SOME WARS NEVER END
PART ONE
by
GM
A MAN FROM UNCLE / MAGNUM PI/TOUR OF DUTY/ BIONIC BOSS /HAWAII FIVE-0
-- CROSSOVER --
____________________________________________
Standard disclaimer --
no infringement clause
This is all for fun
____________________________________________
In
the closing days of the Vietnam War;
Solo,
Kuryakin, Magnum, Sergeant Anderson, Lieutenant Goldman and Oscar Goldman
meet for one last, dangerous mission. Can they deliver
justice for Thomas Magnum's father?
Can
they all come out of the war-torn country alive?
MAGNUM PI
CBS
For the benefit of anyone who has
lived in Gilligan's Island for the past two decades -- Thomas Magnum -- a new phrase
had to be invented to describe him. The HUNK in the
Hawaiian shirt, cruising around Hawaii in a red Ferrari, is a PI who lives off
the generosity of the mysterious and rich novelist Robin Masters. Supposedly Masters' security chief for his windward Oahu
mansion, Magnum scrapes together a living doing small PI jobs with the
assistance of his Vietnam vet buddies TC and Rick, and the grudging cooperation
of Jonathan Higgins, the British major-domo of the Masters estate.
Thomas Magnum - Tom Selleck
Rick Wright - Larry Manetti
Jonathan Higgins -- Jonathan
Hillerman
The Man From UNCLE
This incredible series ran on NBC from 1964 -1968. The show set the pace for slick, fun, hip, and intrigue/drama for television spies. Using futuristic technology, The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, an international crime-fighting organization, utilized James Bond-like agents in their quest for world justice. Leo G. Carroll played their irascible leader, Alexander Waverly. Napoleon and Illya, the two highest-ranking Enforcement agents, globe-hopped to exotic locales to romance a new girl of the week and usually battle their archenemies, THRUSH (Technological Hierarchy For The Removal Of Undesirables And The Subjugation Of Humanity). A reunion movie, The Return Of The Man From UNCLE, The Fifteen Years Later Affair, aired on CBS in 1983, with Patrick Macnee as the leader of the UNCLE organization.
Robert Vaughn as Napoleon Solo
David McCallum as Illya Kuryakin
TOUR OF DUTY
CBS 1987 - 1990
A gritty television depiction of the life of infantry soldiers in Vietnam, circa 1965 and beyond. The action centers around the experiences of men in the Bravo Company. The backbone of the unit is a veteran sergeant who has survived several tours -- one-year terms -- in Vietnam. He guides and helps the new West Point officer assigned as their leader. Drama focused on the heartbreak of war and sometimes the heartbreak of surviving.
Sergeant Zeke Anderson -- Terence Knox
Lieutenant Myron Goldman -- Stephen Caffrey
THE SIX MILLION DOLLAR MAN
THE BIONIC WOMAN
NBC
ABC
1973 -
Oscar Goldman is the ubiquitous boss in both shows. Head of the OSI -- Office of Scientific Intelligence -- he funded a cybernetic, or bionic, rebuilding of Steve Austin when the ex-astronaut was seriously injured during a test flight. Steve's fiancée is later seriously injured and becomes the Bionic Woman.
Oscar Goldman -- Richard Anderson
Honolulu
-- APRIL 20, 1975
The phone was already ringing when Dan Williams
opened the door of the Hawaii Five-0 offices. Juggling donuts, keys and a
briefcase, he dumped his burdens onto the nearest desk and snatched up the
phone, already suspecting it was his boss checking up on him.
"Hawaii Five-0, Williams."
"Danny, hi, I know this is early, but is Steve there? I tried him at home, but no answer."
It took a few seconds to place the voice because of the startling displacement of the time and person. Why was Steve’s old friend calling before 8AM on a Thursday morning?
"Napoleon?"
"I didn’t want to appear on your doorstep unannounced this time," the man on the other end admitted. Over the long-distance line the wry tone was clear. "I've learned my lesson."
"I would think so." Dan's agreement was dry. Last time the international spy came to Honolulu he had engaged in some high profile illegal acts and been arrested by McGarrett. The two friends had since patched up the old camaraderie, but the bonds weren’t so reconnected they could take the strain of another spy caper in Steve McGarrett’s home turf. "Steve’s barely forgiven you from the ‘Napoleon of crime’ escapade." ( FanFiction -- Napoleon of Crime -- Man From UNCLE and Hawaii Five-0 websites)
"That’s why I’m knocking on your front door this time. Is Steve around?"
"No, he’s on the Big Island on a case right now. Maybe he’ll be back in time for your arrival. When are you coming in?"
The smile was clear in the tone. "As soon as we get a cab to your office."
Dan shook his head and grinned. These old
friends of Steve’s were something else. "Okay. I’ll have the coffee ready.
See you soon."
*****
McGarrett’s case came to an early close and he returned to Honolulu by lunchtime. Entering his office he was momentarily startled at finding two worn-out spies lounging in his private office. It had been a few years since Napoleon Solo and partner Illya Kuryakin’s disastrous operation where Napoleon operated as a cat burglar to cover-up an espionage case. From personal experience, Steve knew the stress inherent with a career in covert operations. Still, Napoleon and even the smooth Kuryakin seemed wearisome in body and spirit. Drained, was the word that came instantly to mind. As a cop workaholic, he understood the feeling, yet, somehow never expected to see it in one of his oldest friends. The spy game was Solo's life, but right now it looked like a burden.
Once settled, McGarrett brought a mug of coffee over and joined the agents in the corner of the big office. "So, how long are you in town?"
"Tonight." Solo rubbed his eyes. "We're catching a military flight to Saigon about three tomorrow morning."
Hawaii was nabbing a lot of traffic between the mainland and Vietnam. A crossroads of the Pacific, it was the US's major hub in World War II, and again with Vietnam. The UNCLE agents didn't usually make use of US military resources, but since they were going to Vietnam they would probably be involved at some level with the fighting there. McGarrett didn't ask because he didn't need that information. Formerly with Naval Intelligence, he understood the policy of need-to-know. All he was required to understand was that some old friends were in town for a night and for a few hours they could all relax and forget the violence and tension they lived with every day.
"Danny is working on dinner reservations." Illya stretched out, crossing his ankles. "I insisted he find somewhere that will serve that excellent opakapaka at a decent price."
Eyes closed, head leaned back, Napoleon smirked. "Illya is addicted to your native foods. We probably could have changed planes in Guam, but he can't resist a Hawaiian meal."
"Old Russian proverb -- an army lives on its stomach." Kuryakin patted his lean mid-section. Glancing at his partner's recumbent form he took their coffee mugs and volunteered to go for refills. "And I will find out if Danny has been successful."
McGarrett, only partially joking, gave him orders. "My detectives are not tour guides, Illya. Danno has police business to see to, you know."
Kuryakin offered a salute and left the office.
Studying his friend in repose, McGarrett reminisced on their first meeting years before. Korea. Another 'police action' -- 'undeclared war' -- just like Vietnam. A terrible baptism of fire when they learned that no training could possibly prepare them for the horror of war. Solo, older, starting to show a little grey in the dark, neat hair had aged outwardly very well over the decades. Still as fit and immaculate as a rich tennis pro or a Wall Street executive, his sophisticated demeanor no longer disguised the saturated fatigue. On the inside the cynicism and hardness had evolved to become a natural part of his personality. Since he'd seen Napoleon a few years before, the spy had changed. Older, yes, they were all worn from the stresses of their jobs. Solo qualified as wearied -- depleted -- all the way down to his soul.
"Do you ever have premonitions, Steve?"
The quiet question took him off guard, and the pragmatic cop nearly scoffed at the thought. Knowing this was a philosophical, not literal inquiry; he worded his response carefully. "I listen to my instincts -- my hunches -- if that's what you mean."
Sitting up, Napoleon leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at McGarrett. "Why did you leave NI? Really. I know what you told me at the time. That was no better than a press release.” He stared down at the floor. “I didn’t pressure you then. For the truth.” The were were slow, as if forced out. “But now I want to know. It’s important. Please."
Gesturing around the room, the policeman admitted, "I got a better offer." That was not the answer his old friend was looking for. "It was time to get out of intelligence operations. After Korea . . . ."
They both knew what they had shared in Korea and it had scarred them for years. They had reacted differently to the terrors of war. McGarrett left NI to head up Hawaii Five-0. Solo had left NI and escalated his covert activities by joining the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.
Solo stared at some point of infinity outside. "I've been to Vietnam before -- before the heavy fighting started. This time --" he shook his head, his brown eyes dark with hidden phantoms as he stared out the lanai doors at the beautiful Hawaiian sky. "Now I'm old -- for a spy. I'm tired and old and not sure what I'm doing being a spy anymore." Quietly, he elaborated. "I'm not scared. I'm spooked. Maybe that's just semantics -- a way to deny the fear."
Steve's subdued voice communicated his empathy. "Afraid of what?" Solo shrugged. "Death? You face that every day."
Shaking his head, Napoleon shrugged. "Maybe I'm just looking for a reason to keep going."
"I can't give you that. It's something that has to come from inside. If it's not there anymore, maybe you should get out. When I felt that way, I resigned from the Navy. Maybe it’s time for you to move on with life. You've given UNCLE a lot of years. Try something new."
"Maybe that's what I'm afraid of. What else would I do? And how can I let down Illya? He's my partner. I don’t want to lose him -- he's the only family I have."
Steve understood all of that -- how lines could be blurred and the office became your home. The people you worked with so intently, so arduously, became your family. The detectives and staff of Hawaii Five-0 were closer to him than his own flesh and blood relations. And the job -- it had transformed into his life some years ago and he had never regretted it. At some point in the dozen or so years he had headed up the unit, the fight for justice became his foremost interest in life. Just as Napoleon and Illya dedicated their lives to international order and law enforcement, McGarrett pushed away the normal hours, the possibility of a normal family life, for the focus on the work. Steve didn't regret the decision and still in his forties, had plenty of time to find a wife and family if he ever met the right woman. Like his espionage friends, however, he suspected that would never happen. Perhaps, though, Napoleon was reaching a limit. As a soldier in Korea, as a spy, he had seen enough death to last forever. If so, Napoleon had outlived his usefulness as an agent. In his business, that meant his life, and Illya's were at risk.
"What are you going to do?"
Solo rubbed his hands through his thick, dark hair. His chiseled chin clenched in a determined set. "Finish this assignment. Then I'm going to sit down and have a long talk with my partner." He flashed a humorless smile. "Maybe I'll retire to beautiful Hawaii."
"Maybe."
McGarrett's doubt was enough skepticism for
both of them. Solo could no sooner stop being a spy than McGarrett could stop
being a cop.
Vietnam
-- April, 1975
TWO
The Huey skimmed over the matted jungle floor at such a speed the greens and browns of the vegetation, the rice paddies, the villages, sometimes blurred. Captain Myron Goldman moved away from the open door to crouch next to the Naval Intelligence Lieutenant sitting in the co-pilot's seat.
"How good were those two trackers you sent with the spooks?"
The roar of the rotors made normal conversation impossible inside the steel bird. All the men wore headsets to communicate, but Goldman hunched near the Lieutenant for a face-to-face exchange.
"Very good." Thomas Magnum responded with a shout through the headset. "They were Vietnamese. A few of the last die-hards working with us."
"Everyone's running scared," the pilot Calvin, added. "They know we're pulling out and we can't take all of `em with us. It's not healthy for them to be too friendly with the Americans, now."
"Nothing's healthy in `Nam." That was the gunner, Rick Wright cracking another snide remark.
"Amen to that," muttered Army Sergeant Anderson, who was leaning by Wright, next to the door.
Back to business, Goldman spoke to Magnum again. "Well, someone messed up. Your NI team never made their rendezvous. Sending two spooks in after them -- well, it doesn't look good."
"I wanted to be with the ground team." Magnum's reply was bitter. "Someone higher up wants me in Da Nang. But I could still come with you."
The young Captain's sunburned face creased with a grin. "Wouldn't that drowned us in too much alphabet soup? NI, SOG, UNCLE, OSI?"
"NI's my alphabet -- my guys are in trouble down there. I should be in on this."
Goldman gestured toward Anderson, his fellow Special Operations Group member in the jump seat. "We can handle it. Commandwanted the recon low-key."
"Dangerous going into hostile country now," Calvin warned. "You boys be careful. Be a shame to go home without you at this late date."
"Don't worry about us." Goldman shot a brief glance at his colleague. "The Sarge and I promised we'd both leave this lousy country together. Right, Zeke?"
"Right on, Cap. Gonna run fishing boats out of the Northwest."
Goldman laughed and shook his head. "Well, I don't know about that. I just know I'm not going back to New York. Nothin' left for me there."
"I hear that," Anderson concurred. "Same reason I won't be seein' Boise again. Old war horses like us, we can't go back to where we were before the war. No use in tryin'."
"So you're not staying in the Army?" Magnum asked.
Goldman shook his head. "No reason to stay with the war over." Almost too himself, he muttered, "Don't know why I stayed this long."
It was a cliche', a throwaway line spoken by every soldier in Southeast Asia who had reenlisted after his first tour of duty. There were many reasons why men extended their time, their luck, in the war-zone. For most, it was a complex combination of varied rationales: no where to go in the 'real world’, no family commitments, or a compulsion to duty which bade them to pass on their knowledge to others in the hope that more young men would return home alive and well.
For Goldman and Anderson, it was a combination of all those reasons, and one more. Somewhere during their years of service together in the same unit, they had worked themselves into a team. They had saved each other's lives too many times to keep track. They would not leave for safety -- for home -- without the other.
"I'm married," Magnum told them. "Have to stay in the Navy. I need the job."
"You can request Pearl," Wright shouted with a smile. "We'll buy a night club in Waikiki." Wright warmed to his idea. "And TC's gonna run a chopper service for the tourists. Yeah, Hawaii's the place to be. No more cold Chicago winters for me."
Magnum turned his attention back to the mission. "Call if you need back-up. Anything could have happened to my NI team, or the spook team."
"The spooks are UNCLE. They should be good," Anderson supplied.
Magnum shook his head, not accepting the sergeant's confidence. "The spooks didn't belong."
"Yeah." Wright chimed in with an instant agreement. "They might know the back alleys of Istanbul, or something, but they don't belong in `Nam."
The men fell silent as they watched the landscape zoom past. A myriad of memories and impressions scattered through their thoughts as they pondered their past and future in an alien country which had continually rejected their kind. Independently, all came to the same conclusion.
"No one belongs in `Nam," Zeke
Anderson supplied. They fell silent again, all mentally agreeing with that
solemn truth.
d
In the last hour the rain had decreased from a torrential downpour to a light drizzle. Huge jungle plants glistened with scattered droplets on wide, green leaves. The humidity was at steam-bath proportions from the sultry heat and continual precipitation. Two men crouched near a large plant with thick fronds, waiting in silence for the ever-diminishing rain to finally cease. The dark-haired man in jungle camouflage nervously fingered his M-16 as he scrutinized the vine-encroached footpath ahead. The sound of moving leaves had alerted them to danger and they watched in tense anticipation for a sign of the enemy. The slighter man with blond hair was the first to spot the intruder. His mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile as he released a relieved breath.
"There is our sneaky enemy," Illya Kuryakin whispered as he nudged his companion.
A huge cobra slithered from a tree and across the path, ignoring the two Human intruders who had encroached on his world.
Napoleon Solo sighed and rose to his feet, still tense. He carefully scanned the jungle for any sign of more imminent danger, or a trace of something out of place, but he could spot nothing unusual. Nothing abnormal, but the jungle itself was an alien world where they were physically and ethically invaders. The roar of jets broke through the indigenous sounds as a squadron of US NAVY fighters streaked across the sky just under the cloud cover. Solo could catch a glimpse of them through the thick ceiling of trees and thinning clouds. Moments later the ground shook, followed by the sounds of explosions as the bombs hit their assigned targets only a few miles away.
"The fighting is closer today." Kuryakin's observation was off-handed. "We must quicken our pace. We have covered little ground since dawn."
Solo merely shrugged a silent agreement as he unslung the machete from his backpack and started hacking a clearer path along the meager trail.
It was their third day in the jungles along the ever-shifting line of battle between the overpowering North Vietnamese and the retreating American/South Vietnamese forces. Each mile into the treacherous enemy-held country had brought a more sullen mood to Solo's disposition, each near-miss with a Viet Con patrol brought greater tension to the senior agent. Uncharacteristically, his attitude was as dark as the overcast Asian sky. He hated the mission, hated the hot jungle, and only his strong sense of duty and reason overruled the powerful sense of dread which shadowed his conscience on this fearful mission.
The previous morning he had almost quit -- a drastic measure (true evidence of his raw nerves) he would have never considered in normal circumstances. Nothing, however, was normal in Vietnam. Just before yesterday's dawn, Illya had nudged him awake with the unhappy discovery that their two Vietnamese guides were gone along with most of the equipment. Only the gear the UNCLE agents had slept on in their bundled backpacks had been saved.
The disappearance had further unraveled the taut nerves of the usually cool Solo. He would never have voiced it to Kuryakin, but he had a premonition, a hunch, that disaster and ominous tragedy were just around the corner. As if his luck had finally run out. To voice those dreads out loud would earn him only disapproval and denial from the Russian. He had, of course, lived with the possibility of death before. This time, though, he felt the tide of bad luck would very likely spread from himself, to his partner. He found, after all these years of taking risks, that he was more reluctant than ever before to risk the life of his best friend.
The vague feeling of unease had started at
the inception of the mission when they had been pulled from their mission in
The original NI/UNCLE team had infiltrated behind enemy held territory, on the trail of POW's, including the brother of Ted McGill, the UNCLE agent. McGill and Komi were skilled agents, but were also staunch partners. Neither Solo nor Kuryakin had to ask why Komi and McGill had both abandoned their normal duties. Nor did they question the motivations which would force the decision to rescue a brother. The bond between brothers and partners sometimes superceded obligations to duty.
Solo had been to
Personally, for Solo, things had gone wrong
since their arrival in
Their contact in
During the coordination briefings, Solo had come to know Lt. Magnum personally. The young man was no longer just a file history, just another officer. Magnum was a sharp operative with skill, guts, and heart. He wanted his men and himself to leave this God-forsaken country alive. He wanted to start a new life with his Vietnamese wife in the real world. He was a man any father could be proud of. And for the first time in many years, Solo felt the stabbing pain of guilt over that botched mission in Korea, when he had failed to bring Magnum senior out alive.
d
Kuryakin and Solo's days in the jungle had been spent dodging Viet Con patrols and US air strikes. The guides had been nervous and on edge the whole trip, and their disappearance confirmed their abject fear of death, or worse, capture, by the Viet Con. Since the guide's desertion, Solo and Kuryakin had skulked the hostile jungle, grimly determined to finish their thankless task. In only one more day they would rendezvous with Magnum's team. Conversation had deteriorated to almost nonexistence. Both men were too tense to waste their breath on nonessential dialogue.
The clogged path widened just ahead and Solo came to a sudden stop. He was not sure what had alerted him; the strange new sounds coming from a few meters ahead, a near invisible booby-trap, the rare cessation of rain, the faint, unpleasant odor of something he finally defined as dried blood. He put out his left hand to stop Illya, then nodded ahead. Both gripped their rifles, ready to fire, as they took slow, careful steps around the curve in the trail. They edged up to the clearing together and both stopped in their tracks. The horrific images were seen in a few quick glances. It took several stunned minutes for the grotesque scene to register on their numbed minds.
The guides' bodies were lashed to separate trees in the foreground of the clearing. In the background, were the bodies of McGill, Komi, and three men in the tattered, remnant gray- camouflage used by NI operatives. The tremendous amount of blood, on the shredded, tortured bodies, plus the scavengers feeding on the mangled flesh, made it difficult to believe the figures were even human. The victims heads had been skewered to poles which ringed the edge of the small clearing in a macabre circle of carnage. The left side of each face had been sheered away.
Solo dropped his rifle, gasped, staggered back, and would have fallen if the startled Kuryakin had not caught him. They had witnessed too many gruesome, horrifying scenes of torture during their careers, but this massacre was sickening to any sane mind. Still, Solo's reaction was alarming, his face pasty-white, completely drained of color.
"Napoleon, what -- ?"
Solo shook his head and would have collapsed, but Kuryakin's hold was too firm to break. "Napoleon, what is it?"
"The devil."
The Russian was momentarily nonplussed. The almost fancifully dramatic response was completely alien to Solo, as alien as the tremor in the hoarse voice. Illya had noticed Solo's slow withdrawal into uncommunicative brooding since the beginning of the mission. Napoleon had come face to face with a part of his past when he had started this mission, when he had met Lieutenant Magnum.
Since then, Napoleon's tension had increased with every step they took into the jungle, but this bloodbath seemed to shatter the control which was a hallmark of the urbane Solo. Why the extreme reaction? Jungle fever and insanity were dismissed. The only answer left was that Solo was truly convinced some kind of personal demon was here.
Always the tidy professional, Kuryakin stepped to the bodies of the Vietnamese, whom he judged to be dead since the day before. There were no recent tracks. Satisfied there was no immediate danger, he pulled his partner back along another trail. He continually scanned the sloshy mud path, the eerie jungle and sinister shadows, alert for any danger. They broke through to a strip of sand along a narrow tributary of a river. Solo still seemed dazed, but finally focused on Kuryakin.
"He's here." His whisper, his voice hoarse from shock.
"You're not making sense, Napoleon." Kuryakin reason was gently. "What are you talking about?"
"I wish I was deranged -- mad. The alternative is much worse."
The response held a familiar conviction, but the brown eyes were darkened with a brand of fear Kuryakin had never seen before in his stalwart friend. It frightened the Russian, and a foreboding chill snaked down his spine. The mere thought of Solo being pushed over the edge by anything, was so incomprehensible for the shaken Russian, he instantly dismissed it as impossible.
"Would you pull yourself together and tell me what's wrong?" Illya snapped harshly, a reaction from his own anxiety.
The dark-haired agent took a long, deep breath. "A recurring nightmare." His reply cryptic, his voice quietly distant. He shrugged out of his pack and took out several extra ammo clips for both the rifle and his UNCLE special. Then he handed the pack to his companion. "Take this and get back to the rendezvous," was his brisk instruction. "If you're careful you can make the target. . . . "
"Are you insane?" Kuryakin interrupted bitingly as he grabbed Solo's arm in a crushing grip. "You unquestionably have jungle fever if you think I will leave you alone in the middle of hostile country!"
Solo tugged away, but Illya would not relinquish the grip.
"This is an old and vicious debt I have to settle on my own, Illya. You can't be part of it."
"I am already part of it," Kuryakin insisted. "Being your partner gives me the dubious distinction of involvement in all your foolish escapades! You know nothing you say will make me leave without you. It is ridiculous that you even mentioned it." There was still stubborn defiance in the brown eyes and Illya tried another tack. "You obviously know things I do not. For the sake of both our lives, Napoleon, you must explain everything." Steel-voiced, there was no room for negotiation. "From the beginning."
For a beat Solo stared at his partner, the vacillation flickering on his face. He looked away to stare at the mesmerizing flow of the river and calmed his jumbled thoughts. Kuryakin's stern rebuke and stalwart reassurance had recentered his frayed nerves, helped him gain a perspective on his shocking discovery. It also reminded him that he was not alone now. Anything he did would irrevocably include Illya. A debt to the dead and buried could not overshadow his obligations to his closest friend. If for no other reason than Illya, he would have to temper his impulsive lust for revenge.
Finally, he released a long sigh and nodded. "It's a long story." The comment hesitant and uncharacteristically uncertain.
"We have a long walk ahead and I'm a good listener." Kuryakin's reassurance was like cool water to a fevered brow.
Solo grinned sheepishly. "I feel like I'm confessing, or something."
"This happened before we met -- before UNCLE, didn't it?" Illya prompted.
Like most veterans of combat, his partner rarely talked about personal experiences with the horrors of war. From a few stray comments, Illya had surmised Solo's Korean tour had been both a formative and a traumatic education. It was a time that had honed his courage and skill to a cutting edge which he had used so effectively for UNCLE. Almost wistfully, Illya wished Solo had not been forced to face whatever horrors he was about to relive, because the pain was so obviously a yet-unhealed scar. But perhaps this "confession" would help purge some of the lingering spectres.
"Yes.
"Yes, I know."
Solo glanced up and was grateful for the
compassion, even empathy, he saw in his friend's frank blue eyes. He reached
over and touched the Russian's arm. "Yes, you do. I don't have to remind
someone who's seen the face of war just as graphically as I have. You were
fighting Nazi's in
"We have all had our baptisms of fire."
"So you want the whole sordid story?"
"From the beginning," Kuryakin
insisted.
II
Drops of sweat coursed down his face; tracing a
mud-line along the creases at his eye, leaving a trail of slick grime through
his three-day stubble. Captain Myron Goldman only obliquely noted the heat; the
humidity, the stinging insects, the jungle odors and sounds that were
A dark shape appeared through the tall grass and Goldman tightened his grip on the M-16 raised to fire. His trigger finger relaxed as he recognized the familiar form of Sergeant Zeke Anderson emerging from the foliage.
"Clear, Cap," was
With a nod, Goldman acknowledged the
intelligence and nodded to the sergeant, who then slipped back into the
tropical grass just ahead of Goldman.
"Somethin's not right, Cap."
The Captain, who had come to
"Death." Whispered back with a sigh.
Goldman shrugged. He and Anderson were crack veterans of Special Operations Group, the special branch of the Army designated for covert missions. Often they had been called in to support CIA, UNCLE, or Navy SEAL missions. This time they were bringing their experience and instincts with them to find either or both of the errant groups.
Working with Intelligence, they understood the invisible and convoluted trails of the covert network which extended beyond regular SOG channels. `Spooks' operated beyond and through all normal levels of the armed services and cooperation with the various affiliations of shadow-warriors was never questioned.
He knew these agents were important -- most
highly trained spooks were technically expendable, but almost impossible to
replace. Myron understood the intelligence game -- it was in his blood. His
uncle had often been a valuable ace to SOG operations. Also, his uncle was a
friend of Solo and Kuryakin's -- from some distant point in the misty past
where all good warriors seemed to have emerged. Myron was glad to utilize some
of the skills garnered from Uncle Oscar, who had learned a bag full of tricks
in his career which had started in
From their concealed viewpoint they surveyed the clearing and the unspeakable carnage in shocked silence. They had seen death in a variety of forms. They had seen the aftermath of a village massacre and the bloody, mangled residue of human's tortured to death. Anderson and Goldman knew the results of enemy capture and torture from first-hand knowledge. They had never seen anything like these decapitated bodies.
Goldman swallowed the bile which clogged in his throat. He waited until the threat of sickness was past. Forcibly moving beyond the obvious horror, he slipped back into the automatic routine of soldier mentality.
"Check the parameter, Zeke."
The sergeant silently moved to skulk the edges of the clearing, alert for signs of the
enemy, sharp-eyed for booby- traps. The VC loved to wire deadly explosives to
the bodies of GI's. It was a trick which had claimed too many young soldiers
who were intent on giving proper respect to the remains of a fellow combatant.
Assured that there were no traps,
His hate and revulsion were bubbling just
under the lid of his tight control. If he saw a VC step out of the jungle this
minute, he'd want to rip the man apart piece by piece in retribution of this
horror. He'd want to, but he wouldn't. He had been in these jungles since 1965
-- a lifetime ago -- and had learned early that the savage lust for revenge was
just another kind of lack of control. Anyone who did not have complete control
of his actions in
It was okay to hate. It was okay to hurt. He could use that hate, that pain, to keep him sharp. He could teach that self-control to the young boys who came into this jungle as green as the trees. If he was really good and very lucky, he could save kid's lives. That was why he stayed, why he refused promotion to officer status. He was not here for the collar bars, or the medals, or the merits on his record. He was here to teach, to save lives. To save a specific life. As long as his captain stayed, he would stick it out, too.
