Masquerade: To go about as if in disguise; to have or put on a deceptive appearance; to pretend to be someone or something you are not.

A Tale of Two Cats

Fifteen-year-old Ryan Pierce was on his way home from school when he saw the lady calling out to the white cat who was perched in the lowest branch of a giant, ancient oak. She had moved into the old Bartlett place a few days ago. He noticed that her arm was in a sling. She won't get that cat down, not without bringing out the fire department or something, he thought as he loped by.

Suddenly he heard her calling, "Young man? Young man! Could yew please come heah foah a minute?"

He groaned internally and for a fleeting moment thought he might just ignore her and keep on going. But he caught a movement in the house across the street from the newcomer's place. Damn. Ol' Mrs. Hickerson. If I don't help, she'll call Grandma, or tell her over the table at bridge night... then I'll catch it hot. He sighed, turned around, and sauntered back to the woman.

"You calling me?" he asked in his most bored and antagonistic tone as he slouched there before her.

The woman smiled sweetly and answered in a thick Southern drawl. "Why yes, Ah was." She held out her left hand to shake his. "Mah name is Kellay. Cindy Lou Kellay."

He hesitated; he'd always been taught to shake with his right hand. But since she had an arm in a sling... he took her hand and shook it twice. "I'm Ryan."

She motioned to the cat with her free hand. "As yew kin see, Rahy'n, Ah've got a touch o' trouble heah. Mah precious Snowball was treed bah a loose pup. She's not used t' bein' outside; she's a house cat. Would you be so kind as to climb up an' fetch her foah me? Ah have a ladduh in th' garage."

Ryan took a good look at the new woman on the block. She was slightly above average in height, but not tall, and she had a trim figure under the blue jeans and sweater that she wore. She had dark red hair done in tight curls, and a well-made up face with a beauty mark on one cheek. Her blue eyes looked sincere, but the teen noticed that the heavy powder and foundation were covering some bruises. He'd seen enough of his friends' mothers after their fathers or boyfriends had gone off on them and smacked them around, and he wondered if this lady were involved with someone similar. There wasn't any cast on the arm in the sling. She's lucky, Ryan thought. He looked her up and down again, and asked, "How much?"

She blinked. "Ah beg yoah pahdon?"

"How much? How much will you pay me?"

It was obvious that the woman hadn't thought about remuneration. "Well... " she began. "Would ten dollars be enough?"

Ryan thought it over a little. Better not let her think I'm eager for the job... which I'm not. He sighed again, expelling air through his nose. He saw the curtain move again in Mrs. Hickerson's place and knew he'd better not press his luck. "I suppose that ten would cover it." He dropped his school backpack near the base of the tree. "Where's the ladder again?"

"In th' garage. Lemme open it up foah yew." She walked smartly over to her house and stepped inside. Ryan wasn't sure what she was doing, but after a moment, he glanced down the drive so see the garage door open on its own. She came out, smiled at him, then escorted him to the open structure. He looked around as he entered the building, noticing a lot of unopened boxes still stacked in half of the area. A light beige mini-van sat in the other half.

"Ah'm sorry about th' mess," she apologized, sounding embarrassed. "Ah'm still movin' in."

He shrugged noncommittally. "S'okay." The stepladder was hung from the rafters of the garage, and Ryan, tall and lanky as he was, had no trouble removing it and carrying it out to the tree. He leaned it up against the trunk, noticing that there were still two feet between the top of the ladder and the branch where the cat cowered, meowing at the woman. He took a deep breath, and slowly climbed up. When he got up as far as he could, he turned to ask, "What's the cat's name again?"

"Her name is Snowball," was the reply.

Ryan nodded to himself, and reached out for the cat, calling softly, "Here, Snowball. Come to me, kitty. Come on." He reached out, but Snowball shied away and he muttered, "Come on, you stupid cat. I'm trying to save you here." Finally he managed to grab her with one hand as he held on to the ladder with the other. Tucking her between his arm and his side, he descended carefully. Near the bottom of the ladder, she wrenched herself from his grasp and leapt down. Her first order of business was to dig a little hole in the surrounding leaf litter and squat to do her business.

