Sheets of rain lashed angrily against the windows, beating them furiously. The blackness of the night couldn't stay dark for any longer than a few seconds, as vicious forks of lightning illuminated the surroundings. Thunder boomed ominously, while the swirling wind howled away relentlessly. All structures that were caught in the storm seemed to creak and groan miserably, begging for the onslaught to let up.

Hiram K. Hackenbacker anxiously peered around the curtains as the almighty storm raged on. How anyone could possibly sleep with all that noise going on was beyond him, and yet there were no signs of anybody else stirring in the Creighton-Ward Manor. He wondered if there was something he didn't know about that he was supposed to do to improve his chances of sleeping. Perhaps if he woke Lady Penelope, she may be able to offer him some crucial advice.

No, he decided. Lady Penelope had graciously welcomed him into her home and it seemed terribly rude to disturb her sleep just because he wasn't entirely used to this new environment. He would simply have to accept the fact that this would be a restless night. After all, his mind would not stop whirring, and once it had started it didn't stop. They didn't call him Brains for nothing.

His primary concern was, funnily enough, the weather. Tomorrow morning was supposed to be the launching of the Martian Space Probe, a revolutionary rocket that was going all the way to Mars, and was to be the first major step in setting up an off-world colony. Brains knew how hard the engineers had worked on the project, and it would be a great shame to see it spoiled by the weather. It was the only part of the operation that was out of their control and so of course, it was the one thing that seemed to be going wrong.

Brains needed something to distract his worried mind, and turn his attention to something he could actually influence. He rummaged around his suitcase and extracted his most valuable items: his pen, paper and calculator. There were already scribbles, notes and calculations all over the paper, in a way that seemed almost completely incomprehensible, totally undecipherable, nothing more than an amalgamation of pure nonsense.

But Brains could see what others could not. He could understand why he was calculating minute alterations to alloy percentages. He could see how it correlated to the coefficient of air resistance. He could see how it would all come together. He was making adjustments, tiny little micro adjustments, to designs and concepts that he had come up with previously. The current designs were exceptional in every way-but things could always improve. Everything could always be made more efficient and every day had the potential to bring about a new discovery or idea. Brains just had to keep searching.

Brains began annotating, adding to the messy diagram. Now things started to make more sense as a rough image began to emerge, in the form of the incredible Thunderbird 1. The craft had performed exactly as expected on its first few missions, and Mr Tracy was thrilled at how well International Rescue was running. However, Scott had been keen to point out that even at its top speed, it still took Thunderbird 1 nearly an hour to fly from one side of the world to the other. He wanted to go even faster.

As the mastermind engineer behind International Rescue, it fell upon Brains to optimise the design, taking the fastest aircraft ever built and making it even faster. It was a tall order, but already some very minor tweaks to the design were resulting in an extra few hundred miles an hour. He just needed to keep pushing on, keep trying to innovate, keep testing new ideas and eventually, he was sure he would create an elegant solution.

There was a sharp knock at the door, followed by the voice of Parker, Lady Penelope's faithful butler. "Sorry to disturb you, Master Brains, but m'lady wants you to know that breakfast is ready."

"Oh, uh, r-r-right, Parker," Brains said, suddenly snapping out of his trance. The rain had stopped and the sun was out-he must've worked all through the night and into the morning. Time did have a tendency to fly when you were engineering.

Not wanting to upset his hosts, Brains got washed and dressed as quickly as he could. He put on his best shirt, his best pink jumper and his finest bow tie. He wasn't trying to impress anyone with his well dressed attire, but upon his arrival yesterday he had felt quite out of place despite wearing his usual plaid shirt. In this house, that had made him seem like some kind of street urchin.

As expected, when he found his way to the dining room, Lady Penelope was looking as elegant and glamorous as ever, tucking into her breakfast with great poise and sophistication. Even the way she held her cutlery was perfect, as if every tiny aspect of her life had been trained, with not a single detail excluded. She truly was an exquisite woman.

"Good morning, Brains," she said brightly. "I trust your room was comfortable?"

"Oh, oh yes L-l-lady Penelope," Brains said as he sat down. Parker served him up a wonderful breakfast that was fit for a king.

"Well, it is always pleasing to hear glowing reviews on our guest room," Penelope smiled. "Though I must say, you do look rather tired for someone with a whole night's sleep under his belt."

Brains looked a little sheepish. "Well, I guess I didn't exactly sleep much..." he admitted. "The rain was so l-l-loud."

