Of Tigers and Termites

"Alan?' Gordon strove to keep his voice steady as he faced Misha. "Can you hear me? I have a problem..."

"Uh, Omicron, you're supposed to use my code name..." Alan began.

"Dammit, Alan! I don't have time for code names!" his brother muttered savagely.

"Well, you don't have to get snarky about it," the space monitor huffed. "What's your problem, Gordon?"

"Oh, I'm just sitting on my hands in a cold creek with my hoverbike out of commission, staring at a white tiger," came the sarcastic reply.

"This is no time for joking, Gordon," Alan shot back.

There was a pause, then Gordon said in a very quiet and deadly voice, "Who said I was joking, Alan?"

"You're staring at a white... oh my God." Comprehension dawned pale on Alan's face, and he was glad that the new heads up visors weren't yet available. "I'll patch you through to Scott." He flipped a switch that put him in tricircuit contact with both Gordon and Scott at Mobile control. After a moment's thought, he patched in his father at base.

"Mobile Control and Base from Thunderbird Five, we have a code red. I repeat, we have a code red."

At base, Jeff's head snapped around to Alan's picture at his youngest son's words. The new situational code designations had been created by Jeff and Scott as they wrestled over the terminology that IR would need to mask its movements and operations. They were an offshoot of the code names suggested by Lou in her file on security issues. He got up slowly from his chair and turned the volume up on the talkback, ready to intervene if and when necessary.

"Mobile Control to Thunderbird Five," Scott called, his blood turning to ice when he heard the "code red" designation. It meant that an operative was in immediate, deadly danger. "What's happening... Lamda?"

Alan winced at his code name. They had all pulled the Greek letters out of a hat, with Eleanor pulling a name out for him. He had ended up with Lamda, which caused his brothers to snicker. "Omicron reports that his hoverbike is out of commission and he's staring the tiger in the face. I've patched you in on tricircuit. Base is also patched in."

"Damn!" Scott pressed a button on the Mobile Control unit and waved one of the ringmasters, named Georgio, over. "Omicron! Report!"

"We found the tiger on a branch over a stream. I was using the hoverbike on the water, and when we passed under the branch, something heavy hit the back of the bike and it dipped in the water. The impellers fouled and I was dumped. When the bike dipped, there was a splash, and when the bike dumped me, a scream. I don't see Gregor anywhere," Gordon's report, delivered in a soft, terse tone told both Jeff and Scott that he was trying hard to keep his fear under control.

Giorgio listened to the report and shouted something that Scott didn't understand to the knot of curious people who were gathering around Mobile Control. Immediately, some of the crowd went running off, calling the word "Margot!" as they took off in different directions. Georgio turned back to Scott. "They are looking for Misha's trainer. If she is here, she will help. Tell your Omicron that he must not turn his back on Misha."

"Omicron," Scott said, keeping his eyes on Georgio. "Whatever you do, don't turn your back on the tiger. Where's your trank rifle?"

"In the drink," Gordon replied succinctly. "Uh, she's staring back at me. What do I do?"

Just then, a tall woman, her dark hair pulled back in a long French braid, came running up with one of the roustabouts. "What is ze problem?" she asked, her accent nearly as thickly French as the novice the boys had met in Haiti.

Georgio outlined the problem to Margot, and Scott offered her the microphone. "You must distract my Misha," she said. "Take her focus from you. Zen move quickly, but do not turn your back to her."

"F-A-B," Gordon replied. His hand fished in the cold water for a palm-sized stone. Finding one, he counted quickly to three, and flung it up and beyond the tiger. Even in the twilight, he could see the beast startle as the stone splashed in the creek behind her. Her attention on him wavered, and like a shot, Gordon was on his feet and moving toward a sandy embankment, his face toward the tiger at all times. He cursed as he tripped over something soft lying on the sand, then stopped as he realized it was Gregor. The man was lying face down, moaning softly, and when the aquanaut bent to check on him, his hand came away wet with something warm and sticky.

"Mobile Control from Omicron," Gordon called softly. "I've found Gregor. He's barely conscious and bleeding from cuts on his back." He hoisted the senseless man up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, then looked up to check on the tiger's whereabouts. "Uh-oh."

"Omicron from Mobile Control," Scott called sharply. "Status!"

"I can't see the tiger anymore."