"Oh, thank yew evah so much, Rahy'n," the woman gushed. She waited until the cat had covered over the hole, then she darted out and grabbed Snowball under the chest, pulling her close with her one arm. "If yew'll put away th' ladduh foah me an' step up t' th' doah, Ah'll get yoah money."

He carried the ladder back to the garage, and put it away in its place. He felt sorry for the lady and decided that he'd better not just leave it on the floor of the garage. If Mrs. Hickerson got wind of it... Finished with his task, he walked down the drive towards the front of the house. As he did, he heard a soft whirring sound behind him, and turned around to see the overhanging door quietly closing on its own. He shrugged again, took a slight detour to grab his pack, then climbed the short set of stairs to the front door. It was wooden, stained to a dark color and with a window made of eight rectangular panes of beveled glass, arranged in two rows of four. The brass knocker on the door was engraved with the name, "Kelly". Well, now I know what her name really is. It was hard to recognize it under her accent. He raised his hand to knock but found the portal already opening and Ms. Kelly standing there, a smile still plastered on her face.

She held out a crisp, clean ten dollar bill. "Heah yew go, Rahy'n. Agin, thank yew evah so much foah givin' me a hand t'day," she said cheerfully.

He shrugged his skinny shoulders again. "You're welcome, Ms. Kelly." He tucked the bill into his jeans pocket and turned to go. Then he stopped and looked over his shoulder as some vestiges of his grandmother's training in manners surfaced. "It was, uh... it was nice to meet you, ma'am."

Her smile grew wider. "An' t' meet yew, Rahy'n. Y'all have a good day now. G'bye!" And with that, she closed the door.

Ryan jogged down the steps and resumed his journey home from school, backpack slung over one shoulder, hands in his pockets, and whistling a bit as he thought of having escaped his grandmother's wrath... and coming home with a new bit of neighborhood gossip to give her as well.

"Thunderbird Two from Mobile Control," Scott called into his microphone. "The fourth car is ready for lifting."

"Is that the one with the elephants in it?" Virgil asked.

"Yes. There are two elephants in there. The circus vets have checked them over and they've only sustained minor injuries. They've been sedated enough to calm them so moving the car won't be a problem."

Says you, Virgil thought, rolling his eyes. But he replied, "F-A-B. Moving to car four now." Tapping his new hands-free communicator once, he inquired, "How's it going back there, Go... I mean, Omicron?"

"Ready for another one, Delta," Gordon replied smartly from his position by the heavy-duty winch in the bottom of pod three. He had just finished pulling the winch back up from moving one of the train's heavy boxcars. They had been called to a rather unusual rescue; a circus train had derailed on one of the old freight lines in a stretch of forest between Vilnius, Lithuania and Minsk, Belarus. The local rescue crews were ill-equipped to handle the huge freight cars and the equally huge or dangerous animals that they contained. So a call had gone out to International Rescue. Jeff had balked at the idea at first, but since there were injured people involved as well, he finally gave the go-ahead and the Thunderbirds launched.

Coming on the scene, Scott originally thought that perhaps John should be the man at Mobile Control because of his facility with Russian. But John reminded him that a fluent speaker would be needed to communicate with the roustabouts, who were less likely to speak English, and Alan could always translate for Scott with either his own admittedly shaky command of Russian or by using the translation software in Thunderbird Five. Fortunately, two of the ringmasters knew English well enough that communication was smooth for the most part. Scott did use the multi-directional microphone at Mobile Control to catch bits and pieces of conversation going on around him.

The injured people were few in number, and the oxyhydnite cutters got to them quickly. Medical helijets from Minsk took time to get there but they were able to ferry the worst of the injured to the city. All but three of the cars and the engine had merely jumped the tracks, and a couple of them were leaning on cars that had fallen over as well. The three cars that were totally smashed were near the end of the train and held equipment. Most of the circus veterinarians were still able bodied, as were the majority of the roustabouts. The decision was made to get as much of the train as possible back on the track, and a new engine would come out from the city to tow the circus to its destination.