Lady Penelope smiled. "Welcome to England, dear. Yes, that was a rather frightful storm, but one does get used to it."

"I 'appen to 'ave some ear plugs, if you require them, Master Brains," Parker chimed in. "I h'once knew a fellow with the loudest snore-they were the h'only way to get any sort of sleep in that cell."

"Oh, well, uh, thanks, Parker."

"Still," Penelope continued, not drawing attention to Parker's worrying backstory. "The weather is set fair, seemingly with no damage done."

"Maybe..." Brains muttered. "I just hope the Martian Space Probe hasn't been interrupted or delayed."

"Well, now it makes sense," Penelope said. "A worried mind is an awake mind, and I can see now that this has been troubling you. Come, Brains, let us move into the other room. You can see for yourself that all is well."

With breakfast finished, Parker began frantically clearing the table, returning it to its spotless state. Lady Penelope led Brains through some ornate double doors and into one of the most ludicrously oversized living rooms he had ever seen. The large, luxurious sofas had so much space in between them, and Brains had never seen a television screen quite so big.

He sat down, ultimate comfort immediately taking over his body as the squishy cushions lovingly accepted him into their home. Penelope turned the television on, and quickly found the channel that was showing a special on the Martian Space Probe all day long, cataloguing its journey to the launch site.

"Just look at these incredible pictures we are able to bring you today!" the presenter narrated cheerily. "This incredible machine, masterminded by NASA, brought to life here in Britain is making its historic journey to its launch site in Brookfield. Stay with us all day folks, this could be a once in a lifetime broadcast!"

Brains couldn't help but marvel at the screen. He was no stranger to incredible vehicles, having created quite a few himself, but the Martian Space Probe was simply epic. It was a gigantic rocket, over a hundred metres long, with stylish and aerodynamic fins lining its body. A ring of powerful booster engines lined its rear, all ready to blast the rocket all the way to Mars. Perhaps even more staggering than the vessel itself was its tow vehicle; a bright yellow, armoured truck, separated into two segments, carrying the epic rocket to its destination. It was slowly lumbering along the roads, all twenty-eight of its wheels working relentlessly for every tiny bit of movement.

"You see, Brains?" Lady Penelope smiled. "You'll be able to watch the whole journey and launch; there will be no delay or interruption."

"H'except for tea!" Parker interjected.

"Of course, Parker," Penelope smiled. "In this house, everything stops for tea."

"I hope you're right, L-l-lady Penelope," Brains said, still slightly apprehensive. "This is one of the most precise operations I've ever seen. The engineers have had to calculate everything to absolute p-p-perfection. Even the slightest delay could derail the, uh, the whole operation."

"But why is the timing so crucial?" Penelope asked.

"Well, Mars is a very long way away, but due to the nature of the planets' orbits, the planets will soon be at their closest alignment," Brains explained. "Which means the p-p-probe rocket will require less fuel and arrive in the shortest time possible. The timing and fuel loads are so important that the whole countdown sequence is completely automatic. Once the rocket is in upright launch position, the countdown will start, and she'll blast off no matter what. If timing is disrupted, the fuel load won't be correct, and she won't make it to Mars."

"I see," Penelope said. "Well, then we'd best discuss our business quickly so you can watch the journey to your heart's content."

"Oh, uh, right," Brains said. He had momentarily forgotten that he was here to discuss some important matters regarding International Rescue, despite his focus being well and truly on the Martian Space Probe.

"I trust you've seen the news," Penelope said, gesturing to a newspaper on the luxurious, mahogany coffee table. It was a striking picture of Thunderbird 1 with the heading: International Rescue - Who are they?

Brains nodded. "There's no doubt these were taken by the intruder during the Fireflash rescue."

"Indeed," Lady Penelope agreed. "Our slippery little fellow seems to have taken a few snaps and them sold them to the highest bidder. A fine pay day, but hardly worth the risk of breaking into a top security airport and sabotaging the most expensive airliner ever created during its maiden flight. Which begs the question: did he get away with any more?"

"Well, I, uh, finished my analysis of the scanner he used," Brains said. "It's not a device I'd seen before, almost certainly a custom job. Fortunately, the scan was incomplete, and it seems there were no c-c-copies made."

"So, all he escaped with were pictures?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Well, that is certainly good news," Penelope sighed with relief. "There is little harm that pictures can do on their own. It seems our little friend has not exposed our secrecy quite just yet."

