Author's Note - This is a story that has been three years in the making. I am glad to finally share it. Constructive feedback is very welcome. As always, I thank my FAB beta, Jaimi-Sam, who finds the plot holes, helps with the gaps and keeps me on track with all the characters.

***** RECOVERY *****

Written by "mcj"


Disclaimer - The characters in this story, other than my own, are temporarily borrowed from the creative genius Mr Gerry Anderson.

Warning - Later chapters contain concepts that may upset some readers. Rest assured the rating will be lifted when this occurs.

Tracy Island - January 26, 2027

A Field Commander waits...

It's three twenty three am and I'm damned tired …

damned tired...

...damned anxious…

I'm also not the only one who should have been in bed at least four hours ago.

But he won't sleep…

…. so I can't sleep.

Not since John gave him the heads up that our services might be required.

"Bad weather in the North Sea, Father…"

I've heard that monotone too many times before.

"…no real problems as yet. The captain thinks he can handle the situation."

"OK John. Just keep an eye on it, for now."


You had to give me a little credit for only rolling my eyes when I heard.

Sure, the captain of a ninety five thousand tonner thinks he can handle the situation. They all think they can when it starts. They all seem to have this crazy idea that the bigger they are the more invincible they become and that disaster simply chooses to dance around them.

We're the ones who have to deal with the stark reality when it doesn't.

They'll freeze to death before they drown.

I guess I should have kept a lid on how I felt about waiting for the official distress call to come in. Dad made it pretty clear he didn't appreciate my thoughts when I told him point blank what I thought about any procrastination. I can still see the look of agitation on his face when I told him, maybe more forcefully than I should have, that we should forget about all the protocol crap and get Thunderbirds One and Two out there right now.

"Scott, you know that isn't how we do things around here."

I know I should have recognised the warning in the growl when I heard it. Recognised it and simply poured myself a cup of the stone cold coffee from the pot he had sitting on the desk.

But what did I do?

I didn't; that's what. I let it rear up inside me before I had the chance to control it. The next thing I know that damned sealed compartment inside my psyche had burst wide open and was gushing out all over the place.

"So what exactly do we do, Father?"

I don't even know where that one came from and neither did he.

"We wait, son. That's what we do."

That's all he said.

Head back down...

…glasses on…

…it would be his decision, if or when the Thunderbird machines would fly.

"Sir, Virgil and I can both be airborne in less than fifteen minutes," had zero impact; even with the compartment quickly bolted shut and a deliberate change in my approach.

His head never moved.

He didn't even acknowledge me.

"I'll wake you if we're needed," was the only indication that he'd even heard a damn word I'd said.

Look, I get why he's being extra cautious at the moment. Since the mission in Australia, I accept the fact that he's not prepared to involve the outfit like that again unless it's absolutely necessary.

But hell, that's one great big cargo ship bobbing around out there…

Damn you John...

…just make the call.