Years ago,
He glanced to the center of the clearing. Goldman was checking each body and performing the rather sentimental duty of checking for dogtags. Just like his CO to think of that. Nervousness speeding his course, he crossed past the two beheaded Vietnamese and beat Goldman to the last body in line. Since the Commanding Officer's first tour, Anderson had taken on the personal responsibility of watching the back of the then Lieutenant Goldman. Early on, the two had meshed in a bond which went beyond the officer/nco relationship. They had forged a friendship galvanized with the heat of all the ugliness, desperation, dependence, hate, and love that came with war. Goldman had been back to the US for a while, too, but had come back for extended his tours with SOG. When Anderson returned he had committed to stay with Goldman. They had been through deaths, medals, capture, and betrayal together. He didn't trust his CO in the hands of anyone else.
The NI fatigues on three of the men categorized them as covert operations just like Team Viking. They would not have dogtags, but Goldman would want to make sure. The Cap would want the families to know these men were dead, not MIA.
"Careful, Cap," Anderson warned.
Goldman nodded. "Already checked `em." He grimaced as he swatted away carrion insects and checked under the blood- caked shirts for dogtags. He shook a negative. "No ID Same with the others," he motioned to two bodies toward the back of the group. "The first UNCLE team?"
"Guess so."
"Glad it's not Solo and Kuryakin. I'd hate to tell Uncle Oscar his friends ended up like this."
Anderson pointed to where he had been exploring. "Tracks of two clumsy men in a hurry. Headed south."
"UNCLE?"
"That's what I'm thinkin'. Not long ago, either."
"Then they're still alive."
"More than those two poor boys in the front. Musta been the Vietnamese guides."
Goldman hefted his rifle butt onto a hip. "We won't find out sticking around here." He glanced at the corpses, revulsion rippling his expressive features. "I thought I'd seen everything in Vietnam."
"I hope to hell we have now."
"Why -- why --?" He couldn't even form the obvious question.
He could not fathom the degree of barbarism which could cause these monstrous murders. But then, he had never understood the VC mind, even when he had been their captive. No American COULD ever understand. That was why they had lost the war. That was why they couldn't leave this stinking country soon enough.
"Let's follow the trail. At least they're headed in the right direction."
"As long as they don't come across some stray VC. These city spooks," he harrumphed, "they don't know nothin' `bout staying alive in the jungle."
"I know, I
know. That's why they pay us," Goldman sighed as he followed Anderson into
the thick matting of trees.
III
"My first two years in college I was a hot-shot ROTC cadet. I couldn't wait to get through training and fight for my country." A sigh, deep, regretful, and weary with experience, escaped the meditative American. He settled more comfortably on the warm sand, his head leaning on the barrel of the rifle stuck in the beach. "How naive' I was. Foolish."
"Idealistic," Kuryakin corrected. "We have all felt that way. For you it was habitual. I grew cynical much earlier in life than you."
An eyebrow elevated in doubtful speculation. "Even you?" the agent wondered with a hint of wry skepticism.
Kuryakin shrugged. "Why else would I -- or you -- have joined UNCLE?"
Solo shrugged, silently noncommittal.
"Now, continue your story."
There was a moment of hesitation as Solo tottered on the brink of self-revelation. In many ways, he was as private a person as his aloof partner. It was not easy to bare his past -- his soul -- not even to his closest friend. These were hidden secrets, buried skeletons better left behind in the washes, and eddies of a long-ago existence. Never to be forgotten, but to be cast aside with the ashes of the past in favor of building a new and better future.
In a detached, quiet voice, Napoleon began
the convoluted tale of his past as Ensign Solo. His grandfather, retired
Admiral Darius Solo, had pulled rank and had Napoleon assigned to a cushy job
commanding a desk at Naval Intelligence in Washington DC. Under the watchful
eye of one of the Admiral's friends, Solo was far from
the action in
In
The NI team broke away from the infantry near the 38th parallel and infiltrated enemy lines to go north to rescue POW's being brainwashed by a notorious bald Chinese colonel (Napoleon never got his name) and a Russian general named Karkov. During the trek, one of the Navy Phantoms flying air support was shot down near their position. The pilot, Magnum, (a friend of Oscar's) could not reach American lines alone, so on Goldman's authority, he accompanied the NI team on the mission.
"Fate seems so cyclical, doesn't it?" Solo sighed as he desultorily kicked at the sand.
Now Illya understood why Napoleon had been
so shaken about this assignment -- about the meeting with Magnum -- obviously a
relative of the Magnum in
Kuryakin's mind leaped ahead to the connection Solo was making. Kuryakin speculated that it may not be the same perpetrator, but Solo was adamantly sure that it was the same murderer.
"I came face to face with the devil that day," Solo grated in a harsh whisper. His eyes were dulled by the distance of time and geography, by the shock of reliving a waking nightmare. "An incarnation of evil, Illya." His whisper conveyed a horror forever seared on his memory.
"The Russian general?" Kuryakin prompted quietly.
Solo nodded slowly. "The embodiment of all your worst nightmares. He was a monster of a man -- over six feet and broad -- striking red hair. A giant among the Chinese under his influence. The short fat, bald Chinese colonel was supposed to be in charge, but the Russians were supplying money and weapons and advisors." Solo sighed, his voice shaking as he went on to describe the small POW camp where only US prisoners were kept. All other nationalities were killed, but Americans were singled out for experimental treatments.
"Three POW's were already there . .
." He licked his lips and squeezed his eyes shut as if that could close out
the visions that were still so vivid. Sweat beaded on his pale face. ". .
. more dead than alive from torture. The Chinese know
how to torture with incomprehensible inhumanity. The Russian -- an advisor --
taught them little refinements. Things THRUSH never dreamed of." He shot a
quick glance at Illya, but looked away instantly, unable to maintain eye
contact. "Listen to me, I sound like a rookie." He wiped the moisture
from his brow. "We've been through so much since then. Memories shouldn't effect me like this. It's the jungle -- the heat.
At first Kuryakin was at a loss to offer any comfort. He had demanded this grueling confession and now regretted pushing his friend into revealing these hauntings. It was hurtful for Solo to expose the thinly scarred wounds, and Kuryakin was embarrassed that he had instigated the story. To the Russian, privacy was a vital, necessary part of his existence. Forcing these personal demons from Napoleon filled him with repugnance. "It is a painful memory," he reassured gently. "Your first combat experience, your first war."
"The POW's finally died and the Chinaman lost interest -- he left. Karkov concentrated on us." Solo swallowed hard to moisten his dry, tight throat, then pressed on with a firm resolve. "Commander Murray was chosen because he was our leader. It took him three days to die. He never broke, even though his torture was cruel -- slow . . ."
Kuryakin silently thanked his stars neither of them had to face that kind of brutal combat in their ongoing wars. They had been spies too long and were only good for the covert wars. Then he dismissed the thought as being completely unproductive. Forcing the confession now, while still in danger, had been a mistake, too. Napoleon's nerves were shot -- the echoes from the pat were making things worse. They had to get out of there now. Right now his concern was to straighten out his partner's head and get them back to their rendezvous point.
"Napoleon, it was the first time you had seen someone tortured. It is natural to feel repulsed, even terrified. And the horror never fades, no matter how many atrocities we might see. If it did, we would be less than human. We would be no better than the torturers. That does not mean Karkov is here. The VC are, however, so we must not remain."
The American was still staring at a distant point across the river, but he nodded in silent acknowledgement of his friend's comments of support. Slowly he came to his feet and methodically slung the pack over one shoulder, tipped the rifle on the other shoulder and started walking again. His strides quick and agitated as he plunged downstream in the ankle-deep mud.
Kuryakin joined him and persisted in his interrogation. "What happened?" He thought he knew part of the story. He had met Solo's co-veterans from that war, so he knew the others had come back alive. None of them had returned untouched -- unscared.
"Part of the agony, of course, was the
waiting," Solo finally responded, "breaking down our nerves by
forcing us to watch our CO tortured. Each day another victim would be picked to
be toyed with. The night
"A bold move." Kuryakin's admiring comment went unnoticed. "The odds were against you." It seemed to have set the pattern for his friend's future career. He had never known Napoleon to hesitate because of odds or impossibilities. Solo's nature, his courage, was unfailing when rescuing someone, mostly him.
Solo came to a stop on a sandbar jutting from the bank of the river. The rain had stopped and the clouds had thinned. There was a weak hint of sunlight behind the dark canopy above them.
"Most of the Chinese were killed.
Karkov was escaping. I found him -- found him -- and froze. I have seen the
enemy -- it is me." The quote a bleak, bitterly
whispered condemnation. Several moments of silence followed the confession.
Kuryakin waited as patiently as he could, but finally, his curiosity won out. "He escaped."
Solo nodded, blankly staring at some point in infinity. "He was running away and threw a grenade. I shot him. I was sure I hit him. Then the grenade exploded very close to me. When I awoke, Oscar was trying to get me on my feet."
"Karkov?"
"Gone."
"I see," the Russian commented, now easily piecing the story together. "You thought him dead although a body was never found. Now you think he is here."
"Yes. We had to get out of there, didn't have time to stop. Far behind enemy lines -- Magnum had been badly wounded in the fight. So we crossed back to UN territory. Magnum was taken to the nearest MASH unit, but he died." Napoleon sighed hollowly. "He wasn't even part of the operation and he was killed. The cover story was he was killed from his crash. I don't think Oscar really ever recovered."
"Did Napoleon Solo?" Kuryakin probed gently.
The dark-haired agent shrugged. "Thus ended our glorious first mission." The acidity characteristic of a studied, caustic shield he had adopted over the past few years.
He nudged at a rock with the toe of his boot and glanced at the river. Here, the water was deep and wide in two directions. They would have to swim across to get to their pick-up location. Kuryakin did not acknowledge the raw sarcasm, though not for the first time he worried about this bitter cynicism which Solo seemed to wear like a suit of armor. He decided to try and pierce through the shielding.
"That is why you joined UNCLE, isn't it?" he prodded with astute accuracy. "To make up for what you thought was your failure in Korea."
"WAS a failure," Solo corrected sharply.
Illya tried to lighten the mood. "I'm lucky you talked to me at all when we met considering your history with Russians."
Offering a tight smile, Solo briefly responded to the quip. "One of my better judgments." He sighed. "After today there is no doubt." He leveled a penetrating gaze at his partner. "I'm going to finish it now."
"Karkov? You don't know he's even alive."
"He is. I can feel it. I've felt it since we've been back in `Nam. Since -- since Da Nang."
"In your old age you have become delusional and superstitious," Kuryakin snapped acidly. "You're not going after a phantom."
"Don't try stopping me."
Kuryakin mentally scanned possible methods to prevent Solo from this elaborate suicide. Reason was impossible. A knock-down, drag-out fight would accomplish nothing but approximately equal injuries to them both, and Kuryakin wanted to avoid as much pain as possible. He had almost decided on a sleep-dart -- though he did not relish dragging an unconscious partner across hostile jungle, when they were both alerted by the drift of voices upwind.
Both agents pulled their pistols and fell to the ground. Neither dared to breath as they listened to the rustle of plants, the metallic clink of equipment, and the faint chattering of voices in a Vietnamese dialect. The senior agent looked to his more learned friend for a translation. In hand language, Kuryakin signed that the Chinese ANDVC troops were searching for them. As silently as possible, the UNCLE men grabbed their gear and retreated into some tall grass along the muddy riverbank.
Just as they hit the cover brush there was a shout. A moment later the agents were under fire. They returned a blind spray of bullets as they stumbled backwards into the water. Solo allowed the Russian to slip past while he withdrew a golf-ball sized bomb from a voluminous pocket in his vest. About to toss the explosive at a knot of soldiers, a face in the bushes arrested him. Just for a second he had stared into the disfigured face of a massive, nearly bald red-headed man. It was the haunting image of a spectre he thought long dead, except to the visitations of his nightmares. Then the face was quickly gone, almost as if it was an illusion. Solo knew that face was too frightening real.
A hail of bullets snapped Solo from his shock, but almost too late. A red-hot pain tore into his side and dropped him to the shallow water as he threw the bomb. The explosive was off target and the knot of VC rushed forward. The black-pajamaed enemies were cut down in a stream of automatic fire coming from the other side of the riverbank.
"Swim for it!" An American voice screamed at them. "Hurry!"
Solo plunged into the deep water. Kuryakin grabbed him by the shirt and assisted him. Bullets pinged nearby, but it was a sloppy counter-attack. The Americans had the VC outgunned this time.
"What were you waiting for?" the Russian yelled over the gunfire.
Solo glanced back at the rapidly receding jungle-line. There in the thickness of the wilderness, an enemy of two decades lurked in the undergrowth. His lust for vengeance warred with the instinct for Illya's, and his own survival. They were hopelessly outnumbered, far behind enemy lines, their odds for survival were already drastically lowered by his injury. He could not go back, of course, but the knowledge was a bitter reality.
They staggered onto the opposite shore and were immediately dragged into the tall grass by two soldiers. They scrambled a few yards from the bank, into the cover of thick trees. Solo was clutching his side and blood was flowing profusely from between his fingers. A soldier came up and wrapped a quick bandage over the wound. It was crude and temporary. They would have to return to a base quickly.
"You well enough to make it about a klick overland?"
The young captain who addressed Solo crouched next to the two prone, dripping agents. Kuryakin noted the two soldiers were also dripping wet. "Nothing serious." The bravado was contradicted when Solo winced as the bandage was taped in place. "Where'd you come from?"
"We hoped to intercept you ahead of the VC patrol. We've been sent to make sure you get out of here ASAP. Captain Goldman and Sergeant Anderson, SOG."
As if seeing the young soldier for the first time, Napoleon stared at the young officer with disturbed foreknowledge. "Myron Goldman?"
"Yes, sir?"
"I know your uncle, don't I? No pun intended."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Solo," he affirmed, a grin on his weather-creased face. "Uncle Oscar's asked me to see you safely out of Vietnam."
"Amazingly small world," Illya sarcastically quipped. Maybe Napoleon's ideas about cycles and Fate had some merit after all. This whole situation was beginning to be a bit too spooky. No pun intended. "And I thought the cavalry didn't come to the rescue these days."
"Just got to call the right cavalry, sir." That cocky reply was from Anderson. "Lucky for you, we're it."
In spite of himself, Illya smiled at the arrogant attitude of the man who was almost as young as the CO. There was a battle-maturity etched deeply on these soldiers and Kuryakin felt safe in their experienced hands. He glanced at his partner.
"I'll make it," Solo promised.
Kuryakin's expression clearly revealed his doubt.
The captain tossed a reassuring look at him. "We don't have much choice. We'll help."
Goldman and Kuryakin pulled Solo to his feet. Napoleon leaned on his friend.
The sergeant was nervously urging them on. "We'd best be on the move before Charlie comes calling."
The party slowly made their way through the thickly matted grass of the jungle floor.
"I saw Karkov," Solo explained through clenched teeth as he came to a stop. Sweat dripped from his face; his body hot from the wound, from the humid heat, from the weakness and shock brought on by injury and emotionally devastating fear.
For a terrible moment Kuryakin thought Solo was delusional. Then he thought Solo would do something insane and suicidal, such as going after the imagined Russian. Then he realized his friend had already given up the hope of capturing the rogue spy. He could clearly read the anger and frustration in the brown eyes. There was also a vivid, visible hatred there which was unusual to the normally cool Solo.
His tone was sympathetic. "We will have another opportunity, Napoleon. His time will come."
Solo gave a curt nod. "No choice."
He started walking again, concentrating on
putting one foot in front of the other until they made the pick-up point. The
pain in his side kept him from thinking too much about the pain inside, the
knowledge that he was here with a second generation of colleagues and he had
failed them, too.
IV
"Aloha. I'm here to see Steve
McGarrett."
Impressive. That was the single word that popped into Jenny Sherman's mind as she surveyed the visitor on the other side of her desk. Over six feet, lean, thin dark hair and brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses -- the man appeared as smooth as his deep voice. Crisp and business-like enough to qualify as someone from the governor's staff, this man's expensive suit and authoritative bearing marked him as something beyond local politics. Some official from the FBI or something? In her capacity as secretary for Steve McGarrett, Jenny was used to screening visitors to the offices of Hawaii Five-0. Instant assessments were her specialty, and she liked this sober official. Not FBI she decided as she keyed the intercom to McGarrett's office. This man was too pleasant to be an adversary to the boss.
"Your name?" she asked, wondering if he was staying long. Maybe he'd need a local guide to the sights? She'd be happy to volunteer.
"Oscar Goldman."
The name meant nothing to Jenny, but Danny Williams, engrossed with work in his cubicle, glanced up when he heard the name. Steve had been preoccupied all day. Perhaps something to do with this visitor who had no special appointment, but was obviously anticipated.
"Oscar." Danny joined them and shook hands with the visitor. "Good to see you again."
"You, too, but I wish it was under better circumstances."
Williams led the way into McGarrett's office. "Steve's waiting for you."
The door closed behind them and Jenny
sighed. Another interesting prospect for dinner and a night on the town seemed
to go down in flames. Some mysterious visitor for Steve on
private business. That was never a good sign.
d
After receiving Goldman's agitated call in the middle of the night, McGarrett had been preoccupied with memories. His first combat experience in Korea had been under Oscar's command. It had been terrifying, heart-rending, and unforgettable. Soon after that Steve had been captured and held prisoner by the North Koreans, finally escaping after a few months.
Then McGarrett had been assigned to Intelligence investigations in Seoul -- ferreting out spies and illegal operations, not going behind enemy lines like his friend Solo. Oscar had returned to DC after that nightmarish mission where they had been captured by an insane Russian torturer. During the intervening twenty years they had met occasionally, never under these strained circumstances.
"I'm not going with you." The answer was finality itself.
Oscar, nearly the same height as McGarrett, stood eye to eye with the head of Five-0. Williams, whom Steve had asked to stay, remained on the sofa, far away from the combat zone. The background story had been explained to Dan and he considered the whole, convoluted mess a frightening mystery. Used to dealing with spy escapades a few times, this old vengeance went beyond Dan's experience and he was glad he had no such ghosts in his past. The stress brought out the worst in McGarrett and his old colleagues. Idly, Dan wondered how Steve managed to stay friends with his former collaborators since all seemed equally bull-headed and independent.
"Steve, we're talking about Karkov. Don't you --"
"Napoleon thinks he saw Karkov, Oscar. You didn't see Napoleon before he went to Vietnam. You didn't see how -- how -- unraveled he was. How worn out he was." Steve shook his head. "Emotionally -- distraught. I haven't seen him like this since -- " He glanced at Goldman. "Since Korea."
Goldman was not going to shout at McGarrett, but his voice was strained. "Are you saying Napoleon's gone over the edge?"
"No." Steve pulled back from the intensity and leaned in the doorway of the lanai. Staring out at the statue of King Kamehameha across the street, McGarrett seemed worlds away. "Korea was a long time ago, Oscar. Things happened there that I don't want to remember. I try my best to forget." Fingers hooked in his pockets, he turned back. "Five-0 is a man short. One of my detectives was injured in December and I'm still looking for a replacement. There are things I need to do here."
Goldman gave a short nod. "You mean you've settled the past." It was not a condemnation, but a statement of understanding, perhaps even envy. "You have no need to go hunting ghosts."
"Not Russian ghosts, anyway." McGarrett's blue eyes darkened. "I have my own." The name of Wo Fat did not pass his lips, but the image was clear in his mind. Briefly the flash of a bald, fat Chinese from twenty years ago in the Korean wilderness zapped into his memory. Karkov's Chinese colonel. Steve wondered if it had been Wo Fat all those years ago, but honestly couldn't recall. He had been a lowly lieutenant and hardly worth the attention of a Russian general and a Chinese colonel. Since then he had done his best to forget.
"I trust Napoleon's instincts." Oscar was certain. "I'll never forget."
"You had more to lose."
Nodding, Goldman's internal visions, still vibrant and in living color, clearly recalled his friends who had lost their lives because of Karkov. Murray, an inspiring commander. Tom Magnum, a pilot and young father who was supposed to be rescued, not killed by the Russian spy. Others tried to forget, but Oscar had not. Like the older brother he never forgot whose body slept at the bottom of Pearl Harbor, still trapped in the hull of the rusting USS Arizona. Some things -- some debts -- some hurts -- were not to be forgotten. If there was now a chance to capture or kill Karkov and payback some justice for Murray and Magnum, then Oscar would follow that trail.
"I understand." The sympathetic tone indicated that Oscar, indeed, knew why Steve was staying behind. "You're absorbed with your life here, protecting Hawaii, not chasing ghosts from the past. I dropped everything in Washington to join this foolhardy cause. But I have to. It's my chance to close a very old case that's still open."
McGarrett walked around the desk and shook hands with his old friend. "Be careful. Make sure you and Naploeon and Illya come back safe."
"I will."
"And I'll treat you to the biggest luau you've ever had when you get back."
"I'll hold you to that." Oscar
offered a weak, fleeting smile. "Because we're all coming back alive from
this, I promise."
d
For one of the few times in his long career with UNCLE, Napoleon Solo was on the verge of deliberately disobeying a direct order from Alexander Waverly. That the Chief Enforcement Agent had been arguing with his superior for almost ten minutes was another uncharacteristic precedence. Already in this conversation he had threatened to resign. Waverly had countered with a threat to accept.
"Sir, he's a murderer! He's got to be stopped!"
"But not by you, Mister Solo," came the curt, irritated response. "There is no certainty that Karkov is still in Vietnam. Your orders are explicit. You and Mister Kuryakin will leave immediately. It is too dangerous for you to remain in Vietnam at this time. And according toe the army medics, you are in no condition to go anywhere but the nearest hospital."
Solo slowly paced across the tent in irritation, favoring his injured side. "Then I can come back . . . ."
"You can obey my orders!" Waverly snapped. "Do you understand, Mister Solo?"
The responding "yes sir" was almost growled. He flicked off the communicator and barely restrained the urge to throw the silver pen-like instrument across the small tent. Instead he stalked out to the noisy compound and walked toward his brooding friend. Seven days had elapsed since their flight from Cambodia. Slowed by Solo's wound and bad weather, the flight south had been harrowing. Solo had been treated by a medic, but still the agent needed rest and recuperation. Two days ago they had arrived at a field hospital where Napoleon was to rest until evacuation.
Solo and Kuryakin were at a temporary stop at the last camp before they were to be airlifted to an offshore carrier. Scheduled to be evacuated within the hour, Solo had done everything in his power to halt the departure. Safety and home held no interest in the shadow of his overwhelming obsession to find Karkov. Kuryakin's cool disapproval also weighed on his conscience. Solo's stubborn obsession to return to Cambodia to search for Karkov alienated his closest friend. He hoped he could bridge the chasm and regain Illya's trust. It wouldn't be easy. Such a close partnership could sometimes be annoying when Illya could anticipate his thoughts.
The communicator beeped and Solo allowed it to chirp for a moment before answering it. As expected, it was Waverly again. Unexpectedly, the leader of UNCLE North America had some surprising news. "Mr. Solo, I have been in touch with several of my colleagues. More specifically, they have contacted me." The old man -- somewhere in his eighties -- drew a wheezing breath. Solo soberly wondered how long the veteran spy would hold on as their leader. "It seems Karkov is a notorious criminal to much of the free world. Many share your suspicions that he is alive and in Southeast Asia. I therefore authorize you to head a team to find him. Proper channels will receive these instructions as well. Navy and Army Intelligence has requested you lead the search utilizing their people." The voice paused. "Good luck, Mr. Solo. I think you'll need it."
"Thank you sir, I think I will, too." He clicked off the communicator.
Glancing up, he saw Kuryakin. He could feel the tangible ease of tension from Kuryakin. For a moment their eyes locked and Solo was relieved to see there was no longer the chilling anger, the deep condemnation, that had been there before. A silent message of approval revealed all was forgiven and Solo silently nodded that the thanks was just as happily accepted as given. The Russian shoved a backpack into his arms, a sign that life was back to normal.
"Your request has been granted. Be careful what you wish for, Napoleon."
Unsettled, Solo should have felt exonerated,
even triumphant at the victory -- at the license to hunt the spectre haunting
him for years. Noting Kuryakin's reaction, he was solemnly aware the operation
was already unpleasant.
d
Myron Goldman stood in the radio hooch with
the operator on duty, and Zeke Anderson. The captain had been summoned there
for a top priority call. Being an officer in SOG, he was used to the military
proclivity for intrigue and mystery. He was not prepared for the surprising
voice he heard from the radio speaker.
"Myron, how's the signal? Can you hear me?"
"Uncle Oscar! You sound like you're in the next room!"
"Close enough. Honolulu. "I'll be at your camp tomorrow."
Goldman glanced at the sergeant, silent surprise flickering on his face. Anderson shrugged. Neither of them had an intelligent comment about the ridiculous agenda. "Uncle Oscar, Vietnam isn't the safest place to be right now. I mean, it never has been, but it definitely isn't now. I can't really say --"
"Myron, you don't have to say anything. We are not on a secured channel. Remember my connections. I know what's happening there."
"Then why --"
"Napoleon called me. I have to come."
Goldman's expression darkened with anger. "He had no right to drag you out here!"
"It's my idea to come, Myron. Napoleon and I have some old business to settle. I'll have breakfast with you in the morning. Oh, and have your bags packed. I have you and your sergeant scheduled to airlift to a carrier tomorrow. See you then. Bye."
The connection was cut. Goldman tossed the mike back to the operator and stormed from the hooch. Anderson was at his heels, taking quick strides to keep up with his livid CO.
"Didn't know we were leaving so soon."
"We weren't supposed to. Obviously my uncle pulled strings. Something he's used to. Just like dad."
Goldman slammed into his quarters and shoveled through some papers on the desk. He seized one and handed it to Zeke. "We weren't scheduled `till next week."
Anderson scanned the names on the list for the next few days. "Solo and Kuryakin aren't on here."
"I
noticed. Let's go find out where they'll be instead."
THREE
The small army camp outside of Saigon was a miniature example of the chaos engulfing the rest of South Vietnam. Four days had elapsed since the flight from the north country. The grueling trek through the thick jungles had been slowed by Solo's wound and more heavy rains. They had been picked up by Magnum's NI team, then all returned to the ever-retreating American lines where utter confusion reigned. This small group was on the outskirts of the main evacuation points.
The long rumored pull out of US forces had finally begun on an unofficial level. Troops were evacuating the country and leaving behind a near-panicked populous. Those close to the US military knew the collapse of the South Vietnamese government was imminent. Solo and Kuryakin's privileged status had brought them quickly out of the jungles to this last camp. They could have been placed anywhere in the country, or on any plane or ship out of the area. Solo had chosen this collapsing camp as a temporary base.
Solo shuffled along the muddy road to his temporary quarters, avoiding the speeding jeeps that careened through the camp. The wounded were almost all evacuated, and now the rest of the troops were leaving in an orderly, but steady stream. Solo had done everything in his power to manipulate his position at the edge of hostile territory. Safety held no interest in the shadow of his overwhelming obsession to find Karkov.
In fleeting moments of objectivity, Napoleon wondered if he had been pushed over the edge because of Karkov, or from the entry into Vietnam. There seemed little question in his own mind that he was, indeed, past the brink of reason. Was his lust for vengeance clouding his perception of the very real tragedies around him? Or were the traumas of war pushing him deeper into this obsession as a defense against what he was seeing? How could anyone be expected to maintain a grip on sanity when surrounded by the heartbreak here?
There was fear and accusation of betrayal in the faces of the Vietnamese. The tear-filled eyes of the Amerasian children who would probably never see their GI fathers again was agonizing. There was hopelessness in the faces of the wounded who were now going home to an empty future. A constant parade of the haunted -- men of listless gaits who had seen more brutality, felt more fear and pain, than anyone should ever feel. All of them were victims who could never be truly at peace again. For them, this would be the war that would never end.
Solo understood those emotions. Korea had shaken him. Now, he doubted if he had ever really recovered from the trauma of his war. Most specifically, of his mission in Manchuria. Napoleon stood in the doorway of the officer's hooch and with tired eyes scanned the camp for a familiar blond head. He was disappointed when he could not find his friend. Not surprising. Kuryakin was off brooding; had not spoken to him since Solo revealed the plan to infiltrate in-country to search for Karkov. His stubborn obsession had alienated even his closest friend and Solo hoped he could bridge the chasm and regain Illya's trust. It wouldn't be easy.
"Solo!"
Goldman and Anderson jogged up to the agent, grim expressions forewarning their mission. He knew the source of young Goldman's anger before the officer spoke.
"We talked about going back in after this Russian character, Solo. We never discussed my uncle coming in with us."