"Yeah, Mr Tracy was very pleased when he found out," Brains said. "How's your investigation going?"

"Well, it is still very early days, of course," Penelope said. "But I find the whole affair rather concerning. Our intruder managed to access London Airport with ease, and yet their whole attention was seemingly on the Thunderbird craft. It would seem their only goal in sabotaging Fireflash was to gain information on International Rescue."

"But, that c-c-can't be right," Brains pointed out, immediately seeing the problem. "That was our first operation. Nobody knew we even existed!"

"Precisely, Brains, precisely," Penelope nodded. "The only explanation is that our intruder somehow knew of International Rescue before we were revealed to the world. We have a major security leak; this has become a top priority investigation."

"What are we going to do?" Brains cried. This was a serious issue. If the secrecy of the organisation was under threat, then the whole of International Rescue could be compromised.

"For now, nothing!" Lady Penelope smiled. How could she be so calm about this? "There is little that can be done, Brains. We are fortunate enough to have DNA samples from the disguise he discarded. If he shows up again, we will know and we will be ready. We simply have to be patient."

Brains shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like the thought of sitting around and waiting for a potential disaster. But then again, wasn't that what International Rescue did? They weren't a preventative service; they reacted to situations and dealt with them accordingly. Perhaps this was no different.

"Now, let us turn our attention away from business," Penelope said swiftly, no doubt sensing Brains' unease. "You are here to enjoy the journey of the Martian Space Probe and so that is what we shall focus on. It seems it is nearing the Allington Bridge. I trust this will be quite the spectacle."

*

"Oh, yes!" Morecambe chortled into the phone. "Don't you worry. The bridge will be open and there will be no delay to the rocket's progress. I guarantee everything will proceed as planned." With that, he put down the phone and turned to his assistant, Wise.

"Now open the bloody bridge!" Morecambe bellowed, covering Wise in a fine layer of spit. "The probe rocket is less than a few miles away and I am getting twitchy phone call after twitchy phone call from the folks at NASA wondering why the Allington Bridge is remaining firmly shut. Do you care to offer them an explanation."

Wise seemed relatively unbothered by Morecambe's seething rage. "That storm last night was vicious," he explained calmly. "There is almost no doubt the bridge would have suffered some damage, and if it's structural integrity has been compromised even a fraction-"

"Did I not agree with you when you brought this up this morning?" Morecambe thundered, his eyes practically popping out of his head. "Did I not order a full-scale safety inspection at the earliest opportunity? Did the inspection not conclusively prove that there was no damage?"

"That inspection was carried out as quickly as possible," Wise interjected. "It may well have been satisfactory for regular traffic, but that rocket is gigantic; it weighs two thousand tonnes! We have to perform more tests; we have to be absolutely sure the bridge is in good order."

"Need I remind you that two thousand tonnes may well be hefty, but it is well within the maximum tonnage of this bridge," Morecambe retorted. "The Allington Suspension Bridge was hand picked to complete the final leg of the rocket's journey. Everyone at NASA is perfectly happy with the bridge's capability to carry the probe. For fifty years this bridge has stood proudly and has never been closed. Not even once. And now on our biggest day, you wish to tarnish our reputation?"

"The storm changes everything!" Wise cried out in protest.

"I won't hear another word of this!" Morecambe yelled. He stood and began pacing around the control room, as if that was the only way to contain his anger. "We all know how diabolically precise this NASA operation is. Any delay at all would cost billions. Do you want to be responsible for that?"

"Of course not," Wise whispered. "But it's not just about the money-it's about lives. The escort cars will be driven by people. The probe might be driven automatically but it still has two engineers on board working on final checks. Do you want to be responsible for their lives?"

"Those engineers are a perfect example of why we simply must open the bridge," Morecambe insisted. "They understand how important this operation is. They've come all the way from America, sacrificing weeks away from their families, all because they know there's a job to be done and they're the ones to do it."

Wise did not reply. Morecambe took the argument to be over, brushing his assistant aside to make the call himself to the authorities to open the bridge. "Speaking of jobs," he added, "Yours isn't looking too secure at the moment."

An awkward silence fell between the two bridge controllers. Morecambe headed over to the window and looked out over the beautiful suspension bridge and the now calm estuary that flowed beneath it. Wise, meanwhile, was unmoved, staying by the control panel, eyes fixed on the readings of the instruments as if they were about to conjure up some readings to support his side of the debate.

