Thunderbird 7
Thunderbird 7 – Time Travelling Rescues
Thunderbird 7: The Time Rescue Chronicles
Episode One – The Time Storm
The skies above Tracy Island glowed an unnatural green. Even John, aboard Thunderbird 5, had never seen anything like it. The space station’s sensors screamed with strange frequencies, broadcasting a message that made no sense at all.
“Father,” John’s voice crackled urgently over the comm, “I’m picking up a distress signal—but the source is impossible. The Titanic.”
Jeff Tracy leaned forward at the command desk, his expression grim. “John… that ship sank in 1912.”
“That’s what I mean,” John replied. “The signal isn’t just coming from another place—it’s coming from another time.”
All eyes turned to Brains. He swallowed nervously and pushed his glasses up his nose.
“I—I think this is exactly what I built Thunderbird 7 for.”
The hangar doors rumbled open, revealing the gleaming, midnight-blue craft. Sleek and arrow-shaped, its body was surrounded by glowing chronorings that hummed like a thousand clocks ticking at once. Etched along its hull: Thunderbird 7.
Alan Tracy’s grin was as wide as the launch bay.
“About time she had her first flight. Literally.”
Jeff’s hand slammed down on the launch button. “Alan—you’ve got the controls. Brains, monitor him every second. International Rescue is going… into history.”
The Launch
Engines roared, the chronorings spun faster, and Thunderbird 7 shot from its silo like a bolt of blue lightning. Fire licked the cliffs of Tracy Island as the craft climbed into the upper atmosphere, then with a blinding flash, it vanished—straight into the time storm.
Inside the cockpit, Alan gritted his teeth as the controls shuddered. Colors swirled outside the windows: reds, golds, deep purples, whole centuries whipping past in a kaleidoscope blur.
“Hold her steady,” Brains urged over the intercom. “Remember—the chronosphere has to lock on a time coordinate or you’ll be pulled apart between centuries.”
Alan laughed shakily. “Great pep talk, Brains.”
Then, with a final lurch, the storm spat Thunderbird 7 out into calm skies. Alan’s eyes widened. Below him, in the North Atlantic, loomed a glittering ocean liner—proud, enormous, and steaming ahead on a moonlit night. Painted across her bow: RMS Titanic.
The Titanic Disaster
The ship was already in chaos. Passengers screamed as the great hull scraped along the iceberg, tearing steel like paper. Lifeboats dangled half-filled from davits. Spotlights flashed desperately into the icy sea.
Alan swallowed hard. “John, I’ve got visual. It’s real. This is April 14th, 1912. The Titanic is going down.”
“Then get to work,” came Jeff’s voice, taut with urgency. “Lives depend on it.”
Alan activated the rescue systems. Panels slid open, releasing searchlights, hover-drones, and a folding rescue platform. The chronorings glowed brighter, stabilising against the time currents as Thunderbird 7 descended toward the doomed ship.
Passengers looked up, gasping at the strange craft blazing through the sky. To them, it was an angel of salvation—an angel of the future.
“Attention, Titanic!” Alan called through amplified speakers. “This is International Rescue. Follow instructions and remain calm—we’re here to save you!”
The Time Riptide
But the storm wasn’t finished. The sea below began to churn, glowing green. The iceberg shimmered as if caught between moments. Alarms screamed in Thunderbird 7.
“Alan!” Brains’ voice cracked with panic. “The chronosphere’s destabilising—the riptide is dragging you toward the fracture point!”
Alan pulled back hard on the controls, but the vortex was relentless. Outside, time itself seemed to split: the Titanic flickered, half in shadow, half in flame. Passengers were frozen mid-motion, trapped between seconds.
The chronorings around Thunderbird 7 sparked violently. Panels blew out, showers of sparks filling the cockpit. Alan’s harness jolted tight as the craft tilted nose-down toward the icy black sea.
“Thunderbird 7 to base!” Alan shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar. “I can’t hold her! We’re going down—straight into the collision point!”
The last thing he saw was the great hull of the Titanic splitting open as Thunderbird 7 plunged into the vortex.
To Be Continued in Episode Two: “Fire Over London”
Thunderbird 7: The Time Rescue Chronicles
Episode Two – Fire Over London
The world spun sideways. Alan Tracy was thrown against his harness as Thunderbird 7 tumbled through the riptide. Colors fractured into shards of fire and smoke, centuries tearing past in a whirlpool of time.
Then — with a deafening boom — the storm spat the craft back into the world.
Alan gasped for breath, his eyes adjusting to the sight outside the cockpit. He was low over a sprawling city of timbered houses and narrow streets. But the city wasn’t calm. It was ablaze.