Solo stepped back into the hot room which offered little relief from the unforgiving humidity and heat of the tropics. "My superior, Waverly, is considering making this an UNCLE operation. Oscar is part of this. When he heard who I was after, nothing could keep him away."
Goldman grabbed a chair, straddled it, his arms leaning on the back. It was a defiant gesture. Positioned next to the door, it was a strategic move, almost a symbolic dare for Solo to try anything. Equally foreboding, was Anderson, who stood on the other side of the door, arms crossed. The two GI's would not be leaving, nor would they let the agent leave, until they had a satisfactory story from Napoleon.
"You told my superiors there was a communist agent operating with the North Vietnamese," Goldman volleyed. "So what? The Chinese have been holding hands with the NVA just like the Russians! What does that have to do with my uncle?"
Solo sat on the bed and carefully stretched his legs, trying not to put too much pressure on his side stitches. "Oscar wants to be here personally."
"Why are we being pulled out?" he gestured to Anderson and himself.
Napoleon shrugged. "Your uncle doesn't want you on the mission. It's not a healthy prospect."
"You mean you're operating on your own?" Anderson asked.
The dark eyes shielded a lot, Solo ruminated as he studied the sergeant. What Anderson never bothered to hide was disapproval or disagreement. The sergeant didn't like spies, or didn't like him, or possibly just didn't like the underhanded tricks tied up with this operation. Perhaps he objected to the old-timers coming out here and risking lives for vengeance from the past. Maybe more basic than that; the simple fear of a last mission, a last risk to himself and his friend when they were so close to going home free.
"Soon we'll have all the red tape cleared. It doesn't really matter whose operation it is."
"Well, I don't like it!" Goldman snapped back.
"It stinks," was the sergeant's comment.
He could counter any argument with clear logic on why Karkov had to be pursued and killed. It had grudgingly worked with Waverly. It had worked with SOG command. He didn't think it was going to fly past Anderson for the same reasons it had not convinced Kuryakin. For the same reasons Solo and Oscar Goldman HAD to go out there. It was personal.
"Red tape isn't what's worrying you, is it, sergeant?"
Anderson shook his head. "No, sir. Seems to me you're taking risks when there's no need to. The war's over. Your war's been over a long time. One Red Communist Russian spy is not worth our lives."
"You're exempt. Oscar has already --"
"Yeah, we know," Goldman interrupted. "Even more than my dad, who was a general, the OSI boss has connections everywhere. He's pulled more strings again so we can evac tomorrow. Do you really think I'd let him go into the jungle without me?"
Anderson flicked a quick glance at his CO, then the eyes came back to stare at Solo. "Without us."
"Now, wait a minute, Zeke. I don't want you back in the bush --"
"Now, Cap, you know I go where you go, official or not. We promised we'd get out of this war together. Whether that's sooner or later, it don't matter none."
Giving in to the inevitable, the captain let it go with a shrug of surrender.
Solo inwardly sighed. Partners could certainly complicate things. Teams -- commitments -- there was the real danger of this mission. Too many personal ties had tangled them all together until nothing could be separated into individuality again. It was all bunched into a mess of friendships, old and new. Oscar would not let him go alone. Myron would not let his uncle go alone. Anderson would not let his captain down. In the end, Illya would probably not stay behind, either. The dominoes kept falling right down the line and Solo couldn't see the end of the trail. He just hoped it was not leading them all down to destruction. This had started as a right to correct a terrible, personal wrong. It could end with more wrongs than he would ever make right again.
"You'll have to discuss this with Oscar."
"I will," Myron assured. "Let's go pack, Zeke. And we better go light," he advised as he shrugged out the door. "These old guys haven't been seriously in-country for a long time. We'll have them to worry about, too."
"Old guys?" Napoleon muttered, insulted. He was hardly over
forty!
d
Solo slogged through the muddy jeep trails toward
the helipad, hoping Lieutenant Magnum would be there. Solo wanted the young NI
officer, and the team, to accompany him into the jungle. If he told Magnum the
truth, he would want in on the mission, completing another circle of the past
and present. It would also burn every bridge behind Solo, with his conscience
burdened by every life that accompanied him on this vengeance trail. Is that
what he really wanted? Did he want this new generation of soldiers to grant him
absolution from his past mistakes? Isn't that what this mission was all about?
He didn't want to answer all those questions, because the answers were so ugly
he wasn't sure he could look himself in the mirror again. He was already afraid
he had crossed over the line between justifiable revenge and selfish guilt.
Like Myron, Thomas would feel the obligation to be on the hunt. It was a dirty way to manipulate an officer who had been through so much already. But leverage was how things got done in the nasty world of espionage; in the realm of vengeance. Right now nothing mattered as much as the revenge that burned with an unquenchable fire inside Solo's heart. If his requests did not go through? Then he would go without official sanction. Even at the risk of expulsion from UNCLE. This was more important than regulations, and time was running out to find Karkov.
The most regretful thing about all this was that his actions -- actions he felt compelled and justified to take -- would mean a terrible breech in an incomparable partnership. Perhaps it would end an irreplaceable friendship. If forced to choose between the past and the present, Solo was not sure which he would choose right now. He hoped Kuryakin would not compel him to decide. No matter what course he chose, however, he had to make some kind of peace with his friend.
The loud, steady 'thwap-thwap' of helicopter blades filled the afternoon air as Solo topped the small rise where the helipad was located. He saw Illya standing near a chopper which had just landed. The blades were rotating to a stop after the engine shutdown. Kuryakin was talking with the three men whom Solo recognized, who had just emerged from the Huey. The tall, mustached Lieutenant Magnum, the stocky Marine was the pilot Theodore Calvin, and the short Marine gunner was Rick Wright.
Kuryakin turned, spotted his partner, and crossed the pad to block Solo's path. "They have come at your bidding," he shouted. "You are not going to persist with this madness, are you?"
Solo was pleased Kuryakin was talking to him again, even if it was to argue. As much as he wanted to bridge the gap between them, Solo could not abandon his quest. Ironic that the most loathsome monster from his past -- a Russian -- would possibly destroy his greatest prize -- his friendship with this Russian. In other circumstances he could have studied, even understood the complex mockery. For now there was no time for anything but retribution.
"I have to go after Karkov."
Kuryakin gestured toward the senior agent's side. "You won't last twenty-four hours."
"You have very little regard for my motivation or endurance, my friend," Solo retorted lightly. "Or modern pain-killers."
The Russian scowled with displeasure. "If you have no concern for your own well being, think of Oscar's. Or Magnum's. That lieutenant is the innocent victim here."
"He has a right to know how his father died, and who the murderer was," Solo responded reasonably, hoping to appease Kuryakin if he couldn't convince him. "And have a shot at justice."
"All these young men could be going home, Napoleon. You're risking their lives. How will you feel if one of them doesn't come back?"
"Drop it, Illya."
"Why ruin Magnum's life now? Why didn't you tell him the truth years ago?"
Solo shrugged uncomfortably. He failed to mention his pact of silence with the other three survivors of that fateful mission in Korea. On Oscar's insistence, all had agreed to assist the young Magnum in any way possible, but never reveal their connection with his father. They had all contributed financial support to the family, and Goldman had paved Thomas' way into Annapolis. Now, Solo was going to break that secret, rationalizing that his cause was justified.
Ice-blue eyes as cold as a glacier stabbed him with steel-tipped accusation. "This has nothing to do with Lieutenant Thomas Magnum. This is about the vengeance of Ensign Napoleon Solo."
Solo turned away, unable to respond to the piercing truth.
"Don't ruin his life. Don't end yours," Illya warned fervently.
Aware this was the folly of a madman, Solo set a flame to this final bridge and walked away. When he reached the chopper, he was greeted warmly by the three soldiers.
"Glad to see you're still with us, Mister Solo." Magnum shook hands, though the somber set of the face belayed the comment. "You two don't belong here." His voice barely audible over the dying hum of the slowing rotors. "Nobody belongs here."
"I'm glad you got out, too," Solo countered, studying the three men. All were subdued, and Solo wondered what had happened in the last week to shadow them with such a mantle of tragedy.
"Mister Kuryakin said you might be going back to the bush! That's crazy."
"Exactly." Kuryakin confirmed ruefully as he stepped up behind Solo.
T.C shook his head. "You don't want to do that, Mister Solo. This part of the world is blowing apart at the seams. Anybody with sense is gonna get as far away as possible."
Solo felt his partner's eyes on him. The decision he made now would change his life forever, or possibly end it very shortly. Possibly end the lives of Magnum, Calvin, Wright, Goldman, Anderson, and Kuryakin. With his friend's return, he realized Illya had no intention of being left behind. The steadfast Russian brought a whole new meaning to partnership. Magnum's gaze was distant and he seemed to look straight through Solo. The agent questioned the Lieutenant, who turned back toward the chopper.
Rick pulled the agent aside. "Thomas' wife was killed this week. A bombing in Saigon."
"I'm very sorry," Solo stuttered, as he approached the young officer, feeling the hot anger inside him diminish in a cooling wave of sympathy. The anonymous anguish he had seen for so many days had just become very personal. "Is there anything I can do?"
Magnum shook his head. "Thanks. I just want to get out of this stinking rice swamp." He looked back to Solo and for the first time seemed to focus on the agent.
"I have unfinished business up-country. But it's a strictly volunteer mission. It would be nasty," Solo warned. "I wanted . . . ." He could feel the tangible ease of tension from Kuryakin. His intended shocking announcement was altered. He would give Magnum a fair chance -- a life. "I am going in to assassinate a Russian spy. I thought of you, because -- well, you're the best," he finished lamely. "But I don't think it's a good idea, now. I'll get another chopper crew."
For a moment his eyes locked with his partner's, and Solo was relieved to see there was no longer the chilling anger, the deep condemnation, that had been there before. A silent message of approval revealed at least some was forgiven and Solo's silently nodded thanks was just as silently accepted. Mentally, Napoleon released a long sigh of guilt. How could he misuse his influential connections and lead these men into foolish suicide in the closing hours of the war? Their war was over. His conscience could not permit more tragedies. Illya knew that. Such a close partnership could sometimes be annoying when Illya could anticipate his thoughts, but he would not give Illya the satisfaction of knowing he was right. Yet.
Magnum glanced at his friends. Both NCO's shrugged. They were anxious to leave Vietnam, but they were still game to follow their CO one more time. "We could take you."
"No, if you could just find us the best trackers left around here, then drop us at coordinates which I can't give you yet. Then -- then leave. Get out while you still can."
Magnum was thoughtful. "This place is falling apart. You won't have long before this chopper will be a prized commodity."
"I know."
"We're the best. You'll need us," Magnum decided.
"No --"
"Yeah, one more chance to stick it to Charlie," Rick responded with more enthusiasm. "Then we get out of this snake pit and go someplace civilized."
Napoleon glanced at Calvin. "You, too?"
"I'm with them."
Knowingly, Solo acknowledged with a nod. Three more people stuck to the intricate web he had weaved. "Briefing at 0800 tomorrow."
The agents started slowly back down the hill. Kuryakin leaned over to Solo and whispered, with a tinge of relief and surprise. "You are not telling him everything?"
Solo shook his head in a negative gesture. "No need to know. Not yet, at least. He doesn't need anymore complications in his life. He didn't need this."
"Be careful what you wish for . . . ."
"I know, I know."
"You are a soft touch," Kuryakin accused gently.
"Just don't let it get around. It would ruin my reputation."
The three GI's caught up with them to walk back to the huts.
"Do you ever get to New York?" Solo asked.
"Only passing through," Magnum responded. "Why?"
"I never mentioned this before, but I knew your father. In Korea."
For a moment the expressive Lieutenant was speechless, but quickly recovered, his face filled with questions. "You knew Dad? Why didn't you mention it before."
"There really wasn't time," Napoleon shrugged easily. "But on the flight back, when we're on the way home, I mean, and we have some time, you might like to hear a few stories."
Magnum's face
brightened. "You bet."
II
At first light the
constant hum of rotors advanced and receded over the busy camp. Providing a backbit for the helicopters, were the engine drones of
trucks, jeeps, and personnel carriers sweeping through the staging area. This
constant background activity had been a steady flow during their stay here.
Myron
Goldman waited in the early dawn, watching the arriving choppers at the
helipad. Most of the Huey's lifted off with full loads, mostly of soldiers, and
returned empty. He was watching for a passenger who would be unique among the
few men debarking; a man who was distinctly unsuited for a combat zone.
With a sigh of impatience, Myron extracted a cigarette and after several tries succeeded in lighting it. He was committed to a stern stand on this issue with his uncle. A Washington paper-pusher had no business in the bush, it was as simple as that, he mentally argued. Uncle Oscar was a reasonable man, he would respond to the logic of the difficulties after Myron explained it all. He tried to visualize the firm resolve of his stand, but instead found himself slipping back to memories far in the past.
He couldn't remember the first times he had met his Uncle Oscar. He associated the tall, lean man with his father. The physical resemblance was strong between the Goldman half- brothers, but more than that was a brotherly bond. There had been a solid presence with them around. Dad had not been at the Goldman house much. The Army had sent him everywhere but home. Uncle Oscar would visit when dad was in town. Military history was the dominant conversation, never veering far from WWII, where Col. Martin Goldman received the Congressional Medal of honor at the Battle of the Bulge. They talked of the older brother who had the distinction of going down with the Arizona at Pearl.
Now that Myron thought about it, he never recalled stories from the younger Oscar about Korea. When Myron was older, he remembered fewer and fewer visits from dad and Oscar. Mom and dad had fought whenever he came home, so he didn't come back much. Mom had moved Myron to New York with her Jewish family. He'd stayed there until she died of an overdose of sleeping pills. Myron always felt Oscar had abandoned him, just as his dad did.
Myron had resented the Goldmans, but accepted that as a state of life until his mother's funeral. Oscar had been there, offering more support than his father. There had been frequent phone calls and letters after that. Oscar had eased his admission into college with the right contacts. Oscar Goldman was the head of the Office of Scientific Intelligence. He had connections everywhere with everybody.
When Myron had joined the Army, Oscar was disappointed, (he had hoped Myron would come into the OSI), but supportive, offering all kinds of placement possibilities from Army Intelligence all the way down to a cushy desk at the Pentagon. Myron had stubbornly refused any help from his father, or Oscar, and they had backed away. Oscar, though, had kept in closer touch than his dad. When Myron had joined Special Operations Group with covert activities, Oscar had helped again by supplying high-tech equipment that only the advanced OSI teams were using. Lives had been saved by the small pocket communicators, the light-weight night-sight goggles, and other inventions straight out of the OSI labs.
When dad died of cancer a few years back, Oscar had picked up the slack again. Oscar pleaded that Myron get out of combat, but the young captain had thrived on the SOG missions which actually helped instead of hindered the common soldier. By then, covert ops were under his skin and he could not go home until he had done all he could to save American lives in `Nam.
Sometime during his first tour, he had
realized it was not a war only against the VC, but also a war against the lowly
soldier of the line against the mutton-headed decision-makers in Washington. As
long as bad commands were handed down and GI's were captured or killed, Myron
felt an obligation to lend his skills and experience in a way that would help,
on the line, where it counted. Although Oscar had not agreed, he had understood
and had always been there to offer support, even when Myron didn't
know how to ask for it.
d
Smoke rings formed, then
dispersed as the whipping wind and dirt from the next chopper choked the pad.
Every man had moments in his life he would like to live over. His relationship
with his dad and uncle, his early army days, were at the top of Myron's list of
regrets.
He had joined the army to spite his VIP relatives, mostly General-dad. He had come to Vietnam with a chip on his shoulder and an attitude that was childishly petty. He had been turned around by the stark horrors of the uniquely savage combat of `Nam, and the guiding hand of Sergeant Anderson. Without Zeke's tutelage, he would have been dead the first month out.
The latest helicopter swung onto the landing pad with a swirl of dust clouding the ground. Myron squinted against the grit and anemic sunlight filtered through the mat of tropical foliage. Three men debarked. One tall, older man, in still-creased jungle fatigues was crouched almost double under the blades. When he straightened, Myron jogged forward and eagerly shook his hand. His uncle responded by wrapping Myron in a warm embrace.
"Good to see you, Uncle Oscar."
They had not been the words he intended. Reprimands and rebukes had marched through his mind for the last few hours. Familial respect had to take a second place to reason. Here, he was not the young nephew, but the combat veteran. His uncle had no business being here, no matter how personal or lofty the ideal seemed. Those sensible thoughts were driven away by sentiment and natural affection for his only living relative. His uncle was someone who had, at times, been more of a father to him than his dad had ever been.
"Myron . . . ." Oscar Goldman pulled back and studied his nephew. Concern and love filled an expression which transparently conveyed the affection he held for his relation, the relief at finding Myron in one piece. "Good to see you, Myron," he replied thickly as he patted the Captain's shoulders.
Tears were burning in his own eyes, and Myron blinked them away. This was not the time to get carried away by emotions, he reminded himself. This was deadly serious, and his love for his uncle was the reason he was going to fight tooth and nail to protect Oscar, to keep these old fools out of the jungle. To break the moment, Myron picked up the knapsack Oscar had dropped and started for the barracks. Oscar put a fatherly arm on Myron's shoulder, making the young man's resolve a notch weaker. It was an affectionate gesture which Oscar used often on his nephew and a few close friends; a protective, fatherly kind of touch that put the recipient under his wing.
"My hooch is in the back," he gestured toward the outlying reaches of the camp. "The others will meet us there."
Oscar followed his nephew, flattening against the side of a Quonset hut to avoid a line of jeeps and trucks thundering by. He wiped grit from his face. "I've requested another SOG team for this mission, Myron. I don't want you involved."
The captain stopped but did not look at his opponent. It was easier to be stern if he didn't know what emotions were playing on his uncle's face. "If you're involved, I'm involved, Uncle Oscar." His hot, impulsive temper threatened to bubble to the surface, but he held it in check. If he exploded now, his reasonable, sensible arguments would be diminished with the heat of anger. "I'm coming with you on this one."
"I can't allow it, Myron."
Conversation was again interrupted by a string of army ambulances. After they passed, Myron crossed the wide, dirt roadway and entered the barracks area which was quieter. The chaotic noise of evac operations was muted by the closely packed buildings. The interruption gave him time to think and choose his weapons in this debate. Oscar's importance automatically gave him the armament advantage, but Myron had a knack for tactics. There WAS a way to out-maneuver the big guns of the OSI.
"I have contacts of my own, Uncle Oscar." He stopped on a narrow dirt walkway between huts. "I may not be able to go with your team, but I can get anywhere I want in the jungle. This is my war."
Silence seemed to indicate a mortal hit on the opponent. He finally turned to gage his accuracy. His uncle's expression of sorrow and distress struck a blow at Myron's conscience. This was not a game of one-upmanship for either of them. No matter who got their way, they would both be hurt by the ultimate decision. As in most wars, there would be no victory here.
Myron placed a hand on his uncle's arm. "You understand why I HAVE to be out there with you, don't you, Uncle Oscar. I couldn't let you into that -- that jungle alone. Not without me."
Slowly, Oscar nodded. A profound sorrow darkened his brown eyes. "I understand. For the same reasons I don't want you to go." He gripped onto Myron's neck and hugged him. "Part of my war never ended, Myron. That's why I have to be here. To finish it. I didn't want any new tragedies complicating the sordid old conflict."
"Can't you just let it go? Let Solo fight it, this is his vengeance more than yours."
Even as he spoke the words, Myron recognized the selfishness of the request. Could he have let Zeke go back into the jungle alone? Never. The bonds made in combat superseded everything else. He saw, even after years of civilian life, the bond for the older veterans was as strong as his friendship with Zeke. He knew that would be as true in his future as it was for his uncle now.
"Ending a war isn't very simple for those on the front lines." Oscar dropped his arm and looked at his nephew. "You see it already here. For some, this war will never end." He looked off into the distance. "Some wars never end."
Myron thought of his men who had died here. The friends and fellow soldiers who were POW and MIA, some still unaccounted for. What about the men who had lived with Vietnamese women and were leaving behind children and wives? What would become of the natives and Montagnards who had helped the Americans? The communists would be vindictive against whoever could not be evacuated. Then there were the ones on the home front, relatives who had received the letters of regret from so many commanders like himself. For all of those who had been touched by this God-awful war, and that was almost everybody in Southeast Asia and America, the war would linger for a long time. When would their war end?
"I have a chance to end my war now, Myron. It's something I have to finish."
Myron nodded.
Oscar patted his shoulder. "Besides, we're committed now. Every intelligence agency in the free world is hot for us to eliminate Karkov. He's a nasty thorn in their side. We're in a position to make a strike for them."
Myron grimaced. "More alphabet soup. I don't like the sound of this."
Oscar agreed with a nod. "Now, I need to discuss some things with Napoleon. Where is he?"
"My hooch. Just down the path here and to your left. My name's on the door."
"Good." Oscar took his knapsack. "Why don't you go prepare your team."
It was a subtle dismissal. His uncle had private words for Solo. It was a confirmation that Myron had won. Winning did not feel like much of a triumph. Myron watched to make sure his uncle made it to the right hooch. Another small indication of his protective instincts surfacing. He noticed another person lurking on the pathway. Illya Kuryakin was leaning against a hut, almost obscured by the early morning shadows. The agent approached once he had been spotted.
"A tangled web," was the spy's obtuse comment.
There had been little time to associate much with the agents. Now, Myron felt a kinship with Kuryakin, a bond born of recognition of their place on the mission. They shared the common duty of protection to the two men who were too close to the past to see the dangers of the present.
"I dig that," Myron sighed.
d
"Seems like a helluva spot to call a
reunion," Oscar quipped as he entered the small, stuffy hut
which was considered officer's quarters at the camp.
"Oscar." Solo stiffly came away from the window where he had been standing, and warmly shook hands with his old friend. "A bitter necessity."
Goldman made himself as comfortable as possible in a rickety wooden chair. Involuntarily his nose twitched at the smell; the pervasive jungle odor, the stifling humidity, the baking climate. Tactile reminders of a jungle war long past. His nerves were already prickling with the sense of danger at this mission. He hoped it was not a prediction, merely a sense of over-caution. There was too much riding on this fool-hardy expedition for them to be anything but cautious.
"I've been gathering intelligence from several sources." This was related as he spread out a map on the bed. "Chinese and Russian advisors are said to be with these NVA groups." He pointed to an area not too far to the north. "Their troops are coming closer every day. Remember, the enemies are here with armament support. The team's ready."
"Are you?" There was more straining the former agent than the injured side, although that would be a bad enough liability in a combat situation. The tension, the sleep-starved face, the haunted eyes, were evidence that Karkov's reappearance had gripped and twisted something deep inside Napoleon Solo. Would skill and professionalism be enough to counter the vengeance burning inside his old friend? "Can you handle this?"
Solo released a deep breath. "If I could turn time around, I would probably NOT make the call to you, or to Waverly. Now -- I have no choice, Oscar. Just like you."
"More than you know. CIA, IMF, MI-6, and a few others including UNCLE, have deemed this mission imperative. Karkov is too dangerous to leave alive. We are the termination squad." Goldman stood, crossing to the window. "Eerie, isn't it? So much like Korea. Or am I just imagining it?"
"It smells and tastes like a war, Oscar. Just this last mission and our war is over."
"I told Steve and Jonathan. They're farther away from the ghosts. They were able to stay out of this."
"You mean they don't feel the guilt the way we do," Solo corrected harshly as he joined his friend at the window. "We're putting everything on the line for this, Oscar. If we fail here -- and there are so many ways to fail -- then we loose it all."
"You mean Myron?"
"And Illya. And all the others on the team. If any of them are killed, if we don't kill Karkov, this will be for nothing."
Oscar's voice was grim. "How lucky do you feel, Napoleon?"
"Not lucky enough."
III
Although they had traded information before, this was the first time Oscar would be working directly with Illya Kuryakin. The Russian's reputation was well known in intelligence circles, and Oscar felt he knew Kuryakin well because of Solo's comments about his partner. To Goldman, Kuryakin was subdued and quiet. A different side of the clever, sly agent Solo described. Though Oscar knew, better than most, how multi-faceted intelligence operatives were, he was curious at the extreme quiet Illya displayed during the planning meeting in Myron's hut. Kuryakin's taciturn silence was a natural result of a career in a treacherous business. So why did the Russian's silence now seem scary?
The members of the strike team were gathered for their final briefing. It was not so much different from an OSI mission. Oscar had sent men out on dangerous assignments before. Sometimes his men had been killed. With OSI he was engaged in a secret, covert war with international enemies. Perhaps he had never been that far from combat at all. Korea seemed light years away, but experiences shared there had left infinitesimal cracks in the prisms that were four men's lives. Some fissures ran deeper than others. Like refracted light in a prism, every angle provided a new insight. So it was with people. And time changed people just as an altered angle changed the prism's colors.
For Oscar, Korea had been his training ground in intelligence, where he discovered a talent for organization and a cunning which had served him well over the years. His experiences in the field had left minimal scars. The wounds had slowly healed with years of dedication to duty, and the personal commitment of anonymously watching over Magnum's widow and children.
Of the four survivors of the ill-fated raid into Manchuria, each of them seemed to have achieved a kind of personal peace through useful careers. Steve McGarrett was the successful, if controversial chief of Hawaii Five-0. Jonathan Hart was an internationally renowned corporate businessman. Oscar was involved with intelligence on a more scientific level than down and dirty spying. Only Napoleon remained an active field agent in intelligence.
In Solo, the fractures in the prism ran deep indeed and Oscar wondered if this ghost-chasing would finally, irreparably, break the glass. Guilt was motivating Solo, and it could drive him to self-destruction.
"There's a few things you need to remember in-country," Myron Goldman advised.
Kuryakin's gaze and attention wandered from the captain, to his sullen partner across the room. His instinctively pessimistic nature saw only disaster ahead. There was nothing he could do to alter their course. Why did he cling to the sinking ship? At first, Solo had tried to exclude him from the mission, and Kuryakin had tenaciously argued for the American to come to his senses. He had too much invested in the partnership to allow it to flounder because of his friend's bad judgment. Illya left unspoken his dependence on Solo as a friend as well as a fellow agent. That was something he would NEVER acknowledge or discuss. It was against all logic of an operative to depend on another. Nonetheless, it existed as certainly as the sun was a tangible star in the sky. Therefore, he could not remain idle as Solo fell headlong into self-destruction.
Sometime during the parade of years at UNCLE, his loyalties had subtly altered. Commitment to the cause had taken a back seat to his partnership with Solo. This was as much his fight as it was Napoleon's. If Waverly had not given the order for him to come, he would have accompanied Solo anyway. Just under the surface of the Russian, there was an ingrained rebelliousness to authority that asserted itself when his friend was in danger. The captain finished and suggested they gather their gear. Solo pulled his eyes away from the scene of the tropical wilderness encroaching on the base and met his partner's gaze. With a mixture of irritation at Illya's tenacity, and gratitude for the blond agent's unswerving loyalty, he crossed the room.
He handed Kuryakin the army-issue backpack. "Last chance to come to your senses and catch the next flight to civilization."
Kuryakin stared back evenly. "You could never get along without me."
"Unfortunately, you're probably right," Solo admitted soberly, reflecting on how dependent he had become on his partner over the many years they had worked together. He shouldered his own pack and forced himself not wince as he walked toward the door. "But I'll never admit it in public."
Part of him was glad to have Illya's proficiency
to back him in a dangerous situation. He valued the skill and the companionship
that was an integral part of their efficiency. He didn't like Kuryakin
endangered because of this personal vendetta. For the
thousandth time he questioned his debt to the past and weighed it against his
debt to his present partner. He kept hoping that blind luck would
somehow allow him to lay to rest some old ghosts and
still bring his old friends and newer friends through this experience
unscathed. And since he was unable to force Illya to
leave, he accepted the Russian's presence with a personal vow to protect Illya
from danger as much as possible.
d
The chopper was already on the pad and the three
veteran, mature men loaded on first. Oscar took a headset and told the pilot he
was ready. The bird lifted off and swung over the jungle at a sharp arc. The
officer in the co-pilot's seat (there was no insignia on the camouflaged
uniform, but by bearing alone, one could tell the man was at least ranked as a
lieutenant), scrambled back. Goldman handed him a small hand-held, wireless
communicator, similar to what UNCLE had pioneered. Another communicator went to
the gunner and pilot.