He would never admit it, but the reason Morecambe had gotten so angry was because he knew, deep down, Wise was right. That storm last night had been brutal. The wind had been ferocious, the lightning strikes had been staggering, the choppy waters had pounded against the bridge relentlessly. He had been quite certain that some damage would have occurred, even if it was only minor.

But he had followed all procedure to the letter. He'd temporarily closed the bridge while they performed a full inspection, and the spot check had revealed nothing. He'd had no choice but to reopen and give the go-ahead to NASA. After all, how could he justify ruining their plans when they'd found no evidence of damage? He could hardly phone up NASA and tell them all was in perfect order but there was a minute chance something could go wrong anyway so they should delay their plans for several years. No, he had made absolutely the right choice.

"There she is," Wise said, finally breaking the silence. Morecambe turned to see the first of several police escort cars slowly making their way onto the bridge. Behind them was the absolute behemoth that was the Martian Space Probe and its almighty tow vehicle. It was even bigger in person than he could have ever imagined-it was utterly gigantic. The huge load crept along so slowly it barely seemed to even be moving, the powerful tow vehicle using every ounce of its power to carry the rocket.

"I had no idea the rocket was gonna go as slow as this..." Morecambe muttered, a nervous bead of sweat dripping down his forehead.

"It looks as though the bridge can take it," Wise said, his eyes still fixed on the stress indicator readings. Morecambe wondered if he was being genuine or if he was just trying to help his unease.

After what seemed like an age, the rocket had completely passed underneath the bridge control room, indicating that the road was now doing no part in taking the mighty ship's weight. The bridge now worked alone in carrying the probe. Morecambe was sure he was only imagining the awful creaking and groaning noises coming from the main suspension cable and the vertical suspenders. And surely it was a trick of his mind that the bridge seemed to sag under the immense weight of the rocket?

"How's the tonnage indicator?" Morecambe asked nervously.

Wise glanced at him sheepishly. "It's at maximum. So's the stress indicator."

Morecambe's heart skipped a beat. "It should be well within the load the bridge was designed to take... what's happening?"

"The bridge was designed for evenly distributed traffic," Wise explained. "All that weight in one solid lump... it's being pushed to its limits."

Morecambe breathed heavily as the rocket neared the centre of the bridge. This would be the section of the bridge under the most stress so if it could just make it past the halfway point, he could begin to breathe easier. It just had a little further to go. Just a few more seconds and they were safe. Why did it have to move so damned slowly?

Morecambe gripped the handrail by the window so tightly his knuckles turned white. Every part of the bridge seemed to cry out for mercy as the great tow vehicle lumbered forwards, reaching the very centre of the bridge. The suspenders were pulled absolutely taut, the hard tarmac surface looked more like soft plasticine and the concrete foundation pillars were being squeezed and compressed under the weight. For a moment, it seemed as though the rocket was through and the bridge had survived the worst of it.

Suddenly there was a horrible noise. A groan turned into a snap and a vertical suspender was sent flailing after breaking free from the agony of holding the load. The bridge controllers watched, horror struck, as suspender after suspender pinged off, all wildly flinging about uncontrollably. The bridge began to shake visibly under the colossal weight it was now holding unsupported.

"Come on..." Wise urged, "Come on..."

The escort cars sped away hurriedly, clearing fearing for their own lives. The rocket's tow vehicle desperately tried to stay on course, its tyres screeching under the pressure as the bridge wobbled and quivered. All it would take would be one small movement, one last imbalance of weight before the bridge would give up, one last structural failure before-

"She's not gonna make it!" Morecambe cried. "She's not gonna make it!"

The concrete foundation pillars finally gave way, cracking and crumbling, with the centre of the bridge following suit. The probe rocket tumbled sideways, plummeting into the river below with an almighty splash of water. Morecambe gasped as more of the bridge caved in, falling spectacularly and yet pathetically on the same spot of the estuary where the rocket had sunk.

"The engineers!" Wise gasped. "They were still on board!"

Morecambe's mouth hung open. No words could describe the disaster they'd just witnessed. A several billion pound rocket and its tow vehicle laid somewhere at the bottom of the river, meanwhile their beloved bridge was ruined and destroyed, with its rubble occupying the same space. Two poor engineers were trapped down there, stuck in a rocket, under a mountain of wreckage, at the bottom of a river. What on earth were they going to do?