Jim Franks sat back in his computer chair and ran a hand through his blond hair. When he arrived at the private cay, he strutted off the helijet as if he owned it, only to find himself the target of a small squadron of private guards. He assessed the situation, his sharp blue eyes darting back and forth, probing for a weakness. He realized he was severely outnumbered, and that even using Señor Ramirez as a human shield and hostage wouldn't stop him from getting killed should he try to brazen it out. So he gave up his gun with a wry smile, and allowed himself to be frisked. He was hustled into the sprawling hacienda, shoved into a comfortable room, and locked in. The locking mechanism was sophisticated and Franks decided it would be too much work to try and pick it. Besides, he mused, I'm sure to be under surveillance.

Several hours had passed before Señor Ramirez returned... with company: two big brutes, both conspicuously armed, and a tiny, wizened black man who carried a thick briefcase.

"So. When do I get to meet His Excellency?" Franks asked as he lounged indolently on the bed, hands behind his head.

"When you have verified the disk you brought," Ramirez said smoothly. "You were the one who said it should be done. Jorge here will set up a computer station for you. Your laptop will suffice as the interface."

"Be my guest," Franks replied, waving a hand toward the desk that sat in the room. Ramirez nodded at Jorge, who moved in and began to work. An hour later, the computer expert pulled out Liv's laptop and hooked it up to the station he had just created.

"You'll 'ave internet access," he said in a strong Jamaican accent. "I got passwords to some government sites... use 'em carefully. Virus filters are active. Got question? Call." He waved one hand sharply as he collected up his tools, never looking at Franks, or anyone. Having finished putting his tools back in place, he irritably pushed the bodyguards aside and left the room.

Franks sat up, having watched the old man work while lying down on the bed. "So, Ramirez. Has payment been made for fulfilling my part of the deal? I did bring the disk."

Ramirez smiled, showing a gold incisor. "You brought us a disk, Franks. Only when we are satisfied that this is the disk will you get paid."

Franks returned the smile. "How will you know if it is? After all, I'm going to be the one verifying it."

The secretary sauntered over to the laptop and caressed its cover. "Because what Jorge forgot to mention is that there's been a little program added. A keystroke catcher that will keep track of every move you make and record it. So we can follow up with our own people."

"Clever. And it will give you access to the places I have access to as well," the mercenary observed, preparing to rise from the bed. "Win-win for you."

"And for you, should the disk prove to be genuine. There may be a permanent, ah, position on His Excellency's staff available to you if all is as it should be."

"And if it isn't?"

Ramirez's face became impassive, and his eyes took on a calculating gleam. "That is still to be decided."

Franks put his hands on his thighs and pushed down as he stood. "Well, then. I have my work cut out for me, don't I? Can I get something to fortify myself while I travel through cyberspace?"

"Of course. I will have a meal sent up. Good luck, Mr. Franks. I feel you may need it." And with that, Ramirez left.

That was six days and several meals ago. He began with the two identikit sketches. I'm sure that International Rescue, being the holier-than-thou organization that it is, isn't going to use convicts for their operation. Still, I'm sure that to fly those Thunderbirds, they've got to have some extraordinarily skilled pilots. That means the military. He smiled to himself. Looks like Jorge has the passwords I need. Time to run a search. We'll start with the World Air Force.

The search took a good eight hours, and came up with not one, but a dozen possibilities per picture. Franks frowned and shook his head. I know identikit pictures are bad, but I didn't think they were this bad. Let's try another, national-level air corps and see what we get.

When his next four searches turned up the same sort of results, Franks sat back and scratched the back of his neck. This can't be coincidence. I'm beginning to think that Lucinda did mess with the disk. I can't be sure though. I need to do a bit more searching. Maybe those fingerprints will be of more use.

So he began a search to identify the three fingerprints that he found on the disk. It took a long time to track them down at first; none of them were in the most obvious places that he could access. Finally, he was forced to use his last resort, hacking into the Interpol database itself. It was difficult; all of his passwords had been long ago disabled and would set off alarms should he try to use them. Instead, he tried to remember the names and backgrounds of some of his former fellow agents, then guess at what their passwords might be. It was a day and a half until he got lucky and got in. Immediately, he pulled up the first of the fingerprints and did a search. There was no match found. He shook his head. If Lucinda faked this, she would have used what she had in her own files. And those should be here somewhere...