"For keeping in touch with the ground team," he explained. "Bounces off a satellite. My code name is Snow White."
The officer's eyebrows rose with a silent question.
"Don't ask," Oscar warned.
"I won't," the lieutenant smirked. "TC will drop us at the LZ. I'm joining you in-country." He held out a hand, which Goldman shook. "Lieutenant Magnum." Oscar's hand lost its strength and Magnum gripped tighter. "Mr. Solo advised me against coming, but you're stuck with me. I couldn't find you any other guides."
"No --" Oscar shook his head. "I can't allow --"
"Sir, Mr. Solo explained you knew my father in Korea. You were with him at Annapolis, weren't you?"
Oscar nodded, still numb with shock.
"My mother's mentioned you as one of dad's old friend's who never forgot us. I'd be honored to serve with you on this last mission, Mr. Goldman."
Oscar shot Solo a lethal glare. "I won't --"
"There's no one else, sir," Magnum insisted. "My guys and I know the country where you're headed. You'll need us."
It was obvious the young man was lying about the last bit because he wanted in on the mission. Goldman shot a murderous glance at the UNCLE agent, who was unfazed at the visual rebuke. If Napoleon had spilled the truth to Magnum, he wasn't giving it away on his expression.
"Good NI men have been killed by this Karkov guy," Magnum explained. "I belong with you."
Twinging at the ironic accuracy of that statement, Goldman shook his head with adamant refusal. "I can't allow it, Lieut --"
"I know the country, sir. And Karkov has his own little army at this village, according to some spook rumors. You'll need all the sneaky operatives you can get. You need me."
As a last appeal, Oscar glanced at Myron for confirmation. The captain was unaware of anything beyond the obvious fact that the most skilled combatants came out of the jungle alive. It was in their survival favor to pack their party with skilled veterans.
"I think we need him, Uncle Oscar."
Reluctantly, Oscar nodded his consent. They were already so deep in personal complexities, what difference could one more solider make? A shiver suddenly snaked a chill finger along his spine. Covert agents were naturally suspicious of too many coincidences. He had never been superstitious. He refused to give in to the subliminal demons who now tracked across his conscience, whispering that this mission's circuitous ironies and personal links were too, too eerie.
Disturbed, but accepting the inevitable,
Oscar agreed and joined the others in the back of the chopper.
IV
On the flight in-country
they saw lines of military and civilian traffic headed south. The `unofficial'
evacuation was heavy. It wouldn't be long before the public announcements were
made and the US forces shrunk like a collapsing bag. They would have to be
within the safe territory of the remaining occupied territory before the true
panic started.
It was a day gray with mist and cloud-cover. The humidity was high and the moisture more of a drizzle than a rain. They landed at the edge of a rain forest. It was quick work to cover the bird with camo netting, then disappear into the lush wilderness of the jungle. By night they were camped on the side of a hill, overlooking the remains of a burned-out village. TC and Anderson volunteered for first watch. They ate cold rations and were soon asleep under the camo ponchos shielding them from the incessant drizzle.
Solo and Kuryakin were leaning against a knot of tangled trees, when Oscar quietly joined them.
"Why did you bring Thomas into this?"
"Good evening to you too, Oscar," Napoleon responded lightly.
"Napoleon --"
"I didn't give him any details, Oscar, just that we knew his dad. And that was after he volunteered for the mission. Thomas' Vietnamese wife was killed last week. He needed -- something -- to hang onto."
"So a suicide mission was your answer?" Oscar acidly snapped back.
"We have an obligation to him! To his father."
Goldman's retort was a cold slap of bitterness. "You want his absolution."
Napoleon flinched at the too closely aimed barb.
"Everyone seems to think it an important mission," Kuryakin added.
Oscar ignored him. "Thomas should not come," was the final word. "Extra personnel can only mean extra liabilities!"
"Like Myron?"
"I didn't want Myron along. He wouldn't listen to me." Goldman's obvious and open concern for his nephew was a source of anguish ever-close to the surface. "Anymore than Illya would stay behind."
"Or Thomas."
Napoleon looked out at the rain-blurred forest. Absently, he massaged his side, which had throbbed with pain the entire day, but he couldn't let it slow him. He focused his thoughts on his goal, but now saw only a backwash of memories.
"Do you believe in Fate?"
"Fate is what you make it," was Illya's response. "We must deal with the present. We should be concerned with no other philosophy and cannot afford mystical speculation."
"The circle seems to be closing around us," Goldman quietly observed. "I can feel it." He glared at Solo. "And I would rather let Karkov go free than endanger the lives of these men."
"Of Myron," Napoleon corrected.
"Yes, dammit! He's my nephew! And Thomas! You know, Napoleon, you've taken this on as your private little war. It's important to eliminate Karkov, but not if the cost is too high."
Solo looked at his old friend with an expression chilled by a haunting many years old. "How much does it cost to end a war, Oscar?"
So far the mission had exacted a stiff toll on Solo. He had called in favors and burned bridges to be here. His partnership was shaky, altered, the damage done. Now he was committed to his course, whatever that would be.
"Some wars never end, my friend. Ours has the chance to end now." Oscar silently glared at him. "I've paid my dues, Oscar. My bridges are in ashes. I can't go back." Solo glanced at his partner. "I'm not happy with the vulnerabilities of this mission. If Karkov ever figured it out --" He thought back to those tortured, agonizing days of captivity under the Russian spy. Karkov had known how to find and exploit vulnerabilities. If they fell under Karkov's hand now -- none of them would survive the emotional anguish they were open to.
"We are all vulnerable in some way," Kuryakin offered soberly, not commenting on what he thought of being classified as a `vulnerability'. "Our loyalties bind us to each other. The unity becomes our greatest strength and greatest weakness. We must remember to utilize the strengths of our bonds."
Solo grinned at the Russian, but it was a quick, sympathetic reaction; less of sentiment and more of regret. "A friend at your back is better than a whole army of strangers? But, we know how dangerous it is to care about someone you're working with. It clouds judgment and is an invitation to trouble," he confessed with difficulty.
"Maybe you've been in the field too long," Oscar shot back defensively. "This is not a private war." His voice was hard and cold, and his stern brown eyes bore into Solo without mercy. "I know Myron and Zeke and Thomas are MY vulnerabilities. You've come here with your partner -- your vulnerability! We're all well aware of the risks. Maybe our concern for each other will ensure that we all come back alive. And I intend to return with every member of this team! Remember that, Napoleon. Whether the mission succeeds or not, the men come first!"
Solo released a long-held breath. He clenched and unclenched his jaw in irritation. "I agree, Oscar. Just remember we're even more vulnerable than we were in Korea." He finished with a warning glance at Kuryakin.
"I don't think we'll forget," Oscar replied gravely.
He left the two agents and scrambled down-slope to the shelter of a canopy-like tree with thick branches. He scrunched down against the trunk. Before he was settled, he was joined by Anderson.
"Sergeant?"
"Excuse me, sir, but you've got to remember we're in hostile country."
"You overheard."
"Some words. All of them too loud."
Oscar nodded in acknowledgment of the gentle reprimand. "It's not easy dealing with us desk-bound meddlers, is it?"
Anderson grinned, a neutral compromise between agreement and polite denial. "I just follow my orders, Mr. Goldman. SOG thinks this Rusky needs to be taken out. We're your support."
"Well, I hope my orders don't endanger you or the others." He leaned his head against the tree and sighed. "Out here the rights and the wrongs are so easily blurred. We could walk away now."
"SOG would just send us right back."
Oscar sighed. "Yes, and others would be at risk. Or perhaps Karkov would get away, and next year or the next decade, when Karkov has committed untold atrocities, it wouldn't be so vague. We should stop him now."
"Are you trying to convince me or you, sir?"
"I'm convinced of the mission, sergeant. Just not willing to take too many risks." He gripped onto the sergeant's shoulder. "You've been a good friend to Myron. I know you've saved his life more than once. Thank you."
"No more than he did for me," Zeke responded simply, but with a tinge of embarrassment in his voice.
The last rescue hadn't been simple. Myron had been wounded -- nearly gotten killed going back for Anderson, who had been separated from the rest of the team. Goldman had earned his captain's bars after that. The bars weren't why he'd gone back. The wounds hadn't slowed him down. Just like it hadn't slowed Anderson down when their positions had been reversed.
"No more than I'll do for him," he finished fervently.
"Watch his back tomorrow. I want everyone -- Myron, and you, too -- to get out of here alive."
"So do I, sir," Anderson agreed.
The sergeant left the OSI chief to drift off
to sleep. While Zeke kept watch, he kept Oscar's advice in mind. He had been
watching Myron Goldman's back for many years, now, and he wasn't going to stop
on this last mission. No sir.
V
"Napoleon said you knew my father."
Magnum fell in beside Oscar the next morning.
The NI lieutenant was ready to start their three click walk to where they suspected Karkov to be living. Goldman was just packing his gear into his backpack.
"How much did Napoleon tell you?" he asked as he stood and stretched stiff muscles.
"He said you'd be angry that he brought me into this." Thomas grinned to lessen the impact of the report.
The grin was infectious and Oscar responded with a rueful agreement. "Yes, I was. Someday that man will encounter a situation he can't charm himself out of."
He sobered as thoughts of the past, of Thomas's father, came to mind. Those memories were never buried very deep, and any number of things could trigger remembrances of their days at Annapolis, or Korea, or of the senior Magnum's death.
"I'd like to hear more about my dad." As they walked, Thomas' voice was low. "You were at his funeral. I remember someone tall, in Navy whites, giving me my dad's watch. That was you, wasn't it?"
Quietly, Oscar confirmed that was true. "A very sad Fourth of July, that day."
Magnum shook his head. "My father died in a crash. How did you recover the watch?"
Not wanting to lie, neither did Goldman want to reveal the whole, ugly truth now. Carefully he chose his words. "Your father died at a field hospital. I was there. When I brought the belongings back to your mother, she asked that I present the watch to you."
Magnum fingered the silver-banded watch on his wrist -- obviously a prized possession.
"When this is over," Oscar offered, "I have some stories I think you'll appreciate."
"I'll hold you to that," Thomas promised.
Their expressions indicated the conversation
as a silent pact that they would both come out of this to have future visits.
d
The trail had proved to be steeper and more overgrown than expected. Magnum, as point man, led them to the hillside village only a few hours before dark. Weather had not been on their side. Rain had intensified to a full-blown tropical storm. The exhausted men came to a halt on a small ridge opposite the huts. They knelt in the tall grass and observed the village with binoculars.
"If this is the place it's sure quiet," Myron whispered to Magnum, on his right. He nudged Anderson at his left. "See anything?"
"Not a thing. Chickens are hardly even moving."
"It's raining," was Rick Wright's sarcastic explanation. "I'd be scarce in this weather, too, if I had a choice."
Solo scrambled up beside them. "We need to get closer. Then after dark we make our move."
Myron looked to his uncle, who had joined the huddle. "Your call, Uncle Oscar."
"We cannot slit the throats of everyone in the village," was Illya's dry observation. "We must know Karkov is there, where he is and strike quickly. Napoleon and I are best suited for such reconnaissance."
Oscar gave his approval of the plan. Myron
suggested Wright and Magnum take the east flank and stay close in case the
agents needed back-up. Anderson and he would take the west side of the village.
TC and Oscar would retain the middle ground on the ridge as back-up
for anyone who might need help.
d
The agents took the four huts to the west.
Anderson and Captain Goldman, the three huts on the east. It was a pain-staking
task which required visual confirmation of their target. The never-ending rain
made it difficult to hear conversations inside the huts, so with each stop, Solo had to bore a tiny hole through the thickly-matted
straw and peer inside the hooches. They were on
the third hut when a loud, angry Vietnamese voice cracked over the pelting
rain. They peered around the corner, sickened to see their worst fears
visualized. Anderson and the younger Goldman, were
roughly dragged into the center of the village, under the guns of three NVA
men. Mercilessly, the prisoners were thrown to the ground. One of the soldiers
kicked Goldman in the shoulder for some snide comment. Another NVA smashed
Anderson's face into the dirt.
For precious seconds, Napoleon's thoughts were frozen with anguish that his friends were captured. Within seconds, his mind automatically cleared away the shock and he analyzed options. His possibilities diminished when a tall, chunky Russian joined the group. Solo forced down the shiver which chilled his spine at the sight of Karkov. Even at this distance the partial view of the disfigured face was revolting. It held him in a grip of immobility until the prisoners were taken into a hut. The action jolted Napoleon out of his shock. He pulled his communicator from his pocket and signaled Oscar.
"Napoleon, I'm going to murder --"
"Oscar, don't say anything, just listen. I'm in a position to free them. Don't move! Repeat, don't move! I'm going to get them out. I promise nothing will happen to Myron."
"Napoleon --"
"Oscar, please, trust me, this one last time, just trust me."
He didn't wait for a reply. He tucked the communicator back into his pocket, leaving his end open so Oscar could monitor the channel. Solo looked into the condemning blue eyes of his partner and forestalled the inevitable objection with his statement of finality.
"I HAVE to, Illya. Back me up and I can get those kids out of there."
"By acting as the sacrificial diversion?"
"I hope not."
"Why don't I believe that?" It was a rhetorical sneer delivered with more disgust than Napoleon could remember seeing in the Russian. "You have been working on this martyrdom all along, Napoleon."
"No --"
"Yes, damn you, and you didn't care who got in the way."
"That's not true. It's just -- "
"You had to assuage your guilt at any cost. What better way than a grand sacrifice?"
"No. I have to save them. To do it, I'll just fulfill our objective and kill Karkov. I'll return with my shield, not on it. Promise."
There was only one option, of course. Perhaps it had been the only answer for twenty years. Did he believe in Fate -- Karma? He didn't know. He believed in his ability to free the prisoners. He believed it his destiny to kill Karkov -- to do it right, this time. It would be his last chance. Perhaps, that WAS Fate.
Solo came to his feet. Kuryakin rose and clamped a hand on his arm. "There has to be a better way."
Napoleon shook his head.
"I won't let you do this. We can come up with a better plan. You don't have to give your life for a mistake you made twenty years ago, Napoleon!" he hissed, his vehement passion striking sharp and bitter against his too-calm partner. "You don't have to end your war by dying!"
The entreaties were such painful stabs because of how hurt Kuryakin was over this whole mess. Napoleon regretted the pain, and how he had allowed the past to destroy his partnership and friendship. He had, however, already passed the point of no return. If there had been no other lives at stake, if he was sure there was another way to eliminate Karkov, he would have chosen an alternative. They could have lobbed the village with mortars or grenades. They could have removed the assassination from a personal kill to a faceless mission and destroyed many lives instead of one. But Fate, and Napoleon Solo's passion for revenge had changed that.
"I wish it could have been different. I am sorry, Illya. I regret this more than anything I've ever done.
He whipped a karate chop onto Kuryakin's neck before his friend saw it coming. The Russian sagged into his arms and Solo gently lowered the form into the brush. Fleetingly, he brushed a hand against Illya's forehead.
"Sorry, old friend."
He jogged through the bush and just at the edge of the village, Solo was intercepted by Magnum. The young man already knew what had to be done. Solo told him to hold his ground and be ready to assist the prisoners. He would know what to look for. "Oh, and in a few minutes, there'll be a mad Russian bear coming this way. Keep him out of the way for me, will you?" He patted Magnum on the shoulder without waiting for a response.
A few feet along the back of the huts, Solo came to an abrupt halt. A piercing scream cut through the background jungle noises. Oppressive silence stilled the world. With a shaky hand, Solo wiped dripping sweat and rain from his face. His mind yet heard the echo of the cry -- a scream distorted in the distance of time. Oscar would have heard that nightmare sound and understood all the implications. Karkov started with the leaders. Even without insignia, there would be no mistaking who was the captain and who was the sergeant of the two captives.
From out of the dense grass next to the huts, Oscar slipped next to him. The OSI chief was as pale as winter snow, his eyes as chilled as a November frost.
"He's torturing Myron!"
Solo grabbed his arm and pushed him down behind a tree. "I know. I'm going to get him out."
"I did this too, Napoleon. It was OUR vengeance --"
"But Karkov will remember ME. We need a distraction, Oscar, and I'm the best target we have." Magnum came up behind them. "Thomas knows what to do. He'll fill you in."
Oscar seemed about to say more, then changed
his mind, and nodded his head in reluctant agreement. Then Solo
stepped around the corner and, with hands raised, boldly stepped into plain
view in the center of the huts.
VI
Goldman pushed against the sergeant, who had
landed on top of him. Their hands were bound behind their backs arms looped
together. Goldman could only offer a nudge of his uninjured shoulder to help
lever them both up to a sitting position. He had to sit up -- carefully. Consciousness
was fading in and out and he needed all his wits about him. He knew their
colleagues would not let this last, and he wanted to be ready when the rescue
came.
"Zeke, you okay?"
"What's one more mouthful of Vietnam dirt?" the sergeant whispered back. "What about you?
Myron nodded, catching his breath as he brushed his injured arm against his friend. "Okay." He had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out again.
The swiftness of the attack had been as bad as the viciousness of Karkov's torture. Myron had not expected instant, pointless pain. He should have. What better way to agonize the colleagues in the bush? He felt like a traitor, crying out like that, but the pain had been terrible. So excruciating, yet so simple for the hefty Russian to take a slender human arm in his beefy hands and crush it until the bone snapped.
"Cap, don't give up on me, now. Stay awake."
The shaky fear in Zeke's voice startled him more than the words. Myron raised his head, aware he had been drifting off. It wouldn't be long until shock insulated him from consciousness. He deliberately moved his arm, sucking in a stifled cry of anguish. He needed the pain to stay awake.
"They're gonna come after us," Anderson assured. "Just hold on, Cap. They're a comin'."
"That's what I'm afraid of, Zeke."
Goldman turned his eyes on the huge Russian obscured by the deep shadows across the rather large hut. Anderson shifted, stretching his bonds and the sore shoulder muscles. He was bruised and filled with hate. Next time one of those creeps came near them he'd kick them into the next country. He felt the weight at his back increase. The captain was fading out again. "Cap, don't you worry, now. This won't last long."
The officer gave a tight nod before turning to Anderson. "Damn, this is the last --" He bit his lip, fighting the pain, the emotions which bubbled within. He had been so afraid of this. His throat was tight and he could hardly get the hoarse words out. "Zeke, if you get the chance, I want you outta here."
"You bet, Cap. And I'm takin' you with me."
They turned to be face to face and stared at
each other, a mutual message exchanged. Goldman nodded. That's the way it had
to be for both of them.
d
The soldier outside the largest hut almost shot
Napoleon on sight. Instead, the man shouted some indecipherable phrases and two
more NVA stepped out of the hut to hold their rifles on him. They motioned him
inside. The three NVA stood behind him, just to the side of the prisoners.
The
slightest glance was raked past the bound prisoners.
They were alive, with minor signs of wear and tear. No obvious reason for the
cries of pain, but Goldman looked sick and faint; Anderson looked livid. Myron
HAD been the victim. Something internal and painful.
Napoleon swallowed the revulsion. Internalize the hate and use it, he reminded
himself. It is the best weapon now. Then his eyes were drawn to the man in the
corner. Involuntarily he approached the hideous apparition folded in the
shadows. Over two decades had passed, but still this man made Solo's skin crawl,
still froze his nerves with icy fear. The dark eyes surrounded by the horrid
face bore into his soul and he affirmed in his heart that this, indeed, was
somehow his destiny. What they had left in another existence, another war, was
to be finished now.
"Solo," the man rasped.
Napoleon's spine twinged at the accusation and hate in the single name. He tried not to see the disfigured, rippled flesh of the face, but Karkov had leaned out of the shadows just enough to show the damage.
"I thought it was you by the river. A ghost from my past. I have never forgotten the young fool who left me with this." Fingers jitteringly brushed at the discolored scar which was the uneven flesh serving as a cheek. "I have always dreamed of repaying the stupid boy who did this." His dark eyes, narrowed through slits of puffy skin, flicked over to the prisoners, then back to the agent. "It could take days -- weeks before I touch you, Solo. Just like Manchuria."
Karkov would never know how Solo had paid already for the emotional detris of that Manchurian debacle. His personal war, which was now in the final skirmish, had so much more on the line now. The Russian would never know how frightening those threats were.
"No," Solo shook his head slowly, "this time I'm going to finish the mission."
Two capsules were hidden in the cracks between his fingers. Solo threw the tiny bombs behind him at the three riflemen.
"Run!" he shouted to the prisoners, over the explosions.
In the next second he threw himself onto
Karkov and wrestled his way behind the huge Russian. A gaseous cloud filled the
hut. Solo took a small pistol from an ankle holster and pressed the pistol to
Karkov's head. Before he could fire, his arm went unfeeling and the pistol dropped
from his quaking hand. Only then did he note the piercing, paralyzing numbness
of an injured nerve along his arm, a sharp incision of pain, the warm wetness
of blood trickling down his skin.
d
The prisoners clumsily raced for the nearest edge
of protective rainforest. Three rifle-shots sounded behind them, quickly
followed by shouting. M-16 shots popped from the tall grass around them and
muffled Myron's moan of pain as they fell into the wet brush. Hands dragged
them into the protective cover. They were pushed and herded farther in as
Magnum, Wright and Calvin closed behind them. VC were
gathering outside the huts.
Oscar carefully hugged his nephew as Wright cut the ropes. Anderson came up on the other side and supported his CO, mindful of the broken arm.
"We've got to help him --"
"Not here," Magnum interrupted. "We need to run for it. Now. We don't know how many soldiers are in the huts."
Kuryakin stood in front of the group. "Napoleon's still in there with Karkov."
The others stopped, clearly torn between returning for the lost man, or continuing to safety. None of them could verbally acknowledge the need to take care of their injured men. Yet, leaving without Solo was unthinkable.
"We can't storm the village," Calvin pointed out. "We got to get back to the chopper while we can."
"Go on. I am going back for Napoleon. We will join you on the trail."
Oscar grabbed the Russian's arm. He was at a loss to speak. "Illya," he finally sighed, "we can't leave him. All of us have to end the war here. Now." He glanced at the others in the little circle. Each man gave a silent nod. "Together."
Shouting came from the village; a strident, echoing yell of triumph. Illya crept back until the huts were in sight. The others were crouched behind him. Karkov was standing by the largest hut, assembling the remainder of his dozen, or so troops, preparing them to seek out and destroy the rest of the insurgents. The Russian was loud, boasting, and occasionally lapsed into English to utter the recognizable names of Manchuria and Solo. Karkov's khaki jacket was soaked in blood.
Kuryakin assessed his hidden weaponry; his personal arsenal of explosives which could wipe out the entire village. He forced his mind away from the obvious. He tried to ignore the message of dread which screamed at the edge of his thoughts and tried to think of his job -- his responsibility -- not the condemning evidence of the blood, of the opponent yet alive.
Illya jumped at the close rifle shot just to his left. Thomas Magnum dropped to his knees and continued firing. When Illya looked back to the village, he saw the still form of Karkov, and several of his men, on the ground. The rest of the troops were scattering, but they were caught in the open, under the assault of the committed and skilled US soldiers who had brought all weapons to bear on the village. Kuryakin tossed several bombs in the paths of retreating VC. Within minutes, the enemies had retreated, or were dead.
Anderson and Calvin had spread out to cover
the team in case the surviving NVA tried to flank them. Kuryakin sprinted out
of the jungle and past the bodies of the Vietnamese. He was going too fast to
think about what he would find in the hut. He kept his mind tightly focused on
his objective; getting to Solo and getting out. When he reached the hut he didn’t
break stride, but his heart tightened at the sight of the dark-haired agent bound
hand and foot, slumped on the ground. Blood spread beneath him, soaked into the
wet dirt floor. Illya cut the bonds and felt for a pulse. He sighed
his intense relief that his friend was still alive, and quickly threw his
partner over his shoulder.
d
There was little conversation as the Huey raced
over the Vietnamese countryside, then over the blurring blue of the ocean. In
the distance, Solo could see an aircraft carrier; a gray wedge in the vastness
of the ocean. His heart skipped a beat; of guilt, of regret, of gratitude. The
mission was over; a success. No man on the team cared about the victory. Their
triumph was the greater prize of Life. No one would have traded the lives of
any man on this chopper for the very justified death of Karkov. None of them
were capable of that ultimate sacrifice anymore.
The end of this mission could have been so tragically different. His lust for blind vengeance had almost destroyed the brave, good men in this chopper. Luck, skill, Fate -- maybe all of those elements had brought this weary band of vagabonds home safe. The carrier would be their haven. They would be mended and cared for, then released back into the world. They would go their separate ways, but never truly be separate from each other. This mission, this war, would be etched into their souls, as every other war was scarred into every other warrior. This time, this war, had a good ending.
Magnum had lost a wife. Long ago, he had lost a father in another war. That debt, at last, was now paid. The bitterness of guilt welled up inside Napoleon, then faded. That self-condemnation was receding. He could put it behind him now, with that other war. Never to be forgotten, but no longer a haunting nightmare. Magnum would never appreciate the true justness of the mission -- that he had killed his father's killer. It was an added piece of irony to a very long and dangerous story. Or perhaps, it was the final ink-stroke of Fate at the end of this strangely interconnected saga. Myron had been injured -- could have been worse. He would return home with the physical pain and scar of this last excursion into insanity.
Napoleon Solo would mend. The knife wound
would heal and he would live. He wasn't sure where he would go or what he would
do, but he, and the others, were alive. That bottom line was more than many
comrades had found with this war and Korea and every other conflict where brave
men fought and left the battlefield; where valiant friends remained. For the
men in this chopper; this war, the Korean war, were
both over. Everything about their wars, except their memories, had ended.
SOME WARS NEVER END
PART TWO
I
HONOULU
May, 1975
The jet taxied toward the hangar and the occupants were favored with an unobstructed view of Diamond Head. The dark lava landmark rose into the clear blue sky, overshadowing the skyscrapers that were, at this distance, mere white dots against the extinct volcano.
"Another perfect day in paradise." Illya Kuryakin delivered the off-handedly comment as he leaned across his partner to gaze out the small window.
"It's always perfect here." The unenthusiastic return from Napoleon Solo came as he studied the long-range view of Waikiki.
"You're usually much more appreciative of Hawaii, Napoleon."
During the long flight from Guam, Kuryakin had indulged in a few short naps along with unsuccessful attempts to enlist Solo in light conversation. Drawing his partner out of a brooding depression had become a steady occupation for the last several days. Kuryakin's instinctively pessimistic nature saw only disaster ahead if he could not turn Napoleon around. At first Solo had tried to exclude him, but Kuryakin had tenaciously included himself in every phase of the search and destruction of the elusive Russian spy Karkov. As Kuryakin had explained to the exasperated American, Illya had too much invested in the partnership to allow it to flounder because of his friend's bad judgement. He had left unspoken his dependence on Solo as a friend as well as a fellow agent, and how he could not remain idle as Solo fell headlong into self-destruction.
In the face of Kuryakin's dogged resolve, Solo found it impossible to resist aid, knowing the futility of trying to out-last a stubborn Russian. Argument was especially difficult after their -- Magnum's -- successful assassination of Karkov. Solo's wounds left him weak and in no shape to contest Kuryakin. When Napoleon had agreed to further rest and recovery in Hawaii, Kuryakin had received a brief leave of absence to remain in Hawaii with his partner.
Solo pulled his eyes away from the scene of the tropical splendor of Oahu and stared at his partner. Illya knew there was more bothering Solo than just the abrupt and chilling discovery of Karkov in Vietnam. Solo's reaction to finding the old nemesis was as much a reflection of his current instability as it was of his need to bury the past that Karkov represented. Now Karkov was dead and Solo's mood had hardly lightened. Soon he would have to reveal his inner turmoil to his partner. Napoleon just couldn't find the words yet. Perhaps this little holiday in paradise would help.
"Last chance to end babysitting duty and catch the next flight to the mainland."
"I've already had enough flying for one day, thank you." Kuryakin stared back evenly. "Besides, you could never get along without me."
"I know, I know."
