," Scott admitted with a hint of impatience, "but the damage to the lower levels is too extensive. We can have them up and out through the top in half the time we'd waste cutting through from the bottom."

"I see," Alan said. "Okay. How do you want to play it?"

"Right then. The silo is so unstable, Thunderbird Two's maneuvering jets could bring it crashing down, so we're going to use Thunderbird One. We'll attach repelling ropes to her underside and I'll lift you to the top of the silo. There's a hatch at the top that leads to a maintenance ladder that descends parallel to the mechanical maintenance lift. It'll be a bit of a climb but I did a quick scan with the remote camera--there's smoke but so far no blockage and no fire. It should be a simple matter to cut through the single bulkhead that separates the ladder from the lift shaft and pull the workers through. Once you're freed them and strapped them in, I'll lift you all off to safety. Okay, let's get moving."

"Okay, Scott," Virgil said into his wrist communicator, "we're on the ground. Release the lines."

"F-A-B," Scott acknowledged and released the ropes, leaving his brothers free to turn the survivors over to more traditional rescue services.

Thunderbird One drifted to the right until it hovered over its original landing space. The bullet-shaped craft set down without the slightest bump. An instant before the powerful thrusters switched off, Scott caught what sounded like a single muffled noise from his wrist communicator. By the time he raised the device to face him, no hint of the transmission--if it was in fact a communication--remained.

"Virgil? Alan? Did you call?" Scott waited but received no reply from either brother. "Thunderbird Two from Thunderbird One, do you copy? Virgil? Alan!"

Once more Scott secured his ship and descended to the ground. He trotted toward Thunderbird Two, puzzled but not yet worried. Odds were, their communications setup was bad.

"Virgil? Alan?" Silence answered him. "Now where in the world did those boys get off to?" he muttered to himself.

Expecting to find his two brothers busy trying to escape the profuse thanks of the rescued workers, Scott walked around to the far side of Thunderbird Two. Sight of his brother stretched motionless on the ground brought him to a sudden and startled halt.

"What the--Virgil!"

Scott knelt and gently rolled him into his back. A livid bruise lay on the Thunderbird Two pilot's temple along with a lump the size of a robin's egg. A smear of blood marred the left shoulder of Virgil's uniform, though Scott could see no sign of a bleeding injury.

Of Alan, the three victims, or anyone else who might have attacked them, there was no sign.

"Virgil! Virgil, what happened? Where's Alan?"

Virgil fought his way back to consciousness and struggled to speak, even though his mouth closely resembled old cotton. "Nnnnng, S-Sc't, wh-wh--"

"Easy, Virgil. You took a hard knock to the head. Don't move until I have a chance to examine you. Were is Alan?"

"G-gone."

"Gone. What do you mean 'gone'?"

"We landed . . . with the maintenance people . . . put them in the ambulance . . . three men . . . never saw them until they were right on top of us . . . Guns . . . Alan jumped one of them. I tried to take out another . . . more came . . . there were too many of them . . . to many--"

"Are you saying someone took Alan?" Scott's whisper bled disbelief. "That he's been kidnapped?"

"I tried to stop them, Scott. I swear I tried--there were just too many-"

Scott winced at the desperation in his brother's voice. He squeezed Virgil's shoulder in sympathy.

"Easy, my brother. I know you did your best." A granite note of promise hardened the eldest Tracy son's voice. "Don't you worry. We'll get Alan back. Whoever took him will regret the day they ever heard of International Rescue."