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				EXPOSURE by Fran Lavery Chapter Two       Arriving at the scene of the reported explosion, Scott was shocked by what he saw. For one explosion, the amount of fire was overwhelming. It was already engulfing the huge three storey house, when it had occurred barely half an hour ago, and had ignited the large grass covered gardens and grounds surrounding it, making it so hard for the fire brigade to handle the situation alone. All they were able to do was to contain the fire, stopping other houses catching alight, but they couldn't extinguish it, get too close to it, and they still didn't know if anyone was inside. Scott touched down a short distance from the heart-stopping site, and was greeted by the chief of police in a jeep, who helped Scott with his mobile control equipment.       "Thank goodness you're here!" the chief, an older man with grey-black hair and large features signalled to some guards to patrol Thunderbird One as he spoke. "With the weather being as it is, this was the worst time for us to get such a fire!" Scott looked up at the cloudless sky and searing sun, and could well believe what he said. They set of at break-neck speed in the jeep towards the flames.       "Who lived in the house in question?" Scott asked him.       "No-one," replied the chief. "This house was a bit of a grand old wreck. No-one had lived in it for years. That's what we can't figure, accidents are rare in unoccupied buildings."       "Now listen," Scott told the chief, "we don't want to tread on anyone's toes, but we're gonna need total co-operation from your men, and our instructions followed to the letter if we're gonna get into that house safely."       "You can count on it, sir," the second man agreed readily. "We've already taken care of what you said on the radio about cameras and reporters. We've coned the whole neighbourhood off, and every available man from my precinct is patrolling, after what you told us about the lengths people have gone to in the past." Scott relaxed slightly. He was clearly with a responsible and sensible man, as many with authority were, but not all. He could know that at least all efforts were being made to protect the Thunderbirds' secrets while they were here.       As the house came into view again, Scott saw that the site was chaos. Because every man was either fighting the fire or patrolling the neighbourhood, nobody was on hand to protect the people from their own panic. The fire had felled a nearby telephone pole, and without communication, injured people had no-one qualified to attend to their wounds. Others were running from nearby houses screaming, or coming from across the neighbourhood to watch the fire-fighters, or trying to help and getting in the way, even the children were playing dare to see who would go closest to the flames. Someone was going to get really badly hurt at this rate, so Scott called the jeep to a halt beside the fire-fighters and climbed onto the bonnet with a megaphone.       "Attention, Attention!" The megaphone was one of Brains' pieces of genius, and it carried Scott's voice further and clearer than any other could. Screams and cries were silenced with his words. "Attention everyone, I am a member of International Rescue. No, please, can I have quiet, because if we are to be successful in eradicating this fire with minimum injury you must all listen extremely carefully to what I say. Any injured folk make their way to this jeep, where the chief will escort you to the shadow of my craft and take your names and addresses. Medical help will be available.       "Everyone else, and I mean everyone, must return to their homes and stay in them. Even people with houses close to this one have nothing to worry about while the fire-brigade is here. They can't extinguish it, but they can control it. Be sure that your entire family is there. The chief will come to different houses taking the names of the missing and informing the families of the injured as to their safety. Please folks, be careful and calm whilst doing this. You have nothing to worry now that International Rescue are here, but we need your co-operation."       His final words seemed to reassure the people enough, and they all did as were instructed. By the time Virgil arrived, Scott had been able to figure out a plan.       "Ok, Virg, Gordon, here it is. We use the Firefly to get ourselves up that garden in one piece and to the door. Then we use the dicetylene guns from the inside to double the efforts of the fire-fighters. That should be enough. There are three floors, so I'll get myself to the attic, Virg, you take the middle, and Gordon, the bottom."       "But Scott," Virgil queried mildly, "why are you going all the way up to the top? The attic is hardly on fire at all in comparison, so what's the risk worth. If the stairs are timber they could give way at any minute, and it'll be full of fumes."       "Just trust me Virgil," Scott insisted. "We don't want that attic catching any more than now. If we get the fire out downstairs, but the attic catches and the stairs collapse, as you mentioned, it'll just keep setting the lower floors alight again, and we won't be able to stop it cos we won't be able to reach it."       "Ok, Scott," said Virgil, convinced, "let's do it."       Thirty-five minutes later, Scott and Virgil sat, exhausted in the smoke-filled attic in their oxygen masks and temperature suits.       "Well," drawled Scott, breathlessly, "that was exactly what I felt like doing on my birthday!"       "But what more could you want for your birthday than a house-of-death, Scott?" Virgil demanded in a dramatic, eerie voice. "You're just no fun, that's your problem!"       Scott sighed, remembering the details of the ordeal. The attic had been half on fire anyway, by the time he had wrestled and clambered his way up to it. His knee was really aching from being smacked down to the floor so often, whenever he put his foot through the flaming stairs. But, thanks to Brains' dicetylene, the substance he had advised after seeing the house, the fire itself had been comparatively easy work. Together, ten minutes had been enough to quell the flames, and the cheer of the fire brigade had been quite audible through the smoking walls, telling them that the inferno was finished.       Gordon then sauntered into the room, and Scott wondered idly how Gordon could radiate attitude and blasé-ness even from under that great temperature suit.       "So! Too much for my brothers, was it?" Gordon peered at the slouched figures through his visor. "You're both getting too old for this sort of thing, obviously! I mean, none of us are getting any younger, are we Scott?"       "Just make yourself useful and open the windows," Scott grinned. "You'll be much easier to hit if I can actually see you."       Chuckling, Gordon disappeared into the rising fumes, over to the other side of the room where there were some windows separated by a large, scorched wardrobe. After swinging them open as far as they would go, Gordon started playing with the wardrobe drawers idly. Then, as he opened the large doors, he saw something that made him freeze with shock.       There was an unconscious child curled up in the bottom of the wardrobe, his rigid hands in front of his face in an attempt to block out the fumes, his eyes scrunched shut. Gordon dropped to his knees, making quite a bang on the floor in his haste to attend to the child. It was enough to make Scott and Virgil curious. "Gordon?" Virgil ventured.       "Get over here fast you guys," Gordon's voice was now urgent and tight as he removed an oxygen capsule from his belt and broke it under the little boy's nose. "You need to see this."       Upon seeing the child, a boy no older than five, he was sure, Scott took a deep breath and removed his oxygen mask, clamping it over his face in order to keep the reactions that Gordon had started with the oxygen capsule going. Sure enough, his breathing deepened slowly, and after a minute Scott and Virgil swapped the mask on his face so that Scott could get his own breath back.       "I'll go downstairs and find that chief, ask him if anyone's missing a son," said Gordon.       "I-I-I'm afraid that w-won't do any good though," said a familiar voice at the door. They turned to see Brains through the thinning fumes, who had been tending to the injured while the brothers fought the fire. "Y-you see, the chief met me w-with good news j-j-just a minute ago; no-one is missing. Every man, woman a-and child in this a-area is either at home or a-accounted for in the i-i-injury toll." Even though this was wonderful news, a perfect job for International Rescue, Brains' voice sounded troubled.       "Well, shouldn't we tell the cops what we've found anyway, Brains?" Scott couldn't see Brains' point. "I mean, we've finished now. This sort of thing is their job."       "T-this sort of thing i-is not a job for the regular police, if I-I'm not mistaken." You see, I-I've read about this s-s-sort of s-situation. Normal building, cafes, civilian homes, schools, b-bike sheds even, being destroyed for no a-a-apparent reason. I was trying to see if this situation was going to be the same, and now, with the e-evidence before all of us, I see it is."       The brothers were all bewildered as to what Brains was talking about and, sensing their confusion, he continued explaining.       "You see, things l-l-like this happen for o-only two reasons. One is by a-a-accident. The other is m-murder, dressed up to look like a-accident. We see the latter now. I a-am convinced that o-o-only an e-explosion akin to the sabotage a-at the Hudson Building w-w-we once fought, could cause what w-w-we fought today, b-but it is possib-ble that it could be mistaken as a boiler explosion to some, especially in a house such as this. I-I, however, a-am not convinced…"       "You mean, someone tried to kill this little boy?" Virgil could now breathe without the mask on the child's face, and looked totally confused and distressed as he interrupted Brains in shock. "Who would do something like that? And why?"       "Ah, a dete-tective's questions indeed, V-Virgil. We however, as Scott pointed out, a-a-are not detectives. I suggest that we remove this b-boy to Thunderbird Two, and then call your father and ask his opinion. It is very p-possibly that he could be in very serious d-danger if his murderers know that he i-is alive, so we must be very careful not to let a-anyone see us. W-We will transport him to T-Thunderbird in the Firefly, out of sight, and then radio your father. Through I-International Rescue, he knows people in high p-places in the government. P-P-People who will be able to p-protect this child until his e-enemies are captured."       In Thunderbird Two, the burned and soot-covered little boy began to recover consciousness while Brains spoke on the radio and Virgil reloaded the pod. Scott and Gordon helped him to sit up on the passenger couch and offered him a bottle of water, asking him if he was alright. He did not accept it though. He was looking at each of them in turn, and all around him in a quick and agitated fashion that certainly backed up Brains' theory. It was obvious that he was utterly terrified of the strangers, and he eventually covered his tearful eyes with his hands to avoid looking at them.       "Hey, don't worry," Scott spoke in a soft, reassuring voice, crouching in front of him. "We won't hurt you, we're International Rescue." At this, the little boy peeked slowly between his fingers and examined Scott closely. Suddenly, he spotted the stretched hand insignia on Scott's blue sash, and pointed to it in silent excitement.       "Yeah, that's right," Scott continued. "We're here to help you. We got you out of that fire. How did you … wait, first things first. What's your name?"       The boy didn't look scared this time, but uncomfortable and troubled. Then he took his hand and started touching his palm against his lips.       "What's he doing?" asked Gordon. "Why doesn't he answer?"       "I don't think he can," replied Scott, slowly realising the boy's predicament. I think he's dumb."       "For real? Wow. That would explain his behaviour. I was just thinking that he's awful quiet for a little kid, even a frightened one. How can he answer us, then, if he can't talk? He looks too young to be able to write very well."       "Maybe he knows Makaton, y' know, kiddie sign-language…" Scott had barely said the words when the little boy had grabbed his hand and nodded insistently. Then he did something which, to Gordon, looked like a wavy salute followed by a period of fancy hand-clapping.       "What?" he asked Scott, who had been watching the boy intently. "What did he say?"       "He said," smiled Scott, "that his name is Matthew." On to Chapter Three.