The second print turned up a match, but Franks frowned. This guy is dead! Not only that, he's been dead for three years! Lessee, did Lucinda work this case? I don't see... wait... no, she didn't. Or at least she's not listed as having done so. She could have compiled the notes though. Ah! Yes! There are her initials. You are one crafty old bitch, Luci. Let's see if the third fingerprint is here.

The third and final fingerprint turned out to be as difficult as the first, but it did match one in the data file. No note that this guy is dead, but could he possibly be with IR? He just some old nobody geezer. I might have to run his name through the obituaries. Damn, but you've made this hard, Luce.

His search of the obituaries near the old man's home turned up nothing, so he had to extend his search until, at last, he found what he was looking for: a notice of the man's death and burial. Then he went back to pull up the file with the first fingerprint. He had downloaded it from the disk to the laptop's hard drive. He knew it was being accessed remotely by Ramirez's people as they followed him around; he had heard the drive's whisper-soft motion when he hadn't been doing anything with keyboard or mouse.

There was a warning beep as he tried to open the file. A moment later, an error message flashed on his screen: File Not Found. "What the hell?" he muttered as he tried to open the file again. And again, he got an error message. It was at this point that he sat back and ran a hand through his hair. He said aloud to no one in particular, "Ramirez? We've got a problem."

"Keep looking around! Look up!" Margot called into the mike. "Do not let your guard down!"

"Easy to say, but not to do," Gordon muttered. "I still have to care for Gregor here. He's got some deep scratches on his back, mostly likely from Misha's claws." He scuttled sideways up the bank to a grassy area and gently laid Gregor down on one side. "I've got him up and out of the creek. Any ideas?"

Scott looked up at Giorgio. "Why did you tell me to send Gregor and not Margot? He is a trainer and has worked with Misha before, hasn't he?"

"Idiot Gregor!" Margot spat in French. "He is trainer, oui, mais des lions, pas des tigres! Il y a beaucoup des différences." She stopped and took a deep breath, then turned a rueful face to Scott. "Misha does not like him."

Giorgio spread his hands in apology. "There was no time to find Margot and he was here..."

Scott sighed. "What's done is done." He was about to speak into his microphone when Jeff's bass tones sounded out.

"Omicron from base. You have infrared goggles?"

"Uh, yes, Commander," Gordon reached into a pouch on his belt and extracted the goggles. He took off his helmet, laying it aside, and slid the goggles on over his head. "I have them on, Commander."

"Good. You'll be able to see the tiger clearly now." Jeff stopped to confer with Brains for a moment. "Fetch your hoverbike and see if you can get it working. Rho says it should be possible. If not, you should have a medikit..."

"F-A-B!" Gordon said, relieved.

"But be quick about it!" Scott added. "Misha's trainer says that tigers like to isolate their prey."

"Omicron from Thunderbird Five!" Alan called out. "I have a fix on your position and the tiger's. She's about ten meters north north-east from you."

Gordon turned to gaze across the stream. With the infrared lenses, he could see the heat signature of the tiger pacing on the bank opposite him... directly in line with the hoverbike. "I see her. She's across the stream from me. I'm making a run for the bike now."

"Do not run!" Margot cried out. "Move slowly and keep your face to her at all times."

He took a deep breath and mentally ordered himself to relax. "F-A-B," he murmured as he stepped back into the water.

"Margot, would the stream deter Misha at all?" Scott asked.

The tiger trainer shook her head, her braid whipping around like a cat's tail. "Non. Tigers love water."

Scott let out a pent-up breath. "Did you get that, Omicron?"

"Yes, though I already knew it," came the terse reply. "She was standing in the creek when we had our little stare down." He stepped slowly towards the hoverbike, feeling the cold current tugging at his legs and sloshing into his leather boots. There was nothing outside of the sound of the water and the darkness, nothing but his goal and the amorphous infrared shape of Misha still pacing on the opposite bank. He tripped, barking his shin on a rock, one he was certain hadn't been there before. He swore as he reached out to catch himself with one hand, and nearly jumped when his hand closed on the barrel of a gun.

"Mobile Control from Omicron. I've found Gregor's gun and it seems to be dry and functional. Instructions?"

"Mobile Control from Base," Jeff cut in. "He's not going to be able to get the trainer out of there without sedating that tiger."

Scott, unused to hearing two voices overlapping in one ear, shook his head and said, "One at a time please! Omicron, you have a trank rifle?"

"Affirmative."

"Commander, you think he'll need to tranquilize the tiger before he can get out of there?"