Orange flames leapt from roof to roof, black smoke coiled into the sky. Bells clanged frantically in church towers. Below, people screamed, fleeing as entire districts collapsed into glowing ash.
Alan’s jaw dropped.
“London. But… it looks like…”
John’s voice came through, faint and static-filled. “Alan, telemetry confirms it. You’re in September, 1666. You’ve landed right in the middle of the Great Fire of London.”
The Firestorm
Flames crackled across the cockpit glass. Thunderbird 7’s chronorings spun wildly, struggling to stabilise against the roaring inferno. Heat alarms screamed.
“Alan!” Brains’ voice cut in. “You’ve got less than six minutes before the fire overloads the temporal stabilisers. If Thunderbird 7 burns here, you’ll never make it back to the present!”
“Copy that,” Alan muttered, gripping the controls. “No pressure.”
He swooped the craft lower, extending the rescue platform. The sight was heartbreaking: families huddled at the banks of the Thames, hemmed in by collapsing houses. A warehouse roof caved in, trapping a dozen people inside.
Alan triggered the hover-drones. Sleek silver pods dropped from Thunderbird 7, beaming searchlights through the smoke. They sliced through falling timbers, lifting survivors clear.
“International Rescue to civilians!” Alan called over the loudspeaker. “Follow the drones to safety—quickly!”
Men and women gaped upward at the futuristic voice booming through the flames. To them, Thunderbird 7 was a vision, a flaming chariot from heaven itself. They obeyed without hesitation.
The Collapse
Suddenly, a blast shook the city. A storehouse full of gunpowder ignited, sending a shockwave across the rooftops. The fire leapt higher, feeding hungrily.
Thunderbird 7 lurched violently, slammed by the concussive force. Warning lights blazed red.
“Alan!” Brains yelled. “Your stabilisers are at critical! If they fail, the time storm will tear the craft apart!”
Alan gritted his teeth, steering hard to keep Thunderbird 7 level. But the firestorm was merciless. The heat shimmered, bending reality itself. The chronorings began to fracture, glowing white-hot as if seconds themselves were catching fire.
The warehouse roof gave way completely. Flames engulfed the last trapped survivors. Alan dropped the rescue platform, swinging it dangerously close to the inferno. People scrambled aboard, coughing and sobbing, as collapsing beams missed them by inches.
“Got you,” Alan whispered. “Hang on tight.”
The Final Seconds
The chronosphere pulsed. Time itself was breaking. The cockpit flooded with arcs of lightning, sparks leaping across the panels. Alan’s voice echoed back at him in strange distortion, as though he were already speaking from the future.
“Thunderbird 7 to base—London’s burning—stabilisers at 3%—I can’t…”
The craft shuddered, nose dipping toward the sea of flame. The chronorings flared one last time, then exploded in blinding light.
Thunderbird 7 plunged straight into the fire.
To Be Continued in Episode Three: “Pharaoh’s Curse”
Thunderbird 7: The Time Rescue Chronicles
Episode Three – Pharaoh’s Curse
The flames of London vanished in an instant. One moment Alan was plunging into fire, the next—silence. His breath came in ragged gasps as Thunderbird 7 hurtled through the roaring kaleidoscope of the time vortex once again.
Then, with a bone-jarring lurch, the craft slammed back into real space.
Alan blinked. Outside stretched endless sand, shimmering under a merciless sun. Towering above the desert stood the half-built shape of a pyramid, its limestone blocks stacked by armies of workers. The air was filled with the sound of chisels, shouting foremen, and the crack of whips.
“Brains…” Alan whispered, awestruck. “You’re not going to believe this.”
Static crackled, then Brains’ voice broke through faintly:
“Alan—you’re in… Ancient Egypt. I estimate… 2500 BC. Careful—you must not alter history!”
Gods From the Sky
As Thunderbird 7 descended, its gleaming blue hull caught the sun. Workers dropped their tools and cried out in terror. Some fell to their knees, bowing in the sand. Others ran to fetch guards.
A robed priest, his face painted with black kohl, pointed up at the craft and shouted:
“Behold! The gods descend upon us!”
Alan groaned. “Great. Just what I need—thousands of years before anyone’s heard of an International Rescue badge.”
He brought Thunderbird 7 down gently on the sand near a collapsed quarry. From the cockpit, he spotted movement—an excavation crew trapped in a stone pit, dozens of workers injured by a cave-in. Dust and cries filled the air.
Alan activated the rescue systems. Drones unfolded and soared from the craft, their beams slicing through boulders to lift survivors free.
