THE

SURVIVAL-OF-THE-FITTEST

AFFAIR

summer 1968

I

"If you surrender, you're fired!"

The flimsy cardboard box skidded across the asphalt at the persuasion of Napoleon Solo's shoe tip. He then gingerly stepped aside to narrowly avoid a foul smear of unknown substance on the pavement. The maneuver landed him squarely on top of a discarded piece of chewed gum.

"Yeech!"

"Careless, Napoleon. That could have been a booby-trap under your wingtips."

Illya Kuryakin stood at the mouth of the alley and glanced back as Solo wiped the offending stickiness from the bottom of his expensive shoe. The blond agent was unable to contain his amusement at the antics of his natty partner as Solo picked through the clutter of the alley to join him.

"Leave it to you to skulk around in the sleaziest skid row in San Diego," Solo grimaced and glanced back at the treacherous path he had just navigated.

Illya ignored Solo's complaints and crossed a small side street to enter another alley. Solo rolled his eyes in dramatic long-suffering as he trailed behind his companion.

"Be grateful, Napoleon," the Russian commented after a moment. "It could be worse."

"All right, I'll bite. HOW could it be worse?"

"This could be an alley in Tijuana."

"Hmmm," the dark haired agent sighed and managed to convey a heavy dose of skepticism in the utterance. He had little interest in their current activity and continued only in difference to his partner.

Kuryakin conducted a slow, steady, careful examination of this alley as he had in the previous decrepit walkway between disintegrating brick buildings. It was an old section of urban San Diego, which had fallen into disuse and decay. In this backwater of the city the UNCLE team had briefly lost the man they were assigned to tail.

Kuryakin stooped here, pushed aside a brick pile there, examined doors, moved garbage cans and kicked aside large clumps of trash in his quest. Solo half-heartedly mirrored the motions as he tagged in the Russian's wake.

"This IS sunny San Diego, you know," he grumbled and emphasized the point as he tugged at the polo shirt which clung to his sweaty skin. "We should be on a long stretch of white sand beach. I can just feel the toasting rays, the cool ocean -- and all the lovely California, uh, scenery."

Illya paused in his perambulations to stare incredulously at his sometimes-wearisome friend. "It was the, uh -- scenery -- which put us in our present predicament in the first place."

Solo scowled as defensive doubt clouded his handsome features. "We only lost him for a little while."

"Almost an hour," Kuryakin corrected sternly. "We wouldn't have lost him at all if one of the UNCLE agents assigned to follow him hadn't been distracted by an ice vendor. Excuse me -- by the California scenery!" he finished with dripping sarcasm.

"It was HOT!" Napoleon countered a bit too fervently. "I stopped for a shave ice -- the girl was friendly -- can I help it is the natural Solo charm overwhelmed her and she flirted with me? And my response was purely instinctive . . ."

He let the excuse trail off and waited for a response. The silence from the Russian condemned more than words ever would.

He struggled for another defensive tack. "Anyway, we DID finish the assignment."

The defense was only half-hearted. Though he had loudly denied it for the past few hours, Solo's finely honed instincts told him he had goofed. Like his partner, he was suspicious of the disappearance of the courier, but pride prevented an admission of guilt. It HAD been a stupid mistake. Too little attention to the dull assignment and too much attention to the blond. He sighed. Old weaknesses WERE hard to break.

Their search came to a halt as they reached the end of the alley where it dead-ended into a derelict brown-brick warehouse. Kuryakin leaned against the hot bricks and wiped the perspiration from his face, then adjusted the belt holster a bit for more comfortable leaning. He was still not content with the change from shoulder holster to belt holster, but his partner's logic had been sound. On the trail of a THRUSH courier around the beach walks of San Diego they would have been highly conspicuous even in lightweight suits. Much easier to blend with the crowds in polo shirts and casual slacks. Though Kuryakin was still not convinced the shirt with the little bare feet on the chest constituted 'California incognito', he had, for once, followed the fashion dictates of his trendy partner. If Napoleon knew anything, it was fashion.

Solo aimlessly kicked some trash from a doorway as he joined his friend. "What about that nice redhead at the hot dog stand?" he questioned, not willing to give up the fight. "AND the one at the popcorn stand?"

Kuryakin shrugged. "THEY flirted with me. I bought food."

"Which constitutes an emotional experience for you," Solo countered blandly, his tone typically wry as it always was when tormenting his partner. "They were ready to adopt you. Why do women always want to do that with you?"

"Don't women want to adopt you, Napoleon?" the Russian retorted with mock innocence.

"No, my son, they have entirely different designs on me!"