"Affirmative."

He looked up at Margot. "I asked the other trainers, now I'm asking you: how much of our tranquilizer will it take to knock out Misha?"

Margot turned to Georgio and to another one of the trainers and they went back and forth in a polyglot of tongues that gave Alan, who was listening in ready to translate, a headache. Finally, Margot came back to Scott. "I understand zat ze drug you use is most potent. I gave her food twelve hours ago. Zat will affect her and make it harder to drug her. I should say... two darts."

"Omicron from Mobile Control. You've got to shoot her twice to knock her out."

"F-A-B."

Scott paused as a roustabout came running up to Georgio, speaking urgently. The ringmaster listened for a moment, then turned to the man from IR with a relieved smile. "Our equipment is on its way to your operative. If you could please provide coordinates?"

"Mobile Control to Thunderbird Five, I need coordinates for Omicron's position."

"F-A-B!"

As Scott coordinated things at the Danger Zone, Gordon finally made his way to the hoverbike. He wrestled it upright, splitting his concentration between the tiger on the bank and the machine in his hands.

Scott's voice sounded in his ear. "The circus people are on their way. They have the tiger's real trainer with them. They'll be at your position within the hour."

"F-A-B," Gordon grunted out as he dragged the heavy bike back toward the shore he had left. He glanced up to see that Misha had suddenly gone still and was watching him intently.

Uh-oh. Well, I guess it's time to use this. He let go the handlebars of the bike, and brought out the rifle, breaking it open to see that it was loaded. It was. Closing the rifle, he sighted the tiger through the scope, the magnifying effect bringing the hot infrared image closer. He aimed for the animal's right shoulder, took a deep breath and let it out slowly while he pulled the trigger. There was a whizz and a meaty thunk. "That's one," he whispered.

Misha jumped a bit and snarled as the dart hit right were Gordon wanted. He didn't lower the rifle. Instead, he waited for the big cat to settle a bit before taking a second shot. But the agitated tiger began to pace again, giving him a moving target. He kept her in the rifle's sight, and waited. She kept glancing over at him as she paced, as if keeping track of where he was and what he was doing. Finally, he felt he had the rhythm of her movements down and he fired again, aiming for her left hind quarter as she turned and presented it to him. His patience was rewarded as he pulled the trigger and the dart struck her right where he had planned. He murmured, "And that's two."

His mission accomplished, Gordon slung the rifle back over his shoulder, then grabbed the handlebars of his hoverbike again and dragged it backwards to the sandy embankment. As he did, he reported in to Scott. "Mobile Control from Omicron. I've shot the tiger and am bringing the hoverbike to shore." He glanced up at the tiger again. She had given up pacing and was now lying on the ground, looking for all the world like some giant white tabby about to take a nap. She yawned, showing off her long, fierce teeth, then she lay on her side and didn't move again.

Gordon nodded, pleased with his handiwork. He got his transport to the shore then dug into its storage compartment, pulling out the emergency medikit so he could treat Gregor.

"What do you mean, we have a problem?" Ramirez asked bluntly as he entered Franks' room.

"Have your people tried to access the files that were downloaded from that disk?"

"I do not know. I am not overseeing that project. Why do you ask?"

"Watch this." As Ramirez watched over his shoulder, Franks clicked on the name of the file he had tried to access earlier. The File Not Found error message flashed, just as it had before. "This is what I've gotten for every one of the files I downloaded from that disk. And I'm sure that it's what your people are getting, too."

"And what exactly is the significance of this?" Ramirez asked, stepping back and folding his arms.

"I'm no computer expert, but offhand, I'd say you've got termites."

"Termites?" sputtered Ramirez. "But how?"

"Knowing the cat woman as I do, I'd say that the she got someone to build her one that would attack anything that has to do with International Rescue." Franks shrugged. "She's arrested enough hackers in her career. Probably paid one of them for it."

"And this is loose in our system?" Ramirez shot back.

Franks merely nodded.

The secretary began to curse, loudly, long, and in both Spanish and Portuguese. Finally, he wound down enough to hiss, "I must tell His Excellency." He rushed from the room and slammed the door behind him.

Franks counted to five, then got up and tried the door. In his haste, Ramirez neglected to lock it behind him. This brought a smile to Franks's face. He slipped into his shoes. "Time for a walkabout," he murmured as he checked the corridor, then stepped out, closing the door carefully behind him.