It was more truth than a joke. Solo needed Kuryakin at his back in the risks and the rare calms in his life. For now, at least temporarily, the dangers would remain at bay. Solo's side wounds, the VC bullet and the slice from Karkov's knife became infected on the trek out of the Cambodian jungle. Strong antibiotics and rest were required before he could make the extended trip back to New York. For at least a week the UNCLE agents were on leave in tropical paradise. A pleasant prospect under normal circumstances. With so much on his mind, Napoleon doubted he would appreciate much of the vacation.
Almost as soon as they stepped off the jet Illya spotted a car parked at the side of the hangar. "There's our ride." He slid sunglasses into place and strode quickly across the sun-beaten asphalt toward the black sedan.
Dan Williams stepped away from the car and greeted them with enthusiasm as pleasant as the tropic air. "Illya, Napoleon, it's good to see you," he smiled and pumped their hands.
"And you, Danny." Kuryakin returned easily. It was a relief to be back among allies and on friendly territory.
Solo warmly shook hands with the younger man. "Thanks for the ride, Danny. Looks like you're taking care of paradise for weary tourists like us."
"That's my job," he assured. He grabbed one of the bags and helped stow the luggage in the trunk, studying Solo. "I heard you're here to recover from your nasty business in Vietnam."
"Yeah, I'll fill you and Steve in whenever he shows up."
Dan crossed to the driver's side of the car. "He had some last minute problems to clear up. He'll meet us at the hotel." In the car, he joked, "Sorry I didn't bring any leis."
"It's never the same without the girls in grass skirts anyway," Solo assured as they pulled into traffic.
"You would think of that," Kuryakin countered dryly.
Scattered clouds hugged the tips of the Koolaus behind Honolulu, and errant drops of liquid sunshine carried on the Trades sprinkled the LTD as they sped along the H-1 freeway. Steel silhouettes stretched to the sky as cranes that looked like awkward insects built more high rises across the face of Eden. Every year brought more buildings, more scars, and less land on the small archipelago.
Williams glanced at Solo from the rearview mirror. The Five-0 detective didn't know Solo and Kuryakin very well. The UNCLE men had been on the islands a few times and had caused a certain professional friction between UNCLE and Five-0. Most notably just a few years before when Solo had been revealed as a notorious cat burglar [THE NAPOLEON OFCRIME AFFAIR] However, because of the long friendship between Solo and McGarrett, differences had been negotiated. Solo and Kuryakin had paid their dues for playing their spy games in McGarrett's territory. And suspiciously, Danny fleetingly wondered if the spies were really on holiday at all.
Evening traffic was thin by the time they turned into the curved drive of the Ilikai Hotel. Napoleon groaned and Illya smirked. This was the hotel they had twice tried to rob during their last, ill-fated stay in Honolulu.
"Steve has a wicked sense of humor," Napoleon complained. "I suppose he recommended the Ilikai?"
"As a matter of fact he did," Dan confirmed with a grin. Checking his watch, he thought, "He might be here already."
McGarrett was not in the lobby, so Williams
accompanied the agents up to their ocean view room.
d
Steve McGarrett closed the file folder and locked it inside his desk drawer, satisfied the night's paperwork had been completed. Philosophically he pondered for a moment the strange cycles of life. Years ago he had met Napoleon Solo during a war -- their lives changed forever in that steamy jungle. Now, worlds and years apart from Korea, Napoleon had ended some long unanswered questions. Before going to Vietnam, Solo had admitted to being disillusioned and tired of the spy game. After Karkov's death, what would Solo feel now? Clearly Solo's recuperation would not be the only thing on his mind while in Hawaii.
Steve stood and pushed one of the lanai doors shut, leaning on the frame for a moment as he drank in the peacefulness of the soft tropical twilight. May in Hawaii was a special time -- balmy, warm and filled with the last of spring's gentle rains -- Hawaii at it's best. Several content moments were sacrificed to the god of nature and the incomparability of fresh, fragrant air; moist with the memory of a recent sprinkle, the tangy smell of sea and the sweet smell of flowers. Remnants of perfection still lingered in this last paradise on earth. This was his home, his center of gravity. There was no need inside crying to travel the world and defeat international conspiracies. He had not gone to Vietnam to chase spectres because he'd laid to rest -- buried -- his ghosts from Korea. He did not want those memories to intrude on his life here.
The phone rang and McGarrett answered it, knowing he shouldn't. He was already late for his rendezvous.
"Are you still working? Do you want us to go to dinner without you?"
McGarrett smiled at the light reprimand from his detective. "I was just locking up, Danno. I'll be right over."
He closed the lanai door and snapped the lock, then walked the koa wood floors of the hall in silence. The footfalls echoed with eerie cadence in the empty building. As he walked to his car, the muted sound of sporadic traffic on King Street was overshadowed by the fast gun of an engine and the squeal of tires as a car skidded around the corner of the Iolani Palace and raced toward him.
McGarrett rolled over the hood and onto the grass in front of the car. As he hit the lawn, he rolled to his knees and drew his gun. At the same time a spray of bullets raked the grill, hood, and windshield of the Mercury sedan and spat across the pavement. McGarrett felt the sting of asphalt chips and shattered glass on his hands and face, felt the crunch of glass under his knees as he knelt in the wet grass and fired back at the car that was speeding around the far corner of the Palace.
A few of the bullets from the Police Special hit their mark but the sedan continued out of the Palace grounds. Before the sound of the racing engine had faded, Steve scrambled to the radio in the Mercury.
"It was a rental," he finished his report to HPD dispatch, commanding an APB on the car.
McGarrett was still staring at the corner of the driveway where the car had passed under a street light before disappearing. He couldn't stop thinking about the face in the back window. A big, red-haired man with a mangled face.
Identifying the face and the person still
did not make the reality any easier to accept. Karkov, the Russian spy was here
in Hawaii and had just made a very personal attempt to kill him. He hardly
thought of the sadistic spy anymore. Now, Karkov was back -- and Napoleon Solo
was here. Coincidence? Not likely.
II
Washington
D.C. MAY, 1975
Washington was experiencing its first major storm of the rough spring season. May brought cool winds and seemingly endless days and nights of rain. As he stepped to the curb, Oscar Goldman relished the feel of the brisk wind and soft drizzle-rain. He refused the umbrella offered by the doorman and paced away from the protection of the awning of the plush restaurant. He gratefully undid his black bow tie and breathed fresh, clean, moist air into lungs stifled from hours spent in smoke-filled conferences. Budget dinner conversation was as stuffy as the atmosphere and Goldman sighed with relief that the meetings were over.
As he waited for the limousine he let his mind stray from the pressing problems of budgets and committees to a more personal matter; a remnant of the past that had never really faded, but which had surfaced with a new urgency.
Headlights broke through the misty darkness and Oscar stepped back to the curb. Suddenly the car accelerated and shot directly toward him. Years of OSI training instinctively surfaced and in the scant seconds it took the speeding car to jump the curb and tear under the awning, Oscar had leaped back toward the building. He rolled clear as the car rocketed past then bounced back to the street and careened around the corner, disappearing into the night-cloaked mist like a ghostly dragon.
For long minutes Goldman laid completely still, unable to move. Part of his mind was assimilating data even though his thoughts were still numbed by shock. He was trembling from the fear and sudden flood of adrenaline into his system. His instincts had saved him, but he had almost forgotten what it was like to be in a life-threatening situation. He realized a sudden intense appreciation of his quiet job as an administrator. He was no longer cut out for this kind of action.
The doorman was practically hysterical, hovering about like an electrified puppet. Oscar came slowly to his feet and for the first time noticed the flap of his trench coat was blackened by a tire tread. He closed his eyes and caught his breath, not wanting to really think about how close he had come to death.
A long black limo pulled to the curb and Goldman extricated himself from the doorman as quickly as possible, now eager to be away from the crowd that had gathered. Once inside the safe cocoon of the limo, he leaned his head back and tried to calm his thoughts enough to function. Even in the split-second crisis his mind had been working. He remembered the make and color of the car along with a partial license number.
Oscar did not believe in coincidence. Though his enemies, both foreign and domestic, would have to be listed in a book the size of Webster's dictionary, this did not have the feel of a current case or an assassination. It was crude -- perhaps improvised -- but the intent was unmistakable, as was the message. Karkov. The cryptic messaged let at his office, earlier that afternoon, had surprised him. Then, he doubted the strange memo -- jotted down from Steve McGarrett in Honolulu:
Karkov alive, be careful.
Oscar picked up the phone and asked for a Honolulu number as his mind continued racing through the possibilities. Was Karkov after revenge, or to silence the men who could identify him -- who had ruined his set up in Vietnam? Was there some larger purpose, some operation he intended to launch in the US and felt the Korean War survivors would hinder his success? Of the original four NI officers, only he and Solo were still involved in the intelligence game. But he didn't think that would stop Karkov from an all-out vendetta.
The call was answered after only one ring.
"McGarrett."
The voice was deep with fatigue. Not unusual -- he checked his watch. It was after SevenPM in paradise. Oscar knew the fatigue was accumulated over a long day at a stressful job.
"Steve, this is Oscar. I just had a run-in and I think it's Russian in origin."
For a moment the line was quiet, filled only with the hum of noise from an overseas connection.
"Are you all right?"
Goldman held out his left hand which still trembled. "I'm a bit shaky, but in one piece."
"Not to doubt you, Oscar, but you have a lot more enemies than Karkov. What makes you think it was him?"
"I don't believe in coincidence, pal. You and Napoleon better be on your guard."
On the other end McGarrett spoke to someone else, then back into the phone. "It was one of his henchmen. Karkov was here tonight in Honolulu trying to kill me." McGarrett briefly explained the attack. Solo, Kuryakin and Williams were there at the office with him, discussing the event and the implications of Karkov's survival and offensive.
There was a long sigh from the other end of the connection. "Then he's alive and he's after us."
The line clicked. "Oscar, you're sure you're okay?" It was Solo.
"Well enough to catch an immediate flight to Honolulu."
"That might be playing right into his hands."
McGarrett, still on the connection, added his observation. "More than one can play this game."
Oscar agreed with the sentiment. "I'll see you soon."
"Be careful," Napoleon warned.
"How do you think I've stayed alive this long? And take your own advice, Napoleon. If this is revenge, you're going to be Karkov's main target" Soberly, Goldman unnecessarily reminded him of the past. "You're the one who shot him. He's not going to forget that."
The silence at the other end was indication enough that the warning had hit home. Knowing Karkov's vengeful, sadistic nature, Solo would doubtlessly be singled out for personal revenge.
"Neither will I," Solo responded quietly.
Goldman broke off, already organizing
details in his mind. Being Director of the OSI gave him a certain amount of
autonomy and could continue to use the vast resources of his organization for
this new hunt for Karkov. He would leave OSI in the capable hands of his
assistant and join Solo for the denouement of their quest. Oscar had revealed
none of this intrigue to his two closest friends, Steve Austin, and Rudy Wells.
They would both want to help and Oscar did no want to expose his friends to the
dangers of his past. It was hard enough to be reunited with old friends under
such dangerous circumstances. He hoped they would all, again, survive this
continuation reunion as they had survived Vietnam.
d
The sun shone bright and clear on the Iolani Palace grounds. Only a few tourists strolled the area of the historical royal palace. Dan swung the car past a family of shutterbugs and pulled into his parking slot next to the makai lawns. As he and Goldman exited the car Dan reflected he was beginning to feel like a tour guide or a taxi driver -- shuttling Steve's old friends from the airport. Not that he minded much. This Karkov character was a threat to McGarrett and his pals, and that made the Russian a target for Williams.
Goldman had been invited to stay at a windward estate owned by a mysterious suspense writer of his acquaintance named Robin Masters. Oscar accepted the luxury accommodations eve though he would not be out at the private Windward estate very much. Williams expected the main campsite to be Iolani Palace where McGarrett controlled operations for Five-0 and any other case he happened to be working on.
They climbed the crumbling front steps that had been tread by a king, a queen, army officers and governors over the years of Hawaii's political history. Dan led them around the top landing and entered the busy offices of Hawaii Five-0, the special state police unit of the Islands. The outer office was the reception area where several secretaries worked. Against the wall were three cubicles where the detectives kept their offices.
McGarrett was standing by one of the cubicles talking with a stocky Oriental. Both glanced up as Dan and the visitor approached.
"Oscar," the chief of Five-0 smiled as he shook hands. "Good to see you again. I just didn't expect it to be so soon, or under these conditions."
"The circumstances are regrettable." He offered a slight grin. "With this group, though, I don't think Karkov will know what he's in for."
McGarrett was not so confident. "Let's hope we can get this nasty business out of the way quickly." McGarrett introduced him to Chin Ho Kelly, one of his detectives. "Chin has lots of relatives with ears to the coconut wireless," he grinned at the Oriental, "but so far no luck on Karkov's whereabouts." Napoleon and Illya met them at Jenny Sherman's desk and exchanged greetings. "Come into the office." Steve gestured them to precede him and stepped toward the door of his private office where a command center had been established.
Solo snagged his sleeve and forced them to stay behind. Oscar, noting the action, joined them along with Illya. "Do you think it's wise to bring in another outsider?"
McGarrett stopped and glanced around the circle of professionals who had gathered in Honolulu to do battle with a formidable opponent.
"Outsider?"
"This is our fight," Solo gestured to Goldman, McGarrett, and himself. "Extra personnel can only mean extra liabilities."
"We can't find Karkov by ourselves, Napoleon," Goldman returned incredulously. "Karkov must have his own private army. We have to use all the resources we can find."
Shaking his head, he released a deep breath. "More vulnerabilities, just like 'Nam." Solo decried.
"We are all vulnerable in some way," Kuryakin responded with quiet soberness. "Our loyalty to each other is our greatest weakness."
Solo pointedly avoided looking at his partner. He was unwilling to let Kuryakin see how the comment had struck a nerve, how worried he was to have Illya along. "You know how dangerous it is to care about someone you're working with. It clouds judgement and is an invitation to trouble," he confessed with difficulty. Defensively he added, specifically to McGarrett, "Or maybe you've been out of the action too long to remember."
The accusation was thinly shrouded and the others stiffened. "Maybe you've been IN the field too long," Oscar shot back in irritation.
"This is not a private war." McGarrett's voice was hard and cold, and his stern blue eyes bore into Solo without mercy. "I have brought in my staff, who have extensive investigative experiences, and you have come here with your partner. All of these people can contribute to our goal, and they are aware of the risks. Remember that, Napoleon."
Solo released a long-held breath. He clenched and unclenched his jaw in irritation. His voice was as stern as McGarrett's. "Just remember we're even more vulnerable than we were in Korea, or 'Nam. Karkov knows us better for this round. He studied us in Vietnam. Be sure you're willing to risk your detectives on this, Steve, that's all I'm saying." When he finished as he glanced warningly at Kuryakin. "Karkov will not give us any second chances."
"I don't think we'll forget," Oscar returned confidently. "Besides, he's zero for two. He missed Steve and I -- "
"A warning," Kuryakin cut in. "I suspect his goal was to gather us here, in Hawaii. For what purpose, I think you can guess."
Napoleon summed it up for all of their
unspoken thoughts. "To finish us all off this
time."
d
The six men entered the spacious office which was crowded with communications equipment and miles of computer sheets. Two detectives were examining a map at a side table. Then the newcomers were introduced to the rest of the Five-0 staff, Duke Lukela, and Ben Kokua. McGarrett briefly outlined their efforts to find Karkov. Even with the help of HPD there had not been much progress since the attempt on McGarrett's life.
Dan asked the most obvious question to begin the session. "Why is Karkov here? Are you sure it's just revenge against you three?" The group had settled onto the sofa, the chairs, and edges of desks. Coffee was distributed and they prepared for their meeting of the minds.
McGarrett knowingly looked at his second-in-command. "You have something in mind, Danno?"
"Why hit any of you? Because he saw you in Vietnam? Obviously he was wounded. Then managed to leave and track Steve and Oscar."
"You sound like you're onto something," Oscar said eagerly.
Dan shrugged noncommittally. "Maybe. We've been guessing that Karkov is here to kill you. But why? It seems like a waste of a lot of energy for a wounded man. What if it's not revenge?"
Kuryakin was leaning on the side of Solo's chair. "Yes, what if it is because the three of you can not only recognize him, but link him to his evil past in Korea."
"Because he's planning something here in the States?" Chin asked to no one in particular.
McGarrett snapped his fingers as he paced the space by the lanai doors. Finally he sat on the edge of his desk and observed the rest of the group. Every face was tense with intent concentration.
"I think you're right," McGarrett agreed thoughtfully.
He had not missed the fact that this theory was generated by the parties who were not directly involved with the case. The significance that these detectives might have a better perspective than the veterans was mentally noted.
"Drug smuggling?" Oscar asked. "People smuggling? You're guessing."
Until now, Solo had been silent. For the first time he joined the discussion. "Intuition," he stated firmly and nodded in agreement as he glanced at his partner. "I agree. Why leave the safety of his perch in Asian now? He could be helping restructure the Communist party of Vietnam. He wouldn't leave all that just to get revenge on us. Karkov's here for a reason, and he wants us out of the way."
Several theories were thrown out and everyone had a new angle to contribute to the speculation. However, it was Oscar who suggested the most likely common denominator. Since all three Korean veterans were somehow still involved with intelligence; international, criminal, or governmental, each of them had wide circles of influence. The conclusion was that Karkov was, for some unknown reason, coming to the US and could not afford to be recognized. This put a new slant on the investigation and opened up new avenues to consider. It was agreed that splitting forces would enable them to cover leads more efficiently.
McGarrett, Oscar, and Chin would trace some
contacts in Chinatown. Dan, Duke, and Chin would check some informants on the
other side of the island. Ben would man the command post and coordinate
reports. Napoleon and Illya would pursue their own contacts around Oahu.
III
Clouds hovered over the Chinatown/ Little Saigon area of Honolulu and River Street was soaking under a May rainstorm. Asian immigrant had gravitated to these neighborhoods for over a century. With the recent influx of Vietnamese and Cambodian refugees, the old, narrow streets were crowded with emigrants.
"Lousy weather for pedicabs," Oscar commented conversationally as he pressed against the door of the small mom and pop store they had just left.
"Then Charlie will be home soon," Chin responded, glancing around the corner of their shelter and scanning the sidewalk.
Huddled Chinese ladies dwarfed under their broad umbrellas scurried along the rail by the river. Elderly men draped papers over their heads as they waited for a bus. School children darted between pedestrians and rushed for their homes.
McGarrett leaned past Oscar and glanced up and down the street. Their search of Chinatown had taken most of the second afternoon of Oscar's stay. The last four stops all being businesses of Chin's family. They had finally been referred to a relative named Charlie, who reputedly had some with friends who held ties to Vietnam.
The stake out was reminiscent of a few Steve
and Oscar had shared in their first partnership as young NI officers. After the
debacle in Manchuria the NI team had been returned to Seoul and reassigned.
Steve and Oscar had stayed together briefly as investigators in everything from
black-marketing to interrogation of spies, before Oscar returned to DC. The
experience had served them well for future careers.
d
Solo, upon returning from that fateful mission had requested field duty and received the dangerous missions of infiltration deep into enemy territory. He worked alone and had in fact vowed to the others he would never work with a team again. The wounds from Murray's and Magnum's deaths were too painful. It was a surprise when McGarrett had seen Solo only a few years ago with the inseparable Kuryakin. The taciturn Russian had somehow turned Solo around about partnerships and about Russians.
Oscar, Napoleon, and Steve were too much alike. They wholeheartedly devoted their lives to their careers, their 'missions' in life. The result was professionally satisfying but isolating on a personal basis. Fortunately they had all found coworkers who also filled an emotional gap left by the necessarily lonely lifestyle.
"Just when does Charlie get home, Chin?" Oscar asked as he leaned out the doorway to glance down the street.
The Oriental detective shrugged. "Anytime. Depends how business is. And how much cousin Charlie needs the money."
"He's your cousin, Chin?" Oscar asked with slight confusion. "I thought your cousin was named Lee and owned the restaurant that delivered lunch?"
"Charlie is a hui cousin. A brother of a second cousin. But it's all the same in the hui -- a big association of various relatives -- not necessarily all blood relations." Oscar nodded in acceptance, but exchanged an amused glance with McGarrett. "I think it would take all the resources of the OSI to figure out your genealogy, Chin"
"I'm sure it would. Only a family member could understand . . . there he is!" Chin exclaimed and pointed along the river sidewalk.
A Chinese youth was peddling hard on a bright orange pedicab. He dodged in and out of the walking traffic and slowed as he approached the herb store where the three investigators had taken shelter. Chin stepped out to stop the pedicab, McGarrett and Oscar close behind.
"Charlie! We need to talk to you!"
Charlie braked hard and skidded the vehicle to within a foot of McGarrett's foot. The young man was coolly arrogant in the face of such authority.
"Hiya, Chin. Whatcha doin' heah? You wanna deal on ginseng?"
"We want information, Charlie. This is Steve McGarrett, and Oscar Goldman. They have a few questions."
Fear darted into the wide brown eyes of the young man. Eyes that were riveted on the well known face of McGarrett. Charlie swallowed hard. "What does Five-0 want with me? I dun nothin', bro." The cool facade was slipping under the steady, relentless gaze of McGarrett. "I got no guilt, man."
"Good," McGarrett said quietly. "Shall we find somewhere out of the rain and discuss your friends in Vietnam?" Charlie gulped again. He was small time, definitely not the kind of fish Five-0 usually went after. There was a subtle formidability about McGarrett that made him larger than life. The reputation of Five-0, and its boss, was enough to subdue the young man, who now faced the ultimate authority of Hawaii.
"Yeah. Follow me," he suggested and parked the pedicab at the curb, then stepped into the herb store.
"You'll have to teach me that interrogation technique," Oscar said with appreciation as he held the door.
"Anytime,
Oscar."
d
Dan Williams, Duke, and Illya had spent their third day on the job much as they had spent the second, in the air above Oahu. Using an HPD chopper, they had tracked one of Dan's informants, a snitch who was rumored to have some connections with gunrunning. Rumor also had it that about twenty automatic rifles and even more pistols had recently been purchased by a Russian. The number of arms was too small for foreign sales and too large for local hoods. It looked promising, the only problem was to find the location of the snitch. The helicopter swung low over the hills behind the famous North Shore beaches.
Through binoculars Dan scanned the ocean and watched several surfers riding the magnificent waves. "Wish I was out there today," he sighed and glanced back at the hillside.
"You wish you were out there everyday," Duke returned with a knowing smile.
Illya took his eyes off the hillside long enough to glance at the senior detective who looked young enough to be one of the surf bums cutting classes.
"Into surfing? Or just the girls on the beach?"
"Both," Dan laughed.
"He was born a surf bum," Duke assured. "He'd live on the beach if he could."
Illya played along. "Should we check for sand in his shoes?"
Dan used the binoculars again to scan the hillside, but he was still smiling. "You won't find any. I have to work for a living."
Duke nudged his arm. "There's Reni. And he's running for that car!"
The chopper took a dive and swooped toward the ground. A thin, shirtless man was running from a dilapidated shack, heading for an old car parked on a dirt path. As the chopper closed in on the quarry, several other people raced out of the house.
"Get us low and we'll jump," Williams shouted to the pilot as he opened the door and prepared to leap to the ground.
The chopper hovered near the car and Dan, Duke, and Illya all jumped. The fugitives had quickly scattered, but with help from skilled piloting, most were corralled near the shack. Illya chased a chunky Hawaiian down the slope and through a huge watermelon patch. He quickly closed the gap between them and he brought him to the ground with a flying tackle. The man was too stunned to put up any resistance to the much slighter man who had grounded him. Wrestling the captive up, Illya glanced around at the watermelons and noticed the vines were tangled with marijuana plants.
"No wonder you were running." He smiled as he led her prison back toward the shack.
"Great job, Illya," Williams congratulated as he dragged a subdued Reni behind him.
Duke emerged from the shack and held several bags of marijuana in one hand, a thin teenage girl by the arm with his other hand.
"Not exactly big time."
Dan stared at Reni and company with no hint of mercy. "But big enough to put Reni away for a lot of sunsets. Right, Reni?"
"What do you want, Williams?" Reni stuttered, shying away from the detective who was pressing him against the wood frame of the shack.
"Information, Reni."
The skinny man sagged against the wall, unwilling to resist the power of Five-0. Everyone on the rock knew if you didn't cooperate with the Five-0 guys you would be buried deep with a very long time to surface from prison.
Reni didn't want any grief. "Whatever you want, Williams. Just remember I volunteered the info."
"I'll tell the judge you were a model
citizen," Dan assured wryly.
d
The morning of their fourth day in Hawaii found Solo and Kuryakin at the Hale Koa, where Thomas Magnum and his two friends were staying. The military hotel was located at Fort DeRussy, prime government land situated on the beach at Waikiki. Dressed in casual clothes with windbreakers to conceal their shoulder holsters and weapons, the two agents stepped to the edge of the lanai bar and surveyed the stretch of white sand beach already crowded with sun-worshipers.
The last few days Solo had been on his own course, unwilling to adhere to McGarrett's program. They had checked in at the local UNCLE office and enlisted the strictly unofficial aid of some part-time agents. This independent path had brought them no closer to Karkov, and Solo had lost patience in semi-official channels.
Somehow -- Kuryakin suspiciously wondered if Solo had invited them -- Napoleon discovered Magnum, TC and Wright were on holiday in Hawaii. This seemed strange since the three young men had hardly been home from the war for more than a month.
Solo had deemed it time to bring in some 'civilians' -- non-professional personnel. Illya had objected, but his arguments had fallen on deaf ears, as they usually did when dragging civilians into their operations. Kuryakin shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned the beach toward Diamond Head. Solo looked in the opposite direction, holding onto his side which still ached. His gaze tracked with two girls in bikinis who walked along the tide-line.
"We're looking for three men." Kuryakin's reminder was crisp.
"Why don't you invest in a pair of shades?" Solo suggested. "And I AM looking for three men."
"You broke my sunglasses last week in Triploi?"
"I DIDN'T!" Solo countered firmly.
"When you pushed me . . . ."
". . . against the wall, yes, I know, but I was saving your life! Doesn't that count?"
Kuryakin resisted the overwhelming urge to smile at the success of his ribbing. Because of Solo's recent proclivity for brooding, they did not engage in their banter with the same frequency as usual. Solo's participation in the light exchanges the past few days meant that he was stabilizing, coming to grips with the reality that the search for Karkov could take a long time. Not excessively patient by nature, it had been a great strain on Solo. He fluctuated between depression and hope now optimism seemed to be getting the upper hand. He was no longer completely consumed by his vengeful obsession, and a semblance of professional patience had been reinstated.
"You still owe me a pair of sunglasses."
The senior agent sighed, knowing exactly what Kuryakin was doing, and Naploeon appreciated it. He was more than happy to end the arguing that seemed to be their new form of communication. He knew he had been unreasonably tough on his partner since this hunt had started.
Solo smiled ruefully. "I surrender. As soon as we're done here we'll go down to Kalakaua and -- there they are," he pointed in Kuryakin's direction. "In front of the Sheraton. Isn't that them?"
The Russian squinted against the morning sun. "Yes." Solo sat down on a nearby wall and stiffly removed his shoes and socks and rolled his trouser cuffs up several inches. Kuryakin observed him with open curiosity.
Solo noticed the perplexed look and gestured at the beach. "You don't want sand in your shoes, do you?"
Kuryakin sat down and followed his partner's example. "You still think this is a good idea?"
Napoleon did not want to start another argument, so he shrugged noncommittally. "It's always a good idea to be prepared."
"You're not exactly a Boy Scout," Illya returned, not pressing his objections to Solo's latest escapade.
They walked through the warm Waikiki sand until they reached the bright red and orange outrigger where Magnum, Calvin, and Wright were standing. The three young men were surprised to see the UNCLE agents and even more surprised to be asked to help on an assignment. Solo offered to treat for some refreshment and they went to a beachfront cafe to discuss the details.
"We didn't expect to see you on the other side of the world," Rick commented around a mouthful of red and blue shave ice.
They were at a table on the lanai of a beachside restaurant. Taking advantage of the free sweet, Magnum, Rick and TC had ordered extra large shave ice cones. Illya also had taken advantage of his partner's expense account, never one to refuse food, especially when Napoleon paid.
"We end up everywhere." Illya wanted to keep the conversation easy. Once Solo got into the story he wasn't sure how Magnum would take it.