"Right, right two degrees," John called from the top of the fourth boxcar. Virgil made the minute correction as Gordon played out the cable, watching via the mobile camera, which Scott had deployed from Thunderbird One. He, Gordon and Virgil all had monitors linked to the camera this time, a small innovation contributed by Alan who had reconfigured the signal for multiple users in the wake of their adventure in New Brunswick. John had tweaked it since then so that the signal was tight beam and would not be picked up by nearby televids. And Brains had added a gizmo that made the device proof against the photo detector and fogger mechanisms.

"A little more to the right, Thunderbird Two," John instructed. "Now down two meters, nice and easy, one meter, there! You've got it! Lock it in!"

Gordon moved a lever, and below him, John could hear a muffled "thunk" as the electromagnets on the huge winch locked onto the metal sides of the elephants' car. He climbed off the car, and gave the okay to pull up. With almost agonizing slowness, the cable took up the slack as both the winch and the mighty engines of Thunderbird Two pulled the car upward. Once the car's wheels were roughly a meter off the ground, half a dozen hefty roustabouts attached hooks and cables to the undercarriage and, with John's verbal instructions, helped Virgil position the car over the tracks. Another call topside, and Gordon played the cable out once again, lowering the carriage slowly down again. It touched the tracks with all eight wheels at once, and rocked gently on its shock absorbers for a few moments as the roustabouts cheered, thumping John on the back before retrieving their gear. He'd gotten used to the men's calculated enthusiasm; even though they hadn't rattled him with their friendly "congratulatory" smacks, they still tried. John knew it was because of his relative thinness. He didn't have the same bulging muscles as they did, though he was every bit as strong. Even so, he was sure he'd have some new bruises to add to his collection from the mudslide rescue.

Scott noticed one of the men who had been identified as a trainer come running up to the ringmaster with a vet close behind. The trainer gesticulated wildly and shouted at the ringmaster, his face pale and full of fear.

"Mobile Control from Thunderbird Five. You've got a problem," Alan said in his ear.

"How so?"

"If what I'm hearing is right, one of the more dangerous animals has gotten loose..."

At this point, the ringmaster in question approached Scott. "Mr. International Rescue, we have lost an animal. Our white tiger, Misha. She has a... how do you say it... a chip for tracking her, but our equipment is in one of the smashed cars. Could you... would you help us retrieve her?"

"Let me see what my commander says, first," Scott replied. He tapped his earpiece twice and called, "Base from Mobile Control, come in, base."

Jeff looked up from the latest reports from his agents in the world government capital. How does a single man like Jim Franks disappear so thoroughly? he groused. "Go ahead, Mobile Control."

"Base, we have a situation and a special request has been made," Scott explained. He outlined what had happened and gave Jeff the information that the ringmaster and the trainer were giving him.

"Hmm. I think this is one instance where we can extend ourselves to help capture the animal," Jeff replied. "Besides, there may be people endangered if the tiger goes near inhabited areas." He nodded at Scott. "Alpha, you have the go ahead. Get to it before the day gets much later."

"F-A-B, base," Scott responded. He glanced up at the hovering ringmaster and trainer. "We can do it." Another tap on his earpiece. "Mobile Control to Thunderbird Two. Set 'er down, Delta. I need a hoverbike, the tranquilizing guns, and Go... Omicron."

Twenty minutes later, Gordon stood before Mobile Control as Scott briefed him on his mission. "You'll take Gregor here," he indicated the trainer, "on the hoverbike. Thunderbird Five has the tracking signal frequency and will feed it to your GPS screen."

"The vets have calculated how much of our tranquilizing drug will be both safe and effective and I've filled the darts," Gordon explained. "I've got infrared goggles with me should it get dark before we find the cat."

"Good. The vet and a support crew will follow as soon as they get their AT truck out of the car that Thunderbird Two is working on right now," Scott told him. It had been decided that the tiger hunt couldn't be allowed to stop the progress they were making in getting the circus train back on track, especially since Alan had informed them that the new engine was on its way. So Virgil had switched the winch over to remote control, and John was to stay and continue with what he was doing. Both of them had expressed some dismay over Gordon going off without actual IR back up. "I knew we'd want Tin... I mean, Zeta, with us," Virgil had grumbled. "But she's got too much on her plate now with the new uniforms and visors." Scott merely rolled his eyes and shook his head.