The workers looked on in stunned silence. To them, Thunderbird 7 wasn’t a rescue vehicle—it was a divine judgement.
The Pharaoh’s Guard
But awe quickly turned to fear. Armed soldiers on horseback galloped into view, their bronze-tipped spears glinting. They surrounded the pit and pointed skyward at Thunderbird 7.
Alan flipped on the external speakers. “Easy there, fellas. I’m here to help!”
But his words were nonsense to them. The priest raised his arms.
“Capture the chariot of the gods! The Pharaoh must see it!”
Spears clanged against Thunderbird 7’s hull. Soldiers threw ropes, trying to climb aboard. The drones were battered with stones. Inside the cockpit, Alan fought to maintain calm as alarms blared.
“Brains!” he yelled. “I’m under attack! They think Thunderbird 7’s some kind of prize war machine!”
“Alan—do not—repeat, do not—let them breach the craft! If they alter or damage the chronosphere, you could destabilise the entire timeline!”
The Tomb
Alan hit the vertical thrusters. Thunderbird 7 lifted clear of the guards, scattering horses. But as it rose, the chronorings flickered. The stabilisers were weakening again.
Suddenly the craft pitched sideways, slammed by a new time riptide. Alan lost control. Thunderbird 7 crashed nose-first into the desert, skidding to a halt against a rocky hillside. Sand engulfed the cockpit windows.
Alan groaned, dazed. Then he realised where he was. A yawning crack had opened in the rock. Beneath the craft stretched a vast, dark chamber—an untouched tomb, filled with ancient carvings and glittering treasures.
The hieroglyphs on the wall seemed to glow with eerie light. One image caught Alan’s eye: a carving of Thunderbird 7 itself, surrounded by flames and lightning.
His blood ran cold.
“Brains… I think they’ve been expecting us.”
To Be Continued in Episode Four: “The World of Tomorrow”
Thunderbird 7: The Time Rescue Chronicles
Episode Four – The World of Tomorrow
Alan braced himself as Thunderbird 7 shuddered violently, the tomb collapsing around it. Sand poured across the cockpit glass, the glow of the strange hieroglyphs flickering and fading as the chronosphere reactivated.
Then came the familiar wrench—time folding, space twisting.
With a thunderous crack, Thunderbird 7 was hurled forward into the timestream once more.
A Broken Future
When the blinding light faded, Alan found himself staring at a sky unlike any he had ever seen.
Above stretched a jagged, broken horizon of steel. Massive orbital platforms drifted half-ruined across the heavens, their fragments glittering like shattered glass. Below, the Earth was scarred with craters and smoke.
“My God…” Alan whispered. “What happened here?”
Static hissed through the comms before John’s faint voice broke through from Thunderbird 5.
“Alan—coordinates put you in the year… 2140. Telemetry suggests a global catastrophe—an orbital collapse. Survivors… minimal.”
Brains cut in, his voice grim.
“Alan, sensors detect a city falling from orbit. If it crashes, tens of thousands of lives will be lost. Thunderbird 7 must prevent impact.”
Alan swallowed hard. “You’re telling me I’ve got to hold up a city?”
The Falling City
On the horizon, Alan saw it: a floating metropolis, its towers shattered, its engines sputtering fire. Whole districts tore free, plunging toward the Earth. From the windows of skyscrapers, thousands of tiny faces stared down in terror.
Thunderbird 7’s chronorings glowed bright, stabilising against the gravitational chaos. Alan swung the craft beneath the city, extending its magnetic tow-clamps.
“International Rescue to city control!” Alan shouted. “This is Thunderbird 7. I’m locking on—hold tight!”
The clamps latched onto the underside of the city with a shuddering clang. Alarms howled. The weight was unbelievable—like dragging a mountain through the sky.
Alan’s hands shook on the controls. Sweat poured down his brow.
“Come on, girl… hold together…”
Rogue Defenses
But the future held more dangers. Automated defense drones—once guardians of the city—sensed Thunderbird 7’s presence. With their programming corrupted, they saw it as a threat.
A squadron of silver drones detached from the wreckage, their laser cannons glowing. They swooped on Thunderbird 7 like metallic vultures.
“Brains! I’ve got company!” Alan barked.
“Alan—your priority is the city. You cannot disengage. You’ll have to fight them off while towing it!”
Laser fire slammed into Thunderbird 7’s hull, rocking the craft. Alan swung the chronorings, creating ripples in the timestream that bent the drones’ aim—but one blast struck home, searing a stabiliser fin.
The controls juddered violently. Thunderbird 7 lurched sideways, dragging the city with it. Buildings crumbled, entire sections snapped away and plummeted earthward.