As Kuryakin glances at the sharp features of his friend, he felt his irritation replaced by amusement. He could not really blame Napoleon for the lapse.

They had started on the bland assignment in New York. They trailed a THRUSH courier across the country. At each stop they were able to discover a previously unknown THRUSH agent. Other UNCLE teams had captured the THRUSH agents while Solo and he had continued to trail the courier.

Simple. Concise. Routine. Dull.

Too easy for two seasoned, top-notch agents. It had gone without a snag until the last contact in San Diego. Then fate had stepped in, and Napoleon Solo being -- well -- Napoleon Solo -- that explained it all.

It was a classic equation: mental boredom, plus warm sun, salt air, perfect weather, plus, countless girls wearing little more than suntans. Add a low priority mission, high profile distractions, and Napoleon Solo. Sum: disaster. The fatal moment of truth had been in that kismet of time and space when the pretty blond had engaged Napoleon in conversation. In only seconds he had lost sight of the courier, who was lost in the crush of sun worshipers and beach bums. A thorough search of the area for almost an hour had finally produced the courier. Pure luck they caught up with him at the moment he met with his contact.

Back-up agents had arrested the THRUSH men and Kuryakin had insisted they remain behind to search the area again. The time factor bothered him. What had the man been doing for almost an hour? Did he meet with another contact? Was there a secret satrap in the area? Whatever it was, his instincts cried out for an investigation, no matter how tedious. Concealing a grin, he observed Solo desultorily searching the area. He wasn't yet ready to let the cool Solo off the hook. Rarely did Illya get an opportunity to watch Napoleon squirm in a dilemma of his own construction.

Solo fell against the wall next to Kuryakin and said with forced cheerfulness. "Don't worry, we'll probably find some mysterious secret base and you'll be a hero."

Illya countered cagily, "Perhaps I simply want to keep you from spending the day on the beach!"

Solo opened his mouth to respond, but for one of the few times in his life he could think of no scathing comeback. His face was awash with perplexity. For once he could not fathom the expressionless countenance of his inscrutable partner.

In the silence they both heard the scrape of shoes on the roof above them. Quickly exchanged glances confirmed their mutual suspicion. With smooth, swift motion they plunged to opposite corners of the alley as they drew their guns. Bricks shattered and erupted in their wake as bullets traced their paths. Shots reverberated in the narrow confines of the alleyway. The noise was deafening as gunfire from both sides boomed in the brick warzone.

The two targets were crouched in the slight safety of their respective corners. Their tactical position was hopeless. Boxed by three walls, it would only be a matter of minutes before their corners were not longer safe. Return fire was inadequate at best since they were forced to aim into the sun to spy their targets. The only line of escape was up the mouth of the alley -- easy prey for the high snipers.

They exchanged another glance and correctly read each other's thoughts. Escape was their only choice. Wordlessly they made their move. Years of work together as a team made vocalization unnecessary, and at the moment speech was a luxury they didn't have.

They progressed as quickly as possible up the alley. They stopped at whatever slight cover was available. One would supply a steady stream of cover fire while the other slipped to the next make-shift foxhole. The leapfrogging brought them halfway through the alley when fire from a new direction nearly caught Kuryakin in mid-run. Just in time he leaped for cover next to a trash can which currently sheltered Solo.

"I make out two at the back of the alley," Solo observed curtly as he loaded a full clip into his Walther. "By the way, congratulations, you were right. I think we found the other contact."

"I believe they found us," Illya corrected as he caught his breath.

"At least one more at the mouth of the alley, now." The senior agent glanced speculatively at his partner. "Any ideas?"

"I thought it was your turn for a plan."

"You didn't like my last one, so it's you turn." Solo squinted against the glare to make out dim, fleeting shadows above them. "We're properly boxed in."

"And I would rather not be a sitting duck."

"I agree, IK. Shall we make good an escape?"

A spray of gunfire suddenly strafed the wall above their heads and both quickly returned fire. Solo could see a glint of metal in the sunlight and gripped his pistol with both hands as he lobbed several careful shots. He was rewarded by a scream and the clatter of a rifle as it struck pavement.

At that instant Kuryakin was on his feet and running with Solo right behind. They ran a zigzag pattern toward the mouth of the alley. Whenever possible they loosed random shots at their attackers, but their focus was concentrated on escape. Bullets spit at their feet and buzzed close enough for them to feel the rush of lead. The inner city passage had become a battlefield. They were almost to the end of the alley when a volley of fire came from ahead. Illya successfully dodged the deadly rain of bullets, but one shot hit home and slammed into Solo's leg. The impact threw him into