He now looked up at Gordon, who had slung the tranquilizing rifle over his shoulder, and was putting on a motorcycle style helmet. Gregor had been issued a rifle as well, and was hefting it, testing its feel. One of the stunt flyers came up and gave the trainer a helmet of his own. Scott said, "Best get going, Omicron."

Gordon gave him a smart salute. "F-A-B." He beckoned to Gregor, who mounted the hoverbike behind him and they took off into the surrounding forest.

Scott watched them go, then turned his attention back to the rescue at hand.

Back at base, the vidphone at Jeff's desk rang. He glanced at it, checking the caller ID. There were very few people who had his private number and most of them were part of Tracy Industries. When there was a rescue, he would let his voice mail answer the phone and return the call later, unless there was an emergency within his company that required immediate attention. This caller, however, made him smile slightly and when the instrument rang again, he muted the talkback between his sons, and switched on the vidphone, choosing "voice only".

"Jeff Tracy," he said, keeping half an ear on the background conversation.

"Well, hello theah," the blatantly Southern-accented female said. He could hear the smile in her voice as she spoke.

"Hello there yourself, Lou," he replied, with a grin. Then a tone of regret crept into his voice. "I'm afraid I can't talk now. I'm busy." He laid a small bit of stress on the last word.

His caller picked up on it. "With th' fam'ly bizness?" she asked.

" 'Fraid so."

"Then Ah won' keep yew. Tell th' boys thet Cindy Lou says hello, will yew?"

"I will. And I'll call back later."

"Ah look for'ard to it. G'bye." And the call ended.

Jeff sighed, then made a note in his scheduler to remind him to call when the rescue was all said and done.

I am so glad that Belarus has mostly flat terrain. Wish I'd brought a machete though, Gordon thought as he and Gregor hummed along about a third of a meter above the damp leaf litter and occasional carpet of pine needles that made up the floor of the forest. Branches often blocked their way, especially in the coniferous portions of the woods where skinny dead limbs crisscrossed each other, making passage difficult.

Gregor wasn't much of a talker, for which Gordon was thankful. He wore his watch, the microphone of which could pick up the trainer's words and pipe them up to Alan, who could translate to the earpiece he wore. But he didn't know enough Russian, or whatever it was that Gregor spoke, to carry on a conversation. Besides, his helmet had a reflective visor that covered his face. He'd have to lift it or remove the helmet to talk and with the foliage the way it was, it was far too dangerous an option.

The small GPS screen kept him on the tiger's track, and now they came out of the forest and were skirting a small brook. The trees didn't grow too close to the edge, and in the few places where they did, Gordon took to the water. The creek was less than half a meter deep and full of stones, and so didn't pose the problem for the hoverbike that deeper, choppier waters might. If he could have seen Gregor's face, he would have smiled at the incredulous look the trainer gave as they glided above the brook's surface.

The bright green dot that they had been following was now stationary and they were drawing closer to it. The pine forest had given way again to deciduous trees, their long, bare branches reaching out over the water. Suddenly there was a slight movement ahead and Gordon looked up. Above them, perched on a thick, gnarled branch that hung over the water was the tiger, her white fur contrasting sharply with the darkened wood.

But before Gordon could slow down to take stock of the situation, the hoverbike had glided beneath the branch. Gregor pulled frantically on his arm, shouting something that the helmeted aquanaut could barely hear, much less understand. Then the back of their conveyance dipped sharply into the creek, accompanied by a splash. The contact with the water stalled the antigravity impellers and Gordon was unceremoniously dumped into the shallow stream as the hoverbike capsized. He rose up from the cold brook on his bruised and scraped hands and knees, lifting the visor of his helmet to sputter out both water and a curse. A shrill scream split the air and, startled, he turned over... to find himself staring across the darkening day into the gleaming yellow eyes of the white tiger.