"So what brings you to Hawaii? Business or pleasure," Magnum asked after the small talk had faded away.
Wright was enthusiastic. "We won this vacation -- some kind of contest for vets. We don't even remember entering it!"
"All three of us winning family vacations to Hawaii!" TC was amazed. "Hard to believe, isn't it?"
Kuryakin stared at Solo. "Yes, it is. How fortuitous."
Ignoring his partner, Solo replied dryly. "We're here on business."
Magnum already seemed -- suspicious -- was too strong a word. The Navy Intel vet knew something was up, and Solo liked that. It showed the edge of the intelligence officer was still intact after the war -- after losing his wife. It was an edge that made a difference in this life and death career, and he believed it was a natural gift that could be enhanced and trained, but rarely learned as an instinct. It was an extra sense that was frequently the only advantage over the opponent.
"You mean intelligence business?"
Solo nodded. "We need some help with a mission. Your services will be well paid for."
Calvin pushed back his plate and studied the two UNCLE men. "We're not mercenaries."
"We just left a war." Rick reminded. "TC and me are out of the Marines. Thomas is on leave. He has to report to San Diego next month."
TC shook his head. "We're here with our families."
"This isn't quite the same as what you're used to." Napoleon's smooth assurance held their attention.
It seemed to confirm a suspicion and Thomas nodded. "You want us for an UNCLE mission?"
Kuryakin lost his patience with the word games and broke in. "We're tracking Karkov. He did not die in Cambodia. And yes, it is an UNCLE assignment." Glaring at his partner, he qualified. "Sometimes we need help from outside sources. You are experienced combat veterans. And you are personally involved."
Magnum stared at Kuryakin, then Solo with suspicion. "I shot Karkov."
"No one disputes that." Napoleon gave him a slight bow. "And you saved my life, for which I am grateful. But Karkov is alive. He was spotted here four nights ago, in Honolulu."
"You sure?" Rick asked.
"Very. He tried to kill one of my friends. Someone who knows Karkov. The Russian is alive and ready to kill. He tried killing Oscar -- "
"Is he okay?" Magnum's concern pushed his objections aside.
"Fine. He's in town now. I'm sure he'd like to see you again."
Napoleon quickly explained that UNCLE would provide the equipment and cover expenses. Magnum, Rick, and TC were the unofficial back up, operating under Napoleon's direction. If it would make Magnum feel better, Solo could get him temporarily assigned from NI to UNCLE. TC scoffed, but Solo assured them UNCLE had the clout to cut through the red tape to accomplish nearly anything.
The first instinct was to decline. Though the offer was generous in the extreme, Thomas didn't like working for a mysterious internation spy organization on an equally enigmatic mission. And he was suspicious of Solo.
Magnum glanced at his friends. "We'd have to discuss it, but first we want to know everything."
"There isn't a need to know everything," Kuryakin countered too quickly.
TC shook his head. "No way. You tell us the whole story or no deal," he insisted and received silent confirmation from his two friends.
Kuryakin glared at his partner in a mute communication of disapproval. He vehemently objected to Magnum knowing about his father's death and Karkov's involvement. It was the last thing the young man needed after a disillusioning war and losing a wife. This subject had been one of the greatest contentions between Illya and Solo. There seemed to be no way to avoid the truth, though Kuryakin still believed it was a mistake. It would just give Magnum another war that would never end.
Solo turned away from his friend and looked at Magnum. "Karkov is a murderer of American soldiers dating back to Korea. It's a very long story. All you need to know --"
"We need the truth." Magnum's voice and eyes were steeled with resolve.
For a moment Solo stared at him, weighing the options, hesitant to cross this last Rubicon that would change Magnum's life -- perhaps cost the lives of Thomas and his friends. Revealing this to the younger men would probably also cost Napoleon his good relations with one of his oldest friends. Oscar would never forgive him. Gauging Magnum's determination, Napoleon judged he had no choice. With something so important as his father's murder, perhaps it was best for the young man to discover the truth.
"The bottom line is that Karkov killed your father."
A stunned Magnum stared at the agent for several moments. Shaking his head, he denied the statement. "My father's jet was shot down and he died . . ." His face hardened. "Oscar said he died in a field hospital."
"He did. From injuries sustained in the jet crash. If he and the rest of us hadn't been captured by Karkov, your father would have probably survived his injuries."
"I want to hear the whole story." Thomas insisted quietly, but with an edge of danger. "The truth this time."
Starting from the sortie into Manchuria, Solo related the history of the ill-fated mission. His eyes were unfocused, staring into the past as he glossed over the details of their capture, but it was more for his benefit than for the younger men. POW's for three months, Magnum and TC well knew the horrors of captivity.
There was silence at the table for several minutes after Napoleon had finished. It would take some time, if ever, for Thomas come to grips with the truth. After twenty years Solo was still haunted. Magnum wondered if wars ever ended.
"This is very personal to you. Why?" he asked.
Even from the distance of years, it had not been easy for the older agent to relate the story. Solo's voice had cracked a few times and his fingers nervously tapped the coffee cup in his hands.
"Your father was a friend," Napoleon responded softly, staring at the ocean. "Years have a way of making you questions what happened. What you would have done differently. What I could have done to change things . . . ."
Magnum exchanged glances with the others, all noting the change in tense. Thomas glanced to Kuryakin. "What are you doing here?"
The shrug was easy. "I'm with him," Kuryakin gestured toward Solo.
It was a question Illya had asked himself many times, and the reasons were too complex to supply an answer even to himself. The explanation was the same as it had been for many years. He was half of a partnership. Though he did not always agree with Solo, or like what the senior agent did, they were still a team.
Being an UNCLE operative was literally living on the edge of death. He never thought of a future, then if he were killed he would not feel he disrupted any plans. The only thing he had counted on was Solo. Losing his partner through death, or this slow disintegration of the past few months, was unacceptable. Solo had always been there for Kuryakin, and he would make sure he was always there for Napoleon.
The questions were directed at Solo again. "Why didn't you tell me before?" Thomas asked. "You wanted to in 'Nam, didn't you?"
"I wanted to," Solo admitted and briefly glanced at Illya. "It wasn't the right time. There were other things on your mind, but now, we need your help."
Magnum nodded slowly, already knowing nothing could keep him out of the operation. TC and Rick both voted in, and Magnum accepted the offer, but with several ground rules of his own. Used to working as a team, they would work under Solo only. And Napoleon would supply a complete story of the incident in Manchuria.
"I've told you everything," Solo countered smoothly. "But Oscar knows more about your father. You'll have to ask him."
Searching out Goldman would be Thomas' next mission. There were many mysteries that would now be solved, and a few had already been answered. It would be gratifying to discover more about his father. There would be a personal satisfaction in working with Solo and Goldman, men who were part of his father's past. It was like a legacy from his father, to Goldman and Solo, to Thomas.
"We'll need a chopper," TC said, getting down to business.
"And we'll give you a list of armaments," Rick added, eagerly anticipating this new kind of operation. "I suppose that won't be a problem?"
Solo indicated that nothing was out of reach courtesy of UNCLE.
Under his breath, Kuryakin muttered that
that carte' blanch might change after Waverly got the credit card vouchers.
IV
Lau Chun was the patriarch of a large and prosperous hui which could trace its history on the islands back to 1898. For his eighty-eighth birthday, his descendants decided on a neighborhood celebration. Pauahi Street was closed for two blocks and a traditional Chinese celebration was scheduled to run the entire weekend.
Cousin Charlie had informed Chin of an informal meeting of the Asian underground during the celebration, who might give some information on Karkov. Two hours after sunset the Five-0 detectives, and associates, mingled with the crowd and searched for Charlie's friends. Too conspicuous to stay together, the investigators had broken into small groups and tried to blend in with the partygoers.
Napoleon Solo stepped back from the curb to avoid collision with the multi-legged Chinese dragon dancing down the avenue. He nearly stepped on top of Illya, who pulled him farther from the street as the racing dragon whipped past them in a zigzag pattern.
"Hit and run dragons can be dangerous," Kuryakin observed wryly. "Presumably Lau Chun's family is pleased at his longevity," Illya speculated between bites of an eggroll purchased from a street vendor.
The party had extended to include a number of side alleys and small streets, and none of the other investigator-groups were in sight. In typical Hawaiian fashion, the Chinese party was a melting pot of cultures. Street vendors peddled everything from poi to won tons, shave ice to firecrackers, and sushi to flower leis. Kuryakin had sampled every possible variety of foods they had encountered. Solo held out for something more civilized.
"We could always try the squid that Ling Po suggested," Illya ventured and laughed at the disgusted expression on Solo's face.
"Ling Po is obviously a man of no taste," the UNCLE agent insisted fastidiously.
A short debate ensued between Kuryakin and Solo, arguing the merits of Oriental dishes they had sampled from around the world. Unable to win any argument about food with the Russian, Solo surrendered.
They were only a half block from River Street when they were stopped by the brightly colored dragon. They waited at the curb as the twenty-or-so people under the colored paper snaked down the street. Over the last few days they had been together, a comfortable working relationship had settled over the entire group of investigators. Slow, but steady progress had enabled the widely disparate groups to learn to work in unity. They merged divers styles to bring success to the inquiry. There was still an underlying tension for them all, but none let it control them. Even Solo had emotionally stabilized, accepting the stasis as the calm before the storm.
The tail of the dragon swished by and Illya tugged at Solo's sleeve.
"Feel like some normal sushi?"
The agent pondered a moment. "Sounds good." He glanced distastefully at Kuryakin's plate. "Better than octopus or squid."
At an open sushi bar toward the river, Kuryakin and Solo met up with Dan Williams. Napoleon noted Magnum, Rick, and TC just a few doors down. Deciding to coordinate with them, and better to eat some old fashioned American food, Solo left his partner and Dan to choose dinner from a selection of Japanese raw fish. The last thing he heard was a wise crack from Williams about the stubbornness of partners.
Before Napoleon reached Magnum, the street exploded in a shower of firecrackers. The celebrations had constantly punctuated the night, but some instinct told Solo this was not part of the birthday celebrations. The paper street dragon had scurried around to confront him when the firecrackers went off. As the head was coming toward him Solo went for the Walther under his jacket. An instant later, Magnum and his friends were at Solo's side.
Suddenly the street was alive with noise and frenzied activity. Just as the pistol cleared his coat the dragon's head slammed him into the brick wall. The wind rushed out of his lungs and before he could recover two bullets zipped past his head. He dove aside as he heard Illya call his name, heard the cough of a Walther a few feet away.
Total confusion reigned. The front of the dragon had moved down the street, the tail whipping back and forth, scattering the crowds. The middle of the creature collapsed and several of the people from under the head had scattered. An explosion much louder than a firecracker went off nearby. Part of Solo's mind recognized this as a diversion. But his primary focus was on immediate survival as the tail slammed into the wall next to him.
At the first sound of gunfire Dan and Illya split up, the detective racing around several carts and vendors. He returned to the street in time to see several events unfolding simultaneously: A grenade had exploded the gas tank of a car half a block away, at the mouth of an alley, Illya Kuryakin was exchanging shots with a Chinese youth, then was suddenly attacked by a masked ninja-type. Illya, weapon knocked to the ground, managed to arm lock the thug who tried to escape to a nearby van.
Dan raced to his aid. "Hold it, Five-0!" he shouted, revolver in both hands as he trained the weapon on the man. "I've got him, Illya," he warned.
Kuryakin released the man, searching for his fallen pistol, when the detached head of the dragon raced toward them.
"Danny!"
An explosion ripped from the mouth of the dragon, filling the street with flame, heat, and force. The blow threw Kuryakin into a cart. Williams flew onto his back in the street and he lost consciousness before he hit the pavement.
Dazed, Illya managed to get to his feet just
before two ninja-dressed thugs descended on top of him. Off-balance, he used
the splintered wood of the cart as a bat to smack one of his attackers. The
other closed in quickly, but the wiry Russian sidestepped, the ninja slipping
on some pulverized egg roll on the sidewalk.
d
The car explosion shook the street, blowing windows out up and down the block. McGarrett, Oscar, and Chin Ho crouched in the doorway of a restaurant, covering their heads from the shower of glass raining from above. People scattered in panic, nearly trampling the officers in an effort to escape, while Steve and the others strained to make their way toward the center of havoc. Keeping to the edges of the buildings, they met up with Solo, who held his drawn gun to the side to avoid further panic.
"What happened?"
Napoleon was pushing against the crowd to get back down the block, knowing little more than McGarrett. "I didn't see. But I know Illya and Danny were down there."
McGarrett's anxiety increased and he made a more concerted effort to push through the masses. Momentarily the crowd cleared, veering away from the fight-in-progress of Kuryakin and a black-clad figure. Taking advantage of the momentary lull, Solo switched his pistol to fire sleep-darts and fired one into the ninja about to kick Illya. The attacker fell to the ground like a lifeless doll.
"I could have handled it myself." The breathless admission from the Russian seemed to contradict his statement.
"Where's Danno?"
Wiping the sweat and dirt from his eyes, Illya gestured toward the alley. "We were separated. . . ."
Steve rushed through the crowd to get to the
alley. Tatters of the dragon costume littered the asphalt. A box load of
flowers lay dumped to the side. There was no sign of Dan Williams. Glaring at
the others around him, including several HPD officers who had gathered,
McGarrett tersely ordered a search of the area. In his heart, he had the
wrenching dread that they would not find Dan Williams.
d
McGarrett sighed and pushed the half-filled coffee cup to the edge of the desk. They had drowned themselves in caffeine all night and couldn't stand any more. Glancing around the room he was unpleasantly reminded of a tomb. Williams had been spirited into a van before Illya could prevent the kidnapping. An APB had been issued on the van and the dispirited group had returned to the Palace to regroup and coordinate a search.
Oscar, Duke, and Ben had returned about an hour before from a frustrating night. Witnesses remembered a flower delivery van in the alley just before the party. Illya vaguely recalled something of the sort, and had managed to drudge up from some subconscious memory the name painted on the side of the van: Aloha Flowers. A fruitless interview with the owner of the shop proved he knew nothing about the missing van, the missing driver, or the kidnapping. The shop was under surveillance by HPD, but McGarrett felt it would be a dead end.
About four AM HPD had found the stolen flower delivery vehicle. Prints had been wiped clean, but two shirt buttons belonging to a standard white shirt, like Dan's had been found on the floor. No sign of violence, and Steve held onto that as a single ray of hope, a lifeline. In the early hours before dawn they had come back to the office and fit pieces of the theory together. They were all professionals and the investigation was conducted with the hallmark of men who knew their job. Personal comments were sparse. Everyone knew how this attack had bruised them -- hurt Steve -- but they couldn't dwell on that.
Now the three were lounging in chairs and lethargically reading more computer printouts, still hoping for a lead to Karkov and/or Williams the two certainly connected. Napoleon had come in only ten minutes ago and now lounged in subdued silence near the communications table where Kuryakin studied maps of the area. Abnormally reticent about his investigation, but distressed at the kidnapping, Solo kept to himself. The initial confusion in Chinatown, the investigation, thus far, propelled McGarrett into busy activity. Now, nerves frayed by too little sleep and too much vivid imagination, Steve barely contained his anxious torment.
Kuryakin noted the glare directed in their direction and forestalled a conflict before it started. "We could not have foreseen this unfortunate event, Steve. It is no one's fault."
McGarrett launched to his feet. "Don't you find it an amazing coincidence that none of this started until after Napoleon found Karkov in Vietnam?" He narrowed his glare on the dark haired agent who passively stared at him. "Now Karkov is after us! Oscar, Napoleon and myself! But Danno got in the way somehow. Another coincidence? Not on your life!"
Roused from reading a report, Oscar joined McGarrett at the desk, almost a physical show of caution in case the Five-0 chief needed restraint.
Kuryakin's tone was controlled and cool. "Napoleon's encounter with him in Vietnam was a piece of bad luck. Karkov clearly is after the three of you. Taking Danny is consistent with his MO of using people -- friends-- against each other as leverage."
Goldman's voice was quietly thoughtful. "So you think this is more than a kidnapping? The first stage in some kind of plan? There have been no demands."
"A lure." Solo's tone echoed of ghosts and painful remembrances. "They want to draw us out."
McGarrett found it difficult working with spies during any operation. Livid at Solo bringing disaster to his house, he forced himself to back away from the hot emotions and think like an objective cop.
The UNCLE agents were team players only to themselves and tended to exclude the rest of the group. Part of it was habit, the spy business bred distrust and independence. But another part of it was Solo's driven obsession with Karkov. Solo had changed since Korea, they all had, of course, but Solo perhaps more than any of them. He had completely adopted the mantle of an international spy, so different from the young ensign McGarrett had come to befriend and trust in Korea.
Napoleon was now somehow different from the UNCLE agent who had visited Hawaii several times in the last few years. McGarrett wondered if the change was the gradual erosion of personality from years of covert missions. Or perhaps the change was more sudden, fostered by the appearance of Karkov. The difference was there and McGarrett was not the only one to notice. Illya, always a conscientious partner, had stuck like glue to Solo, watching his partner with acute scrutiny, as if he wasn't sure what Solo was about to do.
"This is not Korea." McGarrett's words were as hard as his tone. "Karkov must know we are not going to be easily trapped."
"Then Danny is collateral in case we get too close."
McGarrett stretched, deciding to breathe some life into the morbid group. As he always did in an investigation, he would return to the beginning and meticulously go over every detail. It was a painstaking and time-consuming process, but had frequently broken an investigative slump and solved a case. Brainstorming was sometimes the only way to find insignificant items which were easily overlooked. To start with he opened the lanai doors, bursting sunlight and fresh, Trade-blown breeze into the stuffy, warm room.
"Oh, sunlight." Ben, who had been dozing in a chair, groaned and covered his eyes.
"Time to get back to work."
McGarrett rounded the desk, snapping his fingers. It was early and the tropic sun barely escaped the shrouded clouds near the eastern mountains. The men came to various stages of alertness. Coffee was fetched for the stout of heart and a few others wiped sleep from their eyes as they prepared to clear fatigue-muddled brains for action.
"Where do we go from here?" Oscar wondered as he passed around some donuts brought by the just arrived Duke Lukela.
"We stop trying to find clues that aren't there," McGarrett responded, sorely missing Danno, who usually contributed so much to these sessions.
"And we go over what we already know," Ben sighed knowingly.
"Sounds familiar," Goldman sighed.
Brainstorming had started when Oscar and Steve were NI investigators in Seoul. Many times the midnight oil had been burned while the two young officers had poured over and over details of a case.
Chin began. "Maybe we're getting too close to Karkov and he wants Danny as a trade for his freedom."
"Or bait to catch several fish," Oscar offered soberly. His comments offered the darkest possibilities they faced. A subtle but constant warning of the danger of the game.
Duke shook his head. "If it was bait, wouldn't Karkov make it easier to catch him?"
Kuryakin shrugged noncommittally. "Who can guess his convoluted thinking? To make it easy would make us suspicious. Karkov does not want to simply eliminate everyone in the search. If he did, he would have killed Dan last night, and the rest of us, if he could have. I believe Karkov is only interested in -- his enemies from Korea," he gestured to the NI veterans.
The theory had been slowly coalescing in his mind for some weeks, and was reaffirmed by each incident that occurred. Karkov wanted, perhaps needed the eyewitnesses out of the way. The rest of them were unimportant annoyances who would be killed only if they were in the way.
Napoleon, Oscar, Steve were the targets. Perhaps Illya was the one to see it so clearly because he was somewhat removed from the direct emotional involvement of the main three men. Perhaps he saw it because he was highly motivated to find the solution and return his life to the normalcy of his spy-vs-spy world. Solo's quest, and the danger to Napoleon had rather upset Kuryakin's lifestyle and he wanted a return to his own unique brand of dangerous existence.
"Are you suggesting we offer ourselves as bait?" McGarrett asked warily.
Napoleon sat up, his brown eye sharp. "The three of us in the open and easy targets might smoke him out."
"But it wouldn't get us any closer to Danny," Ben pointed out reasonably, hoping to dissuade the alarming notion that met with approval from the three men in question.
"It would bring Karkov out in the open, too," Solo agreed too eagerly.
"I disagree." Kuryakin's objection was instant and forceful. Napoleon had suggested it to him days ago, but Kuryakin had vehemently squashed the deadly idea, claiming the Americans were cowboys, all too anxious to throw their lives on the line for a heroic cause. He had spent the last fifteen-plus years trying to curb that instinct in his partner. "There must be a better way."
McGarrett was only too eager to adopt a solution -- almost anything -- to get them moving in the direciton of bring Danno home safely. Every minute they wasted was time with his second-in-command in peril. "I can't think of one that would net us results as quickly."
Oscar nodded, sighing with agrement. "No matter what Karkov's motives for being here, he's not likely to pass up a chance to take us out."
"Do not be fooled into seeing only the obvious here, gentlemen." Illya warned the foolish, would-be white knights with stern resolution. "There is more here than what is on the surface." He looked at Solo. "Karkov is playing on your old fears, expecting you to fall into old traps of intimidation. I have a feeling there is more at work here. Not just vengeance against you three." Looking at McGarrett, he specified. "Or just to get the three of you back for his failure in Korea. He wants you out of the way, yes. But why? We must ask the deeper inquiries, not just the surface questions."
"What can we do to find out?" Goldman asked of McGarrett. "You're the cop here, Steve. This is starting to sound more like a police investigation." He gave a nod to Illya. "I think Illya might have something in his theory."
"Chin's still trying to find Charlie, but I really don't think he's involved," McGarrett said with assurance. "He didn't know we would be on Pauahi last night."
"I agree," Oscar countered. "Then who else knew aside from the people in this room?"
The question surprised McGarrett. "I
don't know. But we're going to find out."
d
Steve, Napoleon, and Illya went with Oscar to Robin's Nest late in the afternoon. Goldman was a personal friend of Robin Masters and had been there only briefly during his time in Hawaii. The others had never met Masters, but they knew the reputation of the famous, rich novelist.
"What about Higgins?" Napoleon wondered as they walked the grounds of the massive, impressive estate nestled on the Windward coast of Oahu.
Oscar almost choked. "As a security threat? No way. I've known him for years, he was in MI6. He's aware of what's going on, but he can keep a secret."
McGarrett knew Solo's instincts were good and wondered about the doubts. "Any specific reason?" Accustomed to relying on his instincts, McGarrett appreciated the honed trait in others and knew Solo had a very finely tuned sixth sense. They stood by a low, stone sea wall and looked out at the ocean.
Napoleon shook his head. "Not really. But Oscar is the only one who's been outside of the central planning. Staying here at the estate, you might be vulnerable, Oscar." He looked at Goldman. "Any ideas?"
Oscar pondered the query. "I was alone at the estate when you gave me directions to Chinatown last night." He shrugged. "Higgins was gone, but maybe someone else here? I'll do some discrete checking."
McGarrett snapped his fingers in rapid cadence with his racing thoughts. Lowering his head, he quickly told the others to turn around, inconspicuously, and catch a glimpse by the house. The other complied, casually gesturing around as if admiring the estate. By an open window of the house, a gardener trimmed some hedges.
"He's got to be the link," Oscar whispered. "Right in our backyard, literally."
Illya smiled. "And now we can use him to our own advantage."
Napoleon's grim expression brightened. This
was always the part of the case Illya loved best -- turning an adversary's
cleverness around so the hunter becomes the snared prey. They were now on the
verge of the most dangerous part of their mission, setting a trap that was
clever enough to catch their mark and keep them all alive. The danger sharpened
their nerves and reflexes and would make them formidable indeed. The trick was
to make sure they somehow liberated Dan Williams, then
nabbed the bad guys, in that order.
VII
Jonathan Quayle Higgins III paced
briskly along the sea wall, his two Doberman companions loping ahead. It was a
long walk around the main housing area of the estate, and he finished his
afternoon patrol near the front gate. His timing was perfect, as he knew it
would be. The black sedans had arrived at precisely two-ten PM and he stepped
to the iron bars where the 'RM' monogram was prominently displayed.
McGarrett signaled from the car and Higgins opened the gate. The cars passed and Higgins locked the security gate behind them, walking up to the house to meet the new arrivals. When Oscar had called and briefly explained the situation, Higgins was more than happy to cooperate. It had been many years since he had met Oscar in London and worked on a joint intelligence project. They had been long-distance friends ever since, though Higgins had retired from the intelligence game some time ago.
"Thanks for letting us intrude on you, Jonathan," Oscar said in boisterous voice guaranteed to alert every eavesdropping ear in the area. "Let me introduce you to my friends."
Higgins shook hands with McGarrett -- both had heard of the other, since it was a small island, but they had never met. Solo and Illya quickly assessing him as they knew he was assessing them. He introduced Zeus and Apollo, the 'lads', as the security guards. "You're with the UNCLE I understand," he said in his clipped British accent as he showed them into the large house.
"New York office," Kuryakin offered obligingly.
"I had the opportunity to join when it was just getting started," Higgins said in a matter-of-fact tone reminiscent of a lecturer. "Friend of mine, Alexander, wanted me in. You probably don't know him, must have retired years ago."
Solo and Kuryakin exchanged rueful glances. "I don't know, it's a small world sometimes," Solo answered dryly.
After they had dropped their meager luggage in their quaarters, Higgins showed the agents into the study. A large table had been moved into the room and it was an excellent, spacious area for a command post. Higgins opened the lanai doors.
"The Trades come in from the makai side of the estate. They bring fresh air and the scent of the hibiscus hedge," he commented appreciatively. "This is Mr. Masters's favorite room."
"We'd like to thank you for letting us overrun your estate," McGarrett said as he unpacked some papers in his briefcase. "Our lives are in danger and this was the safest place we could think of where we could meet until we can find Karkov."
"No problem at all. My instructions are to offer you every courtesy. Needless to say my services, and the lads', of course," he paused as he glanced at the Dobermans, "are at your disposal."
"I hope your services won't be needed," Oscar responded soberly.
Goldman coaxed Higgins out for a walk on the beach. As prearranged, Oscar was explaining the full plan to Higgins and checking external defenses. As soon as they left, Solo went into their own routine. Many years of planned scenarios had honed their performance abilities to virtuoso quality.
Illya joined McGarrett at the large table in the corner of the room. Solo crossed to the liquor stand.
"Isn't it a bit early for that, Napoleon?" Kuryakin asked reprovingly.
"Not for me," the senior agent responded as he poured a generous portion of brandy into a glass. Kuryakin glanced coolly at his partner.
"Napoleon, do you think that is going to help?"
"No." He released a slow, bitter laugh. "And don't talk to me about help. I tried to help -- I was the one who went after him in 'Nam." He downed the liquor and poured more. "Seems like nothing erases Karkov from our lives, he just keeps haunting me like a ghost." He raised the glass. "Haven't you heard, brandy makes ghosts invisible?"
When he approached the others, Illya held onto the glass to keep him from drinking more. Kuryakin "Sacrificing yourself as bait in Vietnam was not the answer, Napoleon."
Solo shrugged away, obviously not concerned with his partner's opinion. Two glasses later he brought the bottle over to the table. Some of the brandy spilled onto the papers in hand.
Angrily Steve shoved the bottle away. "If you're going to fall apart, Napoleon, why don't you just leave?"
"I am not falling apart," Solo snapped nastily. "And this is MY mission. No one is kicking me off my mission! Certainly not you!"
"Our mission," McGarrett corrected firmly. "My friend is the one who's been kidnapped. Why couldn't it have been you?"
Illya came between them. "Steve --"
McGarrett advanced on Solo. "If you can't keep a clear head you don't belong here. The only way we can get Danno back in one piece is by working together and staying on our toes."
"I belong here more than anyone else," Solo insisted. "I was the one who spotted Karkov in Cambodia."
"And the one who missed him in Manchuria," Steve acidly reminded.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Solo lunged across the table and tackled the detective, sending them both to the floor. By the time Kuryakin had separated the two combatants several chairs and tables had fallen victim to the wrestling match.
"Enough!" Illya barked with unquestioning authority. He held Steve in an armlock, barely restraining him from attacking Solo.
"You've lost your nerve, Solo!" McGarrett continued to bait. "You lost it in Manchuria and you've been trying to get it back ever since! You're obsessed with it! And because of you my friend's life is in danger!"