Alan’s heart pounded. He couldn’t let them fall.
The Spiral
With a roar of engines, Thunderbird 7 pushed harder. The city’s descent slowed, but the strain was unbearable. Metal shrieked as clamps threatened to tear free.
Then the damaged stabiliser exploded. Thunderbird 7 rolled, spiralling with the city still clamped beneath it. Alan’s vision blurred as alarms screamed from every panel.
“Thunderbird 7 to base—stabiliser gone—losing altitude fast! If I don’t break free now, the whole city’s coming down with me!”
The drone squadron regrouped for another attack, circling like sharks. The Earth loomed closer, the ground rushing up.
Alan pulled back with every ounce of strength. The chronorings overloaded, glowing so bright they filled the cockpit with searing white light.
Then, with a deafening crack, the clamps snapped—hurling Thunderbird 7 and the falling city into the storm below.
To Be Continued in Episode Five: “The Day Time Stopped”
Thunderbird 7: The Time Rescue Chronicles
Episode Five – The Day Time Stopped
The world dissolved into chaos. Alan gritted his teeth as Thunderbird 7 tumbled end over end through a blinding rift of fire and ice. The falling city above twisted and warped, frozen one moment, shattering apart the next.
Time itself was collapsing.
The Final Warning
In the Tracy Island control room, Jeff stood rigid, listening to Brains and John’s panicked reports.
“Father!” John shouted over the comm. “The time riptides are converging. If they collapse, Alan will be trapped outside history forever.”
Brains pushed his glasses up with trembling fingers. “M–Mr Tracy, it’s worse. Someone is controlling the anomalies. Every jump Thunderbird 7 has made—it wasn’t random. Somebody wanted us pulled into these disasters.”
Jeff’s face hardened. “Then who’s behind it?”
Before Brains could answer, Alan’s voice crackled through, heavy with strain:
“Base… I’ve got a lock on their signal. They’re in my present—the moment Thunderbird 7 was launched. If I don’t stop them, International Rescue will never exist.”
The Battle for Time
The chronorings around Thunderbird 7 flared one last time, hurling it out of the vortex. Alan shielded his eyes—then gasped.
He was back over Tracy Island. But not as he knew it.
The launch bay was in flames, guards in black uniforms swarmed across the palm-fringed runway. A towering machine—part satellite, part weapon—rose from the sea, its dish aimed directly at Thunderbird 7.
A cold, metallic voice filled the cockpit.
“International Rescue meddled too long. Erased you shall be. History belongs to us.”
Energy bolts lanced from the weapon, hammering Thunderbird 7. The craft shuddered, sparks raining from the controls.
Alan gritted his teeth. “Not while I’m breathing.”
He swung Thunderbird 7 into a steep dive, weaving through explosions. Hover-drones launched, cutting into the attackers with dazzling beams. One drone was blasted apart instantly. The others held formation, shielding Thunderbird 7 as Alan lined up his shot.
Seconds From Oblivion
“Alan!” Brains shouted. “If you overload the chronosphere at point-blank range, you can collapse their temporal generator—but you’ll trigger a chain reaction. You could be… erased.”
Alan’s fingers hovered over the Chrono-Lever. He thought of his father’s voice. His brothers. Of Brains, watching every dial with wide eyes. Of the thousands Thunderbird 7 had already saved.
And then he thought of those still to come.
“International Rescue doesn’t quit.”
He slammed the lever forward.
The Stop of All Time
The chronorings exploded outward, filling the sky with blazing arcs of energy. Time froze.
Every bird, every wave, every spark of fire on Tracy Island hung motionless. Alan looked out through the cockpit window and saw the impossible—himself, frozen at Thunderbird 7’s launch controls, hand raised in salute.
Then the light consumed everything.
Silence
Jeff Tracy staggered forward in the control room. The screens went black. Brains covered his face. John’s voice broke with static.
Then—like a breath after drowning—Thunderbird 7 reappeared. Scorched, battered, but whole. Alan slumped in the pilot’s chair, grinning weakly.
“Thunderbird 7… returning to base.”
Cheers erupted across the room. Jeff allowed himself a rare smile.
“You did it, son. You saved International Rescue—and time itself.”
Epilogue
Days later, Thunderbird 7 rested in its hangar, its hull scorched but shining. Brains adjusted his glasses, gazing at the machine with pride.
“You realise,” he said softly, “we’ve only scratched the surface of what this craft can do. Time will test us again.”
Alan chuckled, patting the console. “Let it. Thunderbird 7’s ready.”
Above them, the chronorings pulsed once, faint but steady—like the ticking of a clock, waiting for the next call.
The End (for now…)
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 