Illya shoved McGarrett away just in time to grab Napoleon, who snarled under his breath as he tried to break the Russian's hold. But Kuryakin had the advantage and did not intend on losing it, unwilling to be the recipient of Napoleon's wrath.
McGarrett wouldn't back down. "Just like you're obsessed with trying to get Karkov!"
From sheer rage Solo pulled away from Kuryakin and again tackled Steve, sending them through the open doors onto the lanai and into the hibiscus bushes. Only quick evasion saved Solo from several merciless blows and he landed a few lucky punches of his own. But the fight was too angry to be effective and Kuryakin once more seized the two adversaries.
"That's enough!" Kuryakin snapped warningly and the dangerous edge in his voice arrested both combatants. "We're not here to fight each other. If we fall apart we're finished."
Steve relaxed, but warily watched his opponent. "The only thing Napoleon cares about is himself."
Solo eased off somewhat and finally shrugged away from Illya's firm restraint. The Russian kept a cautious hand on Solo's arm.
"I care," Napoleon responded in icy disdain as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. "I want Danny back alive."
"You want revenge," Steve corrected with contempt, but the edge of his anger was spent. "And I don't want anything more to do with you. I want to find Danno and leave you and Karkov to kill each other."
Illya crossed the lawn and stopped Steve who was at the far side of the lanai to keep the cop from exiting.
"If you give up now Dan has no chance," Napoleon warned. Glancing at his partner he nodded. "Illya's right. It is only through unity we can expect to triumph against Karkov. You've got to stay, Steve."
McGarrett wiped blood from his split lip and stared daggers at the dark haired UNCLE agent, then glanced at Kuryakin. "I'll stay until tomorrow. If we can't find him by then -- then I'm doing things my way and you'll be out of the picture, Solo."
Illya placated. "We'll do our best."
Steve nodded, then stalked back into the house. Kuryakin tugged Solo off the lanai and into the garden. "I think you need to cool off," he suggested and steered them toward the beach. From the corner of his eye Kuryakin could see the gardener zipping around the corner of the house.
The Russian grinned, caught Solo's eye, and winked. They were sitting on the low lava wall on the beach near the tide pool. Solo gingerly touched his aching nose, grateful it wasn't broken and relieved the bleeding had finally stopped. What really hurt was his side. It felt like some stitches were torn, but he didn't want to deal with it until this business was over.
"Next time you get to play the cad."
"But you're so convincing, Napoleon," the Russian responded, his face neutral but amusement in his voice. "Is this method acting?"
"It's realistically painful," Solo sighed.
"That's my partner, throwing himself into his work." Kuryakin punctuated his comment by slapping Solo's back.
"Ouch," Solo winced. "Next time you are definitely the cad." Both turned, hands automatically slipping to their pistols when they heard footsteps in the sand.
Steve and Oscar appeared at the nearby gate which opened onto the makai lawns behind the house. McGarrett critically studied both agents, then smiled.
"It worked like a charm."
Oscar grinned. "Ming has left."
"Duke and Ben are bringing the cars around."
Solo and Kuryakin exchanged triumphant glances as they relaxed and released their weapons. "We've got some back up of our own," Illya said eagerly. "I'll go contact them," and rushed off.
"Something up your sleeve?" Steve wondered sharply.
"A little extra back-up," Solo explained cryptically as they started back to the house.
Oscar sighed. "Still living up to your name, aren't you? We're supposed to be working together, remember?"
Napoleon held up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right. I'll tell you everything I'm doing from now on."
McGarrett walked next to him. "How's the nose?"
"About the same as your lip I imagine," Napoleon responded wryly. Steve nodded and they were silent for several moments, each sorting their own thoughts.
"Those things I said . . . ," Steve trailed off uncomfortably. "I apologize . . . I got carried away."
"Don't worry about it, Steve. It was part of the plot. Because a few of them came painfully close to the mark," he said ruefully as he tenderly rubbed his jaw, "figuratively and literally, was unavoidable."
Steve stopped abruptly and held Solo's arm to stop him as well. "You know how important it is to me to get Danno back in one piece."
Soberly, Napoleon gave a slow nod. "Yeah, I know. All too well."
"But it's not going to be at the price of my old friends." McGarrett's assurance was resolute. "We're in this together," he glanced at Goldman, then back to Solo. "I think it's the only way we can beat Karkov and get Danno back alive."
Napoleon agreed. "Then let's get going."
They reached the front of the house to find the sedans already at the door. Kuryakin had an open briefcase on the hood. The case contained tracking equipment.
"We have the signal," Illya told them as Oscar, Steve and Solo arrived. "Heading north toward Waimea."
Just then a helicopter flew over the yard and circled once, then made a slow descent onto the lawn.
"What is this?" Higgins yelled above the whipping blades as he and Oscar joined the group.
"Our taxi. We'll follow you from the air." Illya shouted as the chopper, painted with vivid orange, brown and yellow stripes, came to rest on the grass.
"Napoleon
will explain later," he promised as he and Solo ran to the helicopter. The
others piled into the Five-0 sedans to trail Ming, whose car had a homing
device attached to it thanks to Higgins's cooperation. Within minutes they were
on the road with the chopper flying above.
VII
"We should have anticipated this," Kuryakin sighed glumly to no one in particular as the group, en mass, entered Robin Masters' house.
As the rest of the men filed into the entrance hall, then into the study, the ever paranoid Kuryakin was scanning the house for bugs. He labeled the area "all clear" and the men settled themselves on various pieces of furniture. Illya put the still functioning bug detector on a table.
The agent was feeling particularly defensive. He hated to be stung -- outsmarted by an opponent. They could not afford mistakes now, any blunder, however small, could be fatal to one or all of them, especially Williams. It made Illya overcompensate in every area.
"Circumstances were against us," Oscar returned listlessly, the comment trite to his own ears, but he chalked it up to surprise and disappointment. If one of his own OSI operatives would have offered that in a report they would have been severely reprimanded. "We can't think of everything," he sighed at last, trying to buoy the flagging spirits of this group and realizing that was as inappropriate an answer as anything else.
"We should have!" McGarrett's condemnation rang in the still air.
"I know!" Solo's bitter retort was accented as he threw incredibly expensive and intricate listening equipment onto the floor near the chair Kuryakin had just slumped into. "That's our job. It's the only way we stay alive. And it's the only way to save our friends."
This altruistic comment brought a surprised glanced from Kuryakin, but the Russian quickly returned to his non-focused stare out the lanai doors -- a posture which discouraged intrusion and enhanced brooding contemplation. Solo crossed the study and poured himself a healthy portion of brandy.
Higgins had anticipated their need for more of the same and brought over a tray of glasses and several other bottles of liquor. Though his mind was clouded with anger and other churning emotions, Solo automatically noticed the liquors were all high grades of brandy and whiskey.
Robin Masters apparently didn't skimp for friends. Higgins poured drinks for those who requested them. Magnum, TC, and Rick had joined the group and Solo took the time to introduce them to the gathering, unable to avoid Goldman's irate stare. Oscar was extremely upset Solo brought Magnum in, and undoubtedly Napoleon would receive the full fall out later.
They had followed Ming along the Waimanalo coast. In a classic case of overkill, which was an embarrassment to all of them, they had trailed the suspected spy with two sedans and a chopper. Five-0 had supplied standard issue surveillance equipment in the sedans. Ming had not gone home, but went to a small bar near the beach and made a call from a public phone.
Solo and Kuryakin, used to operating with more sophisticated instruments, had supplied long-range eavesdropping parabolic dishes, heavy armament, and their own helicopter and pilot. Solo had generously bought the chopper with UNCLE money and hoped he could fast-talk his way around that when Waverly got the expense voucher. It was an insanely extravagant purchase, but Solo was helping TC start a helicopter business, with an understanding that he was at the disposal of the local UNCLE office whenever necessary.
Yet, with all the high-tech assistance, there had been no personal bug on Ming. And the parabolic dish could not decipher Ming's voice from the noise from the bar. By the time Ben Kokua was sent in to check on the gardener, Ming was off the phone and having a beer at the bar.
The rest of afternoon had been anticlimactic. They had followed Ming to his home, a small beach shack which had already been bugged. Ming had done nothing abnormal the rest of the day, and by evening it was agreed there was no need to continue surveillance. Ben was left on stake out and the others returned to home base.
From there the investigation turned to police routine and McGarrett contacted the phone company to trace the call placed at the pay phone. The receiving number was for a public phone at the Ala moana shopping center. Chin was sent to do theleg work on that inquiry, but no one believed they would get anywhere with that.
"We forgot how smart Karkov could be," Oscar commented and nodded his thanks to Higgins, who had brought over a cup of coffee. He ignored the drink. "He's thought of everything."
McGarrett had refused to sit, instead expending his nervous frustration by pacing near the lanai doors. The sun had dropped on the other side of the mountains and the short tropical twilight would soon turn into night. The Five-0 chief stared out at the ocean that was now a dark sheet to the horizon.
"All right, he's outsmarted us," McGarrett finally, reluctantly, admitted. "We can still trap him, it just won't be as easy."
They had hoped for success in the first phase of their plan; that Ming would lead them to Karkov. However, not trusting to such a simple solution, they had arranged a back-up scheme. There were disadvantages to their second plan, but it now seemed unavoidable.
"We will no longer be on the offensive," Illya pointed out with distaste. "This will be purely defensive."
"Not entirely," McGarrett countered as he glanced at Magnum and friends. "We have a few surprises I think."
Higgins came over and rolled out a sketch of the estate. The others gathered around the table. Higgins military experience and intelligence training had not diminished, and his map was a meticulous schematic of a major offensive.
"The estate is large, but defensible," he pointed out as he detailed several ideas for troop placement.
Magnum stepped forward and contributed his own ideas for using chopper cover. The suggestions were met with approval from the veterans around the table, even Goldman was warming to having the young man in on the battle.
"Then we have about twenty-four hours to prepare," McGarrett said.
"He could attack tonight," Solo countered.
McGarrett shook his head. "He'll wait. We conveniently gave him until tomorrow evening. Karkov will use that time to plan an effective offensive." His voice deepened. "You should remember he never does anything impulsive. He would rather make us wait and let our own nerves play against us."
Solo's expression darkened. "I don't need to be reminded."
Higgins broke into the tension by reminding
them they needed to prepare for tomorrow night. He arranged a schedule of meal,
sleep, sentry, and work rotations that would assure everyone was fit for the
next night, and the estate was fortified. Once everyone had their assignments
they dispersed into separate groups.
d
"We could have used this stuff in 'Nam," Thomas Magnum comments as he watched Solo and Kuryakin place a sophisticated electronic sensor device on the fence. Rick, TC, and Thomas had tagged along with the UNCLE agents when the meeting in the house had ended.
Solo was anxious to slip away before Goldman caught him, and the agents had chosen what they considered to be the estates most vulnerable spot as their first improvement.
"These are hardly standard issue," Kuryakin commented smugly.
Solo smirked. "Hardly. Illya's made most of these little wonders himself."
"You guys ever go into private business, give me a call," Rick suggested eagerly as he helped place some of the sensors. "You'd have the competition beat hands down. You'd make a killing."
Kuryakin studied the three younger men and handed a sensor to TC.
"See if you can install the next one." He watched over their shoulders and offered sparse instruction. "I'm afraid we are not interested in the private investigation business," Kuryakin commented, glancing with amusement at his partner. "Napoleon could use the money, but could never manage the books."
Solo refuted with a mock sneer. "I would miss the free travel we get with UNCLE."
He glanced beyond the fence to the nearby stretch of beach. Moonlight reflected on the sand and the tide's edge lapped against the beach in a velvet blue line. For the thousandth time he wondered if Karkov would attack, if they would ever see the end of this torment. McGarrett had been right, their nerves were becoming their worst enemy. The waiting, the uncertainty, were harder to endure than a tangible danger.
Solo had been living on nerves-edge for weeks. His moods vacillated from extreme tension to near-normal calm, receding erratically like the tide. Now that they approached the denouement his emotions fluctuated even more. His patience was almost non-existent, humor and optimism diminished, and objectivity gone. Only Illya's consistent moral support had kept Solo 'normal' this long. He realized only part of his manufactured scene with Steve had been faked; part had been real anger and frustration, though not focused at Steve.
And if Goldman had forced a confrontation over Magnum, there would have been a real blow-up there, too. Strangely, Solo could see what was happening to him, but was powerless to stop it, or perhaps didn't want to. As in any operation, adrenaline and nerves gave an agent an edge. Napoleon almost valued this nervous, almost neurotic edge. It would see him through tomorrow. It would justify any actions taken when he finally faced Karkov.
The beam of a flashlight danced on the five men and they glanced around to see Higgins, Goldman and the lads approaching.
"Thought you could use some coffee," Higgins announced as he passed out a few thermoses and cups.
Oscar ran the flashlight over the sensor Magnum and Rick had just completed. "Is that a modified DY-X1?"
"More or less," Illya responded cryptically. From Oscar's puzzled expression it was obvious he expected a more lucid answer.
"Don't be so smug," Napoleon nudged Kuryakin with an elbow and nearly spilled the Russian's coffee. "It's a DY-X3 that Illya got his hands on," Solo explained helpfully.
"And you're already teaching Magnum the finer points of espionage work, I see," Oscar observed. Solo waited for a more scathing remark or attack, but none came. He realized he was being overly paranoid. "I thought Thomas should be introduced to some new ideas."
Goldman locked gazes with Solo for a moment and nodded his head, accepting the nebulous, blanket statement for what it was meant to convey. It explained why Solo had brought the young NI officer into the operation, why the long secret of the Manchurian mission had finally been exposed.
"I was about to patrol the fence along the highway," Goldman said to Thomas. "Would you like to come along?" This cryptic statement was also accepted as the multi-leveled invitation it was meant to be.
"Sure," Magnum agreed readily and walked away with Goldman. By an unspoken understanding, the others stayed behind.
Higgins brought their attention back to the work at hand by closely examining one of the sensors. "This is much more sophisticated than what I'm used to of course, but I remember an incident in Cuba before I left MI6 . . . ."
Solo and Kuryakin exchanged rueful glances,
knowing this would be a long story and stoically accepting their fate.
d
"Naploeon said you'd be mad about our involvement with this case," Thomas began as their long strides took them quickly across the wide lawns. Thomas grinned to lessen the blunt answer.
The grin was infection and Oscar laughed ruefully. "Someday that man will find himself in a situation he can't charm himself out of." He became more serious as sobered thoughts of Thomas's father cam to mind. Memories that were never deeply buried. "I see you father very clearly in you. He would be proud of you."
As they made their leisurely rounds Oscar recounted stories about Magnum senior, incidents that had been safely secured in the past and had not seen the light of recollection for many years. It still hurt too much to think about a close friend who was no longer with him. But in Thomas, Oscar had found the curiosity of a boy who had never really known his father, whose hunger for knowledge would never be satisfied. The conversation became easier, and hours passed as they found a secluded patch of beach to recount stories of a man who was keenly missed by both of them. The telling and the listening healed wounds that could never otherwise have been sealed. The eastern sky was pink with the advent of dawn before they realized the night had passed.
"What about your future?" Oscar asked as they started for the house to scrounge breakfast.
Thomas shrugged uncertainly. "TC and Rick are out of the Marines. I've been assigned to San Diego. They're going to stick around Hawaii and see what comes up. I'll visit them when I can. I don't know what the NI will be like without a war to fight."
"There's a job waiting for you at OSI if you ever want one," Oscar offered, then quickly added, "And this is not charity. Good intelligence officers are hard to come by." The young Magnum shook his head.
"Not now. I don't want out of the Navy -- yet. I might, but I have to see how things go for now." He paused thoughtfully. "It's tempting to think about resigning. One reason is that I never really experienced life, just the Navy. Someday I'll probably need to get away from the structure." He smiled a winning smile that could rival Napoleon Solo's famous charm any day. "But thanks for the offer. I feel very popular."
Goldman scowled. "I suppose Napoleon already tried to recruit you for UNCLE."
"Actually, Illya asked," Magnum laughed as they entered the house.
"Any ideas about what you want to do if you stay in the Navy?" Oscar was again the recipient of that devastating smile.
"Well, I've learned a lot from you, and
Steve and Napoleon. Something in investigations would be fun," Thomas
admitted.
d
By the time Ming came to work for his regular shift, the covert defenses were intact and the participants prepared. Higgins manufactured some leaky pipes to keep Ming occupied for the day. Several hints were dropped within the Oriental's hearing, a few arguments were staged, and phone conversations were taken nearby. When Ming left that afternoon, the performers felt they had primed the pump as much as possible.
The sun was behind the hill when the audio sensors at the tide pool fence picked up the distinctive sound of chopper blades.
"They're flying in from the beach," Illya reported into a walkie-talkie as he tracked the signal.
The command post had been set up near the guesthouse, a central location and defensible area for the equipment. Kuryakin and Solo were there, monitoring the defenses and waiting to see where their services would be needed. The warning was picked up by McGarrett, Duke and Ben stationed at the front gate, Oscar, and Higgins at the tennis courts, Magnum, Rick, and T.C. in a chopper concealed down the beach.
From beside Kuryakin, Napoleon moved his Walther from his right to left hand and wiped a sweaty palm on his trouser leg. It had been a long time since he had been so nervous for a mission. But it had been a while since the circumstances were so personal, or so he rationalized. Maybe he was just losing his nerve, getting too old for this emotionally shredding business. The defenses, thanks to UNCLE equipment, were largely automatic. Remote control mines and gas jets were utilized, designed to eliminate the opposition without too much danger to the good guys.
Another blip appeared on Kuryakin's monitor. "West fence by the highway," he reported to his listeners. "Get ready to move, Steve," he warned.
The chopper landed on the beach a few hundred yards east of the estate. The attackers were dressed in black, nearly invisible now that the faint light of sunset had faded and the moon had not yet risen. Obvious professionals, the adversaries removed several electronic devices before Kuryakin realized the danger. He activated the mines that were in the area of the first breach.
"The east fence," he snapped to Solo. "They took out the sensor. I don't know how many there are."
Without bothering to reply, Solo vaulted away, his dark clothes effectively camouflaged him and within seconds he was no longer visible.
"Napoleon!" Kuryakin whispered, but knew it was too late.
Cursing under his breath, Illya realized the mistake he had made. There should have been someone else monitoring the equipment so he could stay with Solo. They were the most effective enforcement agents in UNCLE North America, and worked best together. Separated, Solo was likely to get himself killed. Kuryakin quickly warned the others and the defenses were tightened, mines and gas canisters were set off. Yet the attackers had gained some inroads and heavy fire could be heard near the tide pool. Kuryakin could not hear the telltale sound of an UNCLE Special, yet, and worry for his partner was distracting his concentration.
The surprise appearance of TC, Rick, and Magnum was the effective coup they had hoped for. The chopper had been called in and the Vietnam veterans were helping the Five-0 detectives on the west lawn. Suddenly Higgins scrambled up beside Kuryakin.
"Oscar was separated from me," he reported breathlessly. "He's pinned down near the guest house."
"I have already released those explosives," Kuryakin muttered angrily.
"How did the intruders get past them?"
Higgins shrugged, not offering an answer. "I came for some of your grenades."
Illya quickly grabbed a handful of grenades along with his UNCLE Special. "Stay on the monitor. I'm going over there. Did you see Napoleon?"
"No."
As an afterthought, Kuryakin put on a pair of inferred glasses that most of the teams had been issued. He would head for the hot spot. Undoubtedly that was where Napoleon would be.
d
Solo was on his stomach, waiting for more cover fire. Steve, Oscar, and Higgins were pinned down by steady fire from the sea wall along the east beach. From his vantage- point on the makai side of the house, Napoleon saw the opposition could hold out as long as they wanted, then escape via a clear path to the beach, before the defending forces could rally.
Solo wasn't about to let that happen. These invaders were their only link to Danny and Karkov. Solo was tired of being outsmarted at every turn and ready to end the cat and mouse game that Karkov had controlled for the entire chase. Solo knew he was the only one in a position to stop the enemy. All it would take would be a dash across the lawn to the cover of the sea wall, then over the wall and along the beach in back of the assault team.
Naploeon never doubted his ability to stop them single-handed, after all, he had been responsible for collapsing entire fortresses all by himself. How hard could a group of assassins be? When Illya reached Oscar and Steve, it was clear the defensive position on this side of the estate was in jeopardy. Several attackers' bodies were sprawled on the lawn but there was still heavy fire from the beach. McGarrett and Magnum's groups were still occupied.
Illya's small contingent would have to hold the fort. "Have you seen Napoleon?" the agent asked between shots.
"He was heading for the sea wall. He thought he could get behind them," Steve answered.
"Fool," Illya whispered and scanned the area through the night-vision glasses. From this angle he could see the position of the enemy and knew they were trapped here until helped arrived.
A dark blot moved at the corner of Kuryakin's peripheral vision. He turned in time to see the figure cross the no-man's land of open lawns at a dead run. There was no doubt of the identity. Solo was heading directly toward the main nest of attackers., head on into the enemy's position.
"Napoleon, stop!" Kuryakin yelled in warning, though a sickening premonition told him it was already too late.
Steve roughly pulled him down, shoving him against the wall of the house a split-second before a rain of fire hit their position. The three watched as Solo dove toward the safety of the sea wall. Strafing bullets riddled the area and Solo's body jerked, then fell over the sea wall, and disappeared from view.
"No," Oscar whispered and fell back against the wall. Steve closed his eyes and his grip tightened around Illya's arm.
For several seconds Kuryakin was stunned into mobility. He couldn't breath, couldn't think, as if his mind and body were suddenly seized with an immobilizing shock. His chest felt like it had been hit with a pile driver. He functioned automatically, throwing grenades with shaking hands and blindly firing toward the enemy, oblivious to the excellent target he made. No longer did he think of safety or tactics -- he had just seen his best friend shot, probably killed. He couldn't deal with emotion now, professional instinct saved him from facing the real agony of accepting Solo's death -- and his mind automatically labeled it death. Pessimistic nature instinctively thought the worst, perhaps as a natural defense, theorizing that it was easier to live with a tragedy he had already accepted.
Fleetingly, he thought his judgement could be premature, after all, Napoleon had staged some miraculous recoveries. Even if Napoleon was alive, there was a burning, overwhelming hate, a lust for revenge he had never experienced before with such passion. His scientific mind analyzed it even as his darker nature welcomed it. He understood what Napoleon had felt toward Karkov, understood the bittersweet agony of revenge sought and gained. These faceless minions had taken something from him that could never be replaced and he would see that they paid for that loss with their lives. Nothing else seemed to matter.
"The attackers at the west fence are dead," Oscar reported as he listened to the update on his talkie. "They're on their way."
Kuryakin loaded a fresh clip into his pistol. "Then we can attack."
Goldman put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "A kamikaze run is not going to help."
Kuryakin considered several plans, all of them rash and suicidal, but instantly lethal to the enemy. It took a few minutes to comprehend the enemy fire had stopped. His two companions had come to the same realization and they looked questioningly at each other. Comprehension dawned slowly and they came to a common answer simultaneously even as a familiar voice reached them.
"Is anybody around or am I manning the bastions by myself?"
Kuryakin released a long sigh as he stood and walked toward the sea wall. The moon had come up and he could see Solo's silhouette against the shimmering dark ocean. Illya's relief that Napoleon was alive mingled with his anger at the American's foolhardy heroics. Kuryakin decided not to give in to either emotion and said nothing to his partner.
The estate floodlights came on and the rest of the defenders straggled over to join Solo. The agent was sitting on the ground, leaning against the lava wall, his feet propped on the unconscious form of black-clad man. TC's chopper landed on the beach near the tide pool and within minutes Rick, Magnum, and TC completed the gathering. They reported six dead bodies on the beach.
"This man is the only one left alive," Higgins concluded and checked the man's pulse.
The irritation in McGarrett's voice was palpable. "You couldn't save any others?"
Solo shrugged unrepentantly. "It was killed or be killed." He kicked the invader. "But we needed someone to give us information and here's your present, Steve."
"You think he'll tell us where Danno is?" Steve asked hopefully.
"I'm sure of it," Napoleon responded darkly.
McGarrett stepped forward, unable to restrain his objections any longer.
"I can't allow vigilante tactics, Napoleon. Nor can I allow you to torture this man for information."
Kuryakin was offended and assured the Chief of Five-0 their methods were completely humane and legal. This was not the first time they had come head to head with McGarrett over legalities. The Five-0 detective was extremely protective of these islands and would permit no bending of the law, not even in this extreme instance. And McGarrett's adherence to strict black-and-white justice had been intensified by Danny's kidnapping and the death of innocent citizens during an operation. The UNCLE agents would not be allowed a loose interpretation of rules.
The Russian snapped a packet off his belt and extracted a syringe. "This contains a most effective truth serum," Illya explained proudly. "He'll even live through the experience."
Skepticism dominated McGarrett's hard features. He glared from Kuryakin to Solo and back again. "I'm aware UNCLE agents are allowed a great deal of latitude, but you still have to operate within a system of due process. Remember you're on my rock now. Don't think you can get away with anything beyond your charter." He looked meaningfully at Solo. "Or murder."
Solo's expression was hard and cold, every
bit the professional espionage agent. "It was self defense, Steve. You'd
have a hard time proving otherwise." There was a dangerous edge in his voice.
"You want to save your friend, don't you? Then get out of Illya's way and
let him do his job."
VIII
Within ten minutes the Oriental captive had answered every question put to him. The man's dialect was Cambodian, but Kuryakin had no trouble conversing in the language. The location of Karkov's camp was an abandoned sugar mill on the tip of the North Shore near Kaena Point. All details concerning guards, where Dan was being held, and Karkov's command room was revealed. To everyone's relief, the kidnap victim was safe and to be left unharmed until after the assassin squad had returned from the estate
The mission had been to eliminate the three members of the Manchurian mission, along with any other witnesses. The hostage was meant as added collateral until the Korean veterans were dead. Illya questioned the captive about Karkov's reasons for wanting the Americans men dead. There was a lengthy explanation, during which Kuryakin's usually impassive face filled with surprise, then resolve.
"What did he say?" Napoleon asked eagerly, his first comment for some time. The agent was pale and tired, apparently still feeling the strain of the battle.
"Karkov plans to defect to the US." Kuryakin paused to allow the others to assimilate the surprise. "But it is most probably a ruse. He comes with supposedly secret information on American activities in the Vietnam war."
"Lies to implicate well placed politicians and military leaders no doubt," Oscar theorized, already seeing the possibilities of the plot.
"Most likely," Kuryakin agreed.
"He could effectively destroy our political system," Solo speculated wiping beads of sweat from his face with a shaky hand. "This country has been torn apart by the war. It hasn't stabilized yet."
"We've got to stop him," Magnum said quietly, speaking for all of them.
War had been as traumatic for Magnum as it had for all the others in the group who had seen combat action. Personally, he had suffered the loss of friends, been held a prisoner of war, and lost his wife in Vietnam. At the pullout of American forces Thomas was disillusioned and confused. But he knew his life and the lives of thousands of other veterans would never return to normal if the war continued to tear the country apart. It was time to rebuild and allow the wounds to heal. Stopping Karkov was no longer a personal quest for revenge, it was a desperate act to save his country. This would be a final mission in a final war.
"Agreed. But we've got to move fast," McGarrett reminded, intent and sharp. "The assault force will be expected soon. If they don't show Danno will be killed."
"A frontal attack will get him killed," Jonathan pointed out.
Solo leaned forward and plucked at the black shirt worn by the Oriental. "Then we'll have to make it look like the attack force has returned." He gestured over his shoulder at the Huey chopper on the beach.
"Wolves in sheep's clothing," Goldman nodded approvingly.
McGarrett's agreement was instant. "I think it will work."
"Seven of them," Napoleon observed as he looked at his fellow veterans, Illya, and Magnum.
"All of us. But we'll have to leave immediately."
"Wait a minute," Rick protested vehemently. "You're not leaving us out of this!"
"We'll use you as back up," Kuryakin assured, then instructed Magnum to fetch the black masks worn by the assault team.
Duke, Ben, and HPD had taken care of the attackers on the other side of the estate. They were assigned to see to the other bodies and take the single survivor to the nearest hospital under heavy guard. The others quickly gathered equipment, ammo, weapons to load into the borrowed Huey.
Kuryakin slipped several UNCLE issue explosives into his pockets and scanned the area, pondering what other items he should bring. It was then he finally noticed Solo. The senior agent was struggling to come to his feet, leaning against the wall for support. The fatigue, the pale, drawn face -- these clues suddenly coalesced in Kuryakin's mind. In a few quick strides he was beside his partner and took Solo's arm, as Napoleon came to an unsteady stance.
"You were hit?" he accused harshly. He could feel the wet blood on Solo's back. "You are such a fool! Why didn't you say something?"
Solo winced as he straightened his back. "It's just torn stitches. I'll live." He removed a black pouch from his belt, extracted two pills, and swallowed them before Kuryakin could protest. "Just to keep me on my feet during the next few hours," he defended as he held up a hand to forestall Illya's objections.
Kuryakin glanced at his friend's back. Blood soaked the dark material. A bullet rip along the back had torn the material. It had nearly been more than just torn stitches. The Russian bit his tongue before he dared to speak. If he didn't control his temper he would more than likely punch Solo. Not only did Napoleon deserve it, but it would be wonderfully therapeutic for Kuryakin.
Upset that Solo's reckless heroics had been nearly fatal, Kuryakin was caught in the dichotomy of emotions; he was alternately angry at his partner's foolish disregard for safety, and irritated that Napoleon's life mattered so much to cause this kind of reaction. Every mission caused him to reevaluate himself, wondering how he could remain an effective agent when his judgement was clouded by concern for his partner. Each operation reaffirmed that they were greater as a team than their individual talents. The years had formed their successful partnership into a tight bond of friendship. That was now more important that the professional teamwork.
The quest for Karkov had been emotionally trying for Solo, draining him to a physical and emotional low. It had been almost as draining for Kuryakin, watching his friend change to an obsessed fanatic who recently found a crutch from occasional dependence on alcohol and stimulants instead of common sense. Out of duty and friendship Kuryakin had assigned himself to protect Napoleon from self-destruction, knowing this was the most difficult trial Napoleon had ever faced. If their friendship could survive this, they could endure anything. Kuryakin's stubborn refusal to give up kept him from leaving Solo to whatever destiny awaited maverick spies.
There was no doubt about Kuryakin's anger but Solo didn't have time to let him cool off. They had to clear this up. It would be fatal to go into a fight with bad feelings. Their lives depended on their compatibility on the job. Instinctively he recognized the future of their partnership depended on their reactions to each other in this operation. Suddenly Karkov and a twenty-three year vengeance didn't matter as much as holding onto the most important friend he ever had. Napoleon adopted his most persuasive expression and for a rare moment let honest sincerity speak for him. He had strained their friendship for many weeks. He had to make peace before the breech between them was irreparable.
"Illya, I didn't want anything to stop me from the denouement." He paused to study his friend with sober intensity. "Neither did I want this -- obsession -- to affect us." His voice was filled with concern. "Has it?"
Confronted with the chilling realization that he had finally pushed his friend too far, Solo felt his obsession to kill Karkov recede. He still wanted to bring Karkov to justice, wanted to save Dan, but more important, he wanted to save his partnership. Accustomed to shielding his deeper feelings, Napoleon was unsure how to convince Illya of his sincerity.
The Russian nodded slightly, accepting the explanation. As usual, Illya had accurately read between the lines. And typically, the response was a superficial quip camouflaging his own emotions.
"Sometimes I wonder why I bother saving your life," he sighed with long-suffering. "You seem determined to kill yourself."
"No more suicidal than you," Solo countered cautiously, still not sure if he had been forgiven, not sure he could ask for it. "Are we going to keep score now?"
A smile twitched at the Russian's mouth. "Much higher mathematics than we need tonight."
Napoleon smiled and winked. "I think you're right."
Higgins and Magnum came from the beach, engrossed in a debate about battle tactics.
"Everything is set," Magnum reported. For the first time he noticed Solo's weakened condition.
"Are you all right, Napoleon?"
"Fine," the agent responded easily. "I've just taken some very effective pain killers."
Higgins glanced at Solo's injured back. Then he took the equipment pack that Magnum had been carrying and brought out a first aid kit.
"We don't have time . . . ," Solo protested.
"This will only take a moment," Higgins insisted. "I am quite good at emergency first aid. I remember once in Kenya one of the lads was wounded . . . ."
"I'll find you a shirt," Magnum offered hastily. eager to avoid another of Higgins's stories.
Forty minutes after the start of the attack on the estate, the black Huey was flying through the night sky of Oahu. Kaena Point was visible in the distance. In the pale moonlight the abandoned sugar mill was a shadowy toothpick structure against the dark mountains. A dim light was visible in one of the ground floor rooms.
Solo swung the helicopter to the mauka
side of the building, where the mill backed against the mountains. By landing
next to the mountain they would be closest to the area
where Dan was being held, and away from the guards quarters. When the chopper
lightly touched the ground, there was no sign that their ploy was detected.
d
On the second night of imprisonment, Dan had reached the limits of his patience. He had been treated civilly during confinement, ignored except for mealtimes, when plates of food had been slipped under the door. The prison was a small wing of the sugar mill. Corrugated tin comprised one side of the wing. Plaster walls comprised the rest of the area that included a bathroom and small rooms furnished with cots. A bolted metal door was the only exit or entrance and windows were securely boarded up. The mill was old, so cracks in the wood and wide seams between tin and plaster enabled him to glimpse outside. It also brought refreshing Trades into the sultry rooms.
When he had first regained consciousness, he realized, aside from a painful lump at the back of his head, he was unharmed, unarmed and on his own. With some experience at being captured, he considered his plight with optimistic professionalism. Canvassing the rooms, looking for listening devices or any easy avenue of escape took up much of his time initially.
"They'll try to rescue me," he told himself, "but it may take them awhile."
Not sure if that would be a good thing or not. Certainly Steve would be beside himself to free Dan, but at what cost? The lives of old friends? The risk to Five-0 detectives? The danger to McGarrett, which Steve would ignore.
From the sounds of the sea, the direction of the wind, and lack of traffic sounds, Dan had guessed the location. He believed he was on the North Shore, close to the ocean and yet secluded from civilization. The building was definitely an old sugar mill, and that left only one spot on Oahu that he knew of. Knowing where it didn't make much difference, but every bit of knowledge helped.
The first day of confinement was hot and stuffy in the rooms. He tried to escape instead of wait for a rescue. Dan knew this side of the island well enough to lead him to some sea caves where he would be safe from pursuit. All he had to do was get out of the sugar mill.
Afternoon of the second day he found a crack in the wall at one of the boarded windows facing the mountains. Rain, wind, and time had loosened the nails from the plaster. Patient jiggling of the board loosened the nails even more. Just before nightfall a helicopter left. Though he couldn't see anything, he knew something was going on and he was determined to get out before he lost the chance.
"They've been careful not to show themselves," he observed in a mutter as he worked with the boards. "It might be that they have no reason to talk to me." Realizing he was talking to himself, he laughed self-consciously. His introspection became silent. 'I'm bait, that's all. My usefulness is over when Karkov gets what he wants -- after he's killed the men who can identify him.'
In the back of his mind what worried him was that McGarrett would go to great lengths to get him back, even risk his own life. And with him would be Napoleon, Illya, and Oscar, all willing to go into the lion's den to rescue him.
Instinctively, he knew when the helicopter came back he better be out of there. It was after dark when he had loosed the boards enough that the two nails on the bottom gave way. He'd wait until the chopper came back -- use the noise as cover. Then, one way or another, he was making a break, not waiting for his friends to risk their lives for him.
The distinctive hum of rotor blades could be heard over the gentle Trades. He grinned and waited for the peak of the blade's roar, then pushed out the boards and climbed out the window.
d
The Huey touched down and most of the group were out the door instantly. "That's Danny!" Rick exclaimed as he studied the buildings through night-vision field glasses.
McGarrett scanned a figure running from the back of the building. A relieved laugh escaped. "Yeah -- yeah -- it's Danno."
Oscar tapped his arm. "You better get him. We'll hit the main building."
Racing along the side of a building, McGarrett caught Dan's eye and the younger detective scurried over to join his boss behind the solid cover of the building. Steve patted him on the shoulder, nearly speechless with relief.
"Danno. Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Great to see you guys, Steve. Like the cavalry."
"Wish we could have been here soon." It was all he could manage to say to reveal the incredible satisfaction that his friend was alive and well. "What can you tell us?"
As they made their way back to the group, Dan briefed his colleague on his captivity, which, he admitted, would give them very little information. Nearly literally he was kept in the dark his whole stay.
d
Agreeing on their separate directions, Oscar, McGarrett and Dan went around the back. The others sprinted to the front of the old sugar mill. They were close enough to see several guards at the door. At the same time the guards realized there was something unusual about the returning force. Without questioning, they opened fire. The attackers hit the dirt and returned fire.
Illya dug out some of the small arsenal concealed in his pockets and lobbed several small bombs toward the enemy. The mill was old and the explosives reduced the front walls to ruins. The guards pushed back to the farther rooms, still holding their suicidal positions.
The desire to find Karkov was too overwhelming for the frustrated Solo. He waited for the cover of another explosion, then dashed to the side of the building. Illya was on his feet to follow, but dove to the dirt under another volley of bullets.
"Madman," he muttered under his breath and furiously threw the rest of his bombs.
Solo dashed through a scattered junk pile and dived for cover behind a tree stump. From the edge of his vision he noticed a lumbering shape stumbling across the open field toward the road. Even in the dim moonlight Solo could tell the running figure was Karkov. Instantly the UNCLE agent was on his feet and chasing the renegade Russian across the small road to the beach.
Karkov turned and fired and Solo dove to the sand, barely escaping the bullets that flew perilously close. He scrambled to a low dune and returned shots that were wildly wide of their mark. Karkov shot back, and after only a few rounds the pistol clicked empty. Solo was already on his feet and closing the distance between them at a run. The Walther was held with steady, deadly intent, a bead drawn between Karkov's eyes. The man never flinched as he stared his murderer in the eyes.
Over two decades had passed, but still this man made Solo's skin crawl, still froze his nerves with icy fear. The black eyes bore into Solo's soul and he realized this rendezvous with the past was somehow his destiny. The guilt and regret which lingered from his first meeting with Karkov suddenly returned with full force. The agony could only be erased when he removed Karkov from this world. There was an ethereal detachment to the moment and he wondered if the painkillers accounted for only part of the reaction. Almost like a vision, Karkov was backdropped by a shimmering ring of fire from the burning mill. Anemic moonlight shone on the distorted visage and Solo was transfixed by the repulsive wound.
Solo noticed his hand was starting to shake and the Walther's stock was slippery in his sweaty palm. Karkov could still get to him. Just a look from the dark eyes could recall the humiliation, guilt, fear and failure he had known in Manchuria. He had sought out the revenge, but now wondered if Illya was right. Was his search for a piece of courage he had lost when he had faced Karkov before?
With almost dream-like surrealism, the moment of his failure in Manchuria was now recreated. he was again the only defense between Karkov and freedom, and he was every bit as scared as he had been as a young ensign.
"So we meet again, Napoleon Solo,"
Napoleon's spine chilled at the sound.
"I have not forgotten the young fool who nearly destroyed me." He touched his disfigured face. "I have always hoped to pay you back for the damage."
Karkov would never know how Solo had paid for the emotional damage repressed and glossed over since Korea. It was time for Napoleon to pay a debt. For those many years he had waged a private battle with himself, a personal war that was in its final skirmish.
That war would be won as soon as he pulled the trigger. So why did he hesitate? Recognition shone in Karkov's eyes and his smile was an evil that snaked across his face. It seemed he could read his thoughts, his fear, and a subtle flicker of -- apprehension? -- made Karkov's arrogant smile fade. Napoleon fleetingly wondered if Karkov was afraid. It was a new concept he had never considered.
"You are a renowned spy, Solo," Karkov commented with a bravado that seemed forced. "But inside you are really the frightened boy I broke, in Manchuria."
Napoleon's grip on the pistol tightened and the finger tugged on the trigger, but stopped before the pistol fired. He still felt the dry-mouthed, throat choking paralysis of fear, but Karkov's words struck his senses like a bullet. Had he really learned nothing in his entire career? The introspection was interrupted by the sound of running feet in the sand. He didn't have to turn his head to know that Illya was coming up behind him.
"Napoleon . . . ." It was spoken quietly, a breath between a warning and a plea.
Solo remained frozen, aware of the gentle, constant lap of the tide, the crackle of the distant fire, the heavy, nervous breathing from his partner. Others joined the tense circle. Karkov's expression, like a mirror, reflected the Russian's other victims had arrived, and he seemed relived
"Drop the gun, Napoleon,"
McGarrett requested quietly as he came up on Napoleon's left side. "Don't!"
was the crisp warning and no one moved.
Solo didn't take his eyes off Karkov, still trying to analyze the signals on the hated face.
"The hunt is over, Napoleon. You have won. Do not stain yourself with his worthless blood." Illya's voice was calm, understanding not demeaning, and filled with reason.
Solo trusted his partner implicitly and instinctively wanted to respond. He wiped sweat from his face with his left hand, his aim on Karkov never wavering. "I have to kill him," he finally answered, his tired voice reflecting the fatigue that was catching up to him. "For Murray and Magnum. He's got to die."
Magnum came up next to Solo and suddenly seized the weapon, pointing it at Karkov. "Murdering him won't bring back my father." He put the enemy in his sights. "But it will be justice."
Now that the younger man -- with so much to prove -- was the one ready to pull the trigger, Solo realized some abrupt concepts. Napoleon knew that -- an old truth he had learned over a career that had seen many agents fall to the enemy. He had never applied it to this situation because of his guilt. With sudden perspective he knew killing Karkov would not benefit anyone, including himself.
As if reading his thoughts, Oscar slowly stood beside Magnum and spoke softly from beside him. "You have nothing to prove, Thomas. But unlike him, you have a conscience. Let us take care of this. Let it go."
As soon as the words were spoken aloud, they served as a balm for Solo. Glancing at his partner, he exchanged a brief glance, confirming he accepted these ideas as the truth. Illya, his other friends, had been right all along. They had made that peace for themselves, knowing justice, but not murder, should be served. If he pulled the trigger would he be any better, any different, than Karkov?
"Are you going to arrest him?" Magnum questioned McGarrett, the pistol still trained on Karkov. The voice tottered on the final vestige of reason.
"Right now," the Five-0 detective assured. "He'll be turned over to the Federal authorities and put away forever."
Magnum nodded and lowered the Walther. "He's all yours," he offered to McGarrett.
Williams and McGarrett stepped to the enemy spy.
Solo glanced at Kuryakin, who was still at his side. There was a feeling of quiet victory the old and new friends grouped together. Oscar reaffirmed that Thomas had made the right decision. Now that the crisis had passed, Napoleon felt the full the effect of the painkillers and the world tilted.
Illya grabbed him. "Would you rather sit down or fall down," he asked rhetorically. Before Napoleon could answer they heard an angry shout from McGarrett.
"You can't!" They turned to see McGarrett take a passport from the Russian.
"What is it?" Oscar asked and joined Williams and McGarrett. He read the passport with stunned incredulity. "Diplomatic immunity?"
Karkov nodded smugly. "I am an official of the Russian government."
"I won't accept this," McGarrett snarled.
"You have no choice," Karkov countered arrogantly.
With a sudden burst of strength Solo pushed Kuryakin aside. Caught off balance, the Russian wasn't fast enough to stop Solo. The Walther was still in his hand and Solo brought it to bear on Karkov.
"Oscar, move!" was the hoarse warning and the OSI director stepped aside, instantly allied with Solo's decision.
Illya collided with Solo, pushing the pistol down as he tackled his friend. A shot harmlessly sliced into the sand. Kuryakin confiscated the pistol before his partner was tempted to indulge in any other rash impulses.
"Why did you stop me?" Napoleon gasped, the pain from his wound slicing through the thin layer of drugged haze. His tone was shadowed with tired defeat.
"This changes nothing," Kuryakin replied sympathetically. He helped Solo to stand. He looked around at the other members of the group, all feeling the betrayal and frustration Solo and he felt. Illya cautiously released his partner. Once assured Solo would not fall over, he stepped away.
"I better get Karkov out of here," Illya advised as he usurped custody. "I will take care of him."
The Communist smiled smugly at the group of defeated former officers he had once more outwitted. Then he disappeared into the night as Kuryakin escorted him toward the road. Several moments of silence passed before the subdued cough of a Walther was heard. It took a second for Solo to recognize and react to the sound. Without a word he raced after his partner. Magnum and the others were a few paces behind. The group rounded a dune near the water. Illya stood over the body of Karkov. The Russian agent glanced at the group, then bent and retrieved a small caliber pistol from Karkov's lifeless hand.
"He had something up his sleeve," Kuryakin explained and held up the pistol for public view.
Under McGarrett's skeptical questions, Kuryakin recounted that the Chinaman had pulled the pistol without warning. Illya's speculation was that the diplomatic documents were fakes, or that Karkov did not want to return to Russia in disgrace. Though suspicious of the story, McGarrett could not refute the claim of self-defense. The rest of the group accepted the killing with equanimity, seeing it as a kind of poetic justice. For several moments they stood in silence, each wrapped in private retrospection. They slowly dispersed, quiet conversation lifting in broken words above the rhythmic rise and fall of tide.
Solo accepted the weapon and turned it over in his hand, the barrel still warm. He glanced at Karkov's body, then at his partner.
"You didn't want ME to kill him because of my conscience. But it's all right for yours?"
Kuryakin's shrug was neutral. "You may believe what you want," he responded cryptically.
Solo stared at him for a long time. Many years and experiences had punctuated their friendship. This was his closest friend, yet there was so much the Russian still kept hidden from view. However, this time Solo believed he had his partner pegged. Those years had not been spent in idleness.
Solo had learned many things about the laconic Kuryakin. "I don't think the passport was fake," he stated firmly. "And I don't think he pulled that pistol."
"Oh?"
Solo shook his head and tapped Kuryakin's hand which held the small pistol. "Karkov never did anything impulsive."
Illya's eyebrows rose, surprise easily discernable on the unusually open expression. Though he was a master at prevarication there was little he could hide anymore from his friend.
"It wasn't murder in passion or revenge," Solo continued with firm confidence. "It was a contract. Waverly ordered the hit."
The visage closed to inscrutability. There was no telltale expression on the impassive Russian countenance. "Surely that is mere semantics."
"Is it? Don't try to tell me there's no difference when it's personal or when it's just a job," Napoleon quickly countered, sinking to the sand, his energy reserves completely drained. "We don't like to kill, but when it's necessary we can accept it. When it's revenge I'm not sure we could live with the knowledge that we lost control."
Illya's eyebrows raised nearly as high as his shaggy bangs as he knelt down next to his partner. "It is too late for philosophy, Napoleon. Karkov is dead. Your war is over."
Closing his eyes, Solo nodded in grateful agreement. Solo felt a tremendous satisfaction wash over him, as gentle as the cool Trades. Karkov was history. And the other wars for his friends, those were over as well. Had Quixote felt life this after a skirmish with a windmill? So much of the guilt and resentment Napoleon had harbored over the years seemed manufactured from his own lack of confidence, his own weaknesses.
There were very real wars, real scars left from Korea, Vietnam, and every other war. but there were private wars each soldier brought home -- self-induced battles with guilt and unnecessary ghosts. Napoleon and Illya were constantly reminded of the deadly business they were in. The great danger brought with it a tremendous responsibility. They literally held life and death in their hands, could personally make the difference in world matters by the actions they took on routine assignments. They were only separated from their enemies by their consciences, by their moral control of the great power they wielded. To lose sight of that morality was to enter a grey area where they were indistinguishable from those they opposed.
"Waverly knew about Karkov's plot and couldn't risk its fruition," Solo speculated aloud to his partner. "Some of the allegations on a few of the US officials are probably close to the truth, if not fact. So Karkov had to die. If I didn't kill him, you would."
He paused and eyed Kuryakin speculatively, then ruefully suggested Illya had been assigned as a watchdog. An ulterior motive had possibly existed: a scenario to cause so much tension between Solo and Kuryakin, they would split the partnership on their own. Waverly had threatened such an action for some time, unhappy that their friendship frequently interfered with their efficiency as agents. There had certainly been dissention between them. Solo felt lingering doubts that he had sealed the breach he had created from this obsession with Karkov. Now, it seemed a childish vengeance, insignificant compared to what he might have lost in Illya's respect and friendship.
"No," Illya corrected. "Coming with you was my idea." Solo studied his partner, the beginnings of realization dawning. Illya was a very quiet, private person, undemonstrative and unrevealing in any personal matters. But the depth of his loyalty seemed unfathomable. It seemed amazing that even at with his worst behavior he had not driven Illya away.
"Why did you stop me from killing him?" Solo wondered in a soft voice.
"You said it yourself. For you it was personal." Kuryakin responded just as quietly, but glanced away from direct eye contact, almost embarrassed at the revelation that said so much with so few words.
There was no response possible. Though they had saved each other's lives too many times to count, there was never a need to mention their close friendship. Solo had learned at an early age that he could depend on no one but himself. Relationships reflected this superficial attitude, the inability to depend on anyone or commit to anything remotely resembling emotional ties.
Napoleon was touched beyond expression, wondering what he had ever done to deserve this kind of devotion. Illya would obviously do anything to protect him from physical harm as well as emotional hurt. A friend who would fight his personal wars with him -- beside him -- even FOR him. He reached out and squeezed Illya's shoulder, an inadequate response, but the only answer that would not diminish the moment.
The contact became a necessary support as the aftermath of events caught up with him. Solo felt completely drained in mind and body, energy spent. A phase of his life was closed, a few old ghosts were laid to rest, and an old war finished. Surprisingly, that realization was not nearly so satisfying as the comfort he derived knowing in any war or battle he would never have to fight alone. The unique partnership he shared with Illya could withstand any pressures, from without or within.
Solo abstractly questioned if he had acquired a new level of maturity. He could view this whole episode of his life -- Manchuria, Karkov -- as a learning experience. The pain was already eased by a feeling of growth within himself. He was changed for the better and could look at the world with a bright perspective. Strange that his guilt-ridden sense of friendship for the companions from Korea had brought this new outlook on present friends. But, that what friend's were for.
"Let's go home," Kuryakin suggested, his tone light. A subtle message that nothing more need be said between them. Life
and their partnership, were back to normal.
d
"Higgins says the car is packed," Thomas Magnum reported as he joined Napoleon on the beach.
Afternoon sun glinted off the clear water and lent a golden sheen of warmth to the tropical scene. Solo pulled his eyes away from the perfect blue sky.
"I'm set."
"Reluctant to leave?"
Solo shrugged. "It's always hard to leave paradise," he replied philosophically. "But it's time to go back to reality."
The last two days had been spent recuperating from the battle with Karkov. The old friends had caught up on years of absence. New friends had been firmly adopted into the group. All had promised to stay in touch, and it was a vow they intended to keep.
A hot case had taken the Five-0 detectives back to work that morning. TC was combing the island for a place to house his new charter business. Rick had talked them into investing in a nightclub and was scouting a location.
Goldman had talked with Robin Masters about Magnum. If Thomas ever wanted to stay here in Hawaii and drop out of the Intelligence game, there was a place for him here, but Goldman was still pressuring the younger man to join the OSI.
"What have you and Oscar been cooking up?" Napoleon asked as they walked back to the house. "He was calling in favors all day yesterday."
"I'm thinking of retiring to become a private investigator," Magnum answered with a smile.
Napoleon scowled at what he considered a waste of material. "With your talents . . . ."
"I know, UNCLE or OSI would be happy to have me." Magnum laughed. "Just kidding. I'm not resigning my commission yet."
Solo looked at him closely. "The worst was behind you."
The young man assured the agent that his own ghost of mystery surrounding his father was diminished. He had learned a lot from these four special men. Magnum had been included in their quest for justice. A mission that had ended years of speculation about his father's death.
"Thanks doesn't seem enough," he said and stopped to put out a hand to stop Solo. "You never told me the whole truth, did you? Why were you so compelled to kill Karkov."
"That's a hard question to answer," Napoleon sighed, unsure of the reasoning himself. "A very personal revenge, I guess. I had to resolve it myself."
"Then why didn't you shoot him?"
Now that a few days had passed Solo could analyze the situation with an objective mind. Since Korea he had felt compelled to prove himself, to make up for the moment's hesitation that kept him from killing Karkov. When he had Karkov in his sights again, he had already proved his abilities to himself. Pulling the trigger would have been an excessive gratification of death. He hoped he never came to enjoy assassinations, even when the victim deserved it.
"I didn't have to." A smile brightened Solo's eyes. "Besides, Steve would have arrested me."
"When you found out he had immunity you almost killed him."
"Yes. It was the only way I could see that justice would be served." Solo started walking to the house again. "Just remember a bullet isn't always the answer to everything." He sighed and his voice was suddenly tinged with a fatigue that could have been sadness. "But you'll find there will be times it's the only answer."
"Offering more fatherly advice?" Illya asked as he joined them.
"More like advise from a Dutch Uncle," Solo countered wryly.
Higgins impatiently waited in the driveway with Oscar. Illya and Napoleon warmly shook hands with Higgins, then Magnum. Oscar made a last effort to draft Thomas into OSI, but the former NI officer declined. Goldman hugged the young man whose welfare he had covertly looked after for over two decades.
"Take care, Thomas. I'll keep in touch."
"I'll make sure you do," Thomas said affectionately.
He had no intention of drifting away from Oscar. Though they had met only a few weeks before, Goldman had been adopted as a mentor and friend. Magnum walked over to Higgins. The major-domo was seating himself behind the wheel of the Audi.
"I thought I'd run into Honolulu," Magnum said as he leaned near the window. "Do you think Robin would mind if I borrowed his Ferrari?"
The question was accompanied with a winning smile. Higgins scowled but reluctantly agreed. He commented that Robin's guests were free to use all the facilities of the estate. However, he made it clear they would have to lay down some ground rules if Magnum's stay ever became indefinite -- as the Naval officer was joking.
Goldman smiled at the young man. "And you didn't want the regimentation of the service? How could you survive Higgins?" he whispered in amusement.
"It would be a challenge, wouldn't it?" he answered with a smile indicating he would enjoy the game.
Goldman shared amused speculation with Solo and Kuryakin, appreciating the happy end of a long and bitter quest. Happy for everyone with the possible exception of Higgins.
At the airport a Five-0 sedan was waiting beside the private OSI jet. McGarrett and Williams talked with the three who would share a jet back to the east coast.
"And you better warn me next time you plan an operation on my turf. I'll lock down the airport to keep you guys out." It wasn't quite a joke. McGarrett resented the way his intelligence friends had handled themselves while on his rock, but he couldn't argue with the results.
The luggage was loaded onto the jet. Oscar shook hands a with each of the detectives, then boarded, consulting with the pilot. McGarrett took Solo aside and admonished the spy to take care of himself. Worn and on edge, Solo seemed strained beyond reasonable limits.
"No place like sunny Hawaii for a little holiday."
With a thin smile, Napoleon declined. "Another assignment awaits. You know how that goes."
A notorious workaholic, McGarrett momentarily saw things from a different perspective. "Yeah, I do. And I see what it's doing to you."
"Thanks, old friend, maybe next time." Napoleon gazed out at the distant view of Diamond Head against the backdrop of blue sky and white clouds, then sighed. "I'd love to stay for a very long time."
"But we are needed elsewhere," Illya reminded. The four exchanged shakes. "Aloha, until next time."
Solo boarded and McGarrett held Kuryakin back for a moment. "Take care of him, Illya."
"Always," he assured with a salute, then disappeared into the jet.
Watching the jet taxi away, Williams leaned on the sedan and sighed. "And I thought being with Five-0 was tough. Being a spy can either kill you or age you." He looked at his silent friend. "Bet you're glad you got out of that rat race." A wispy smile played at his lips. "And into this one."
McGarrett clapped him on the shoulder. "Yeah, different kind of stress." He gestured around him at the perfect day in paradise. "And the fringe benefits are unbeatable." Following the jet take off into the azure sky, he shook his head. "Wish it could be this good for all my friends."
"I have a feeling we'll see them again. I don't think Napoleon and Illya are going to stick with the game for much longer." At the questioningly look from his friend, Dan shrugged. "Instincts."
"Yeah, that's what my instincts tell
me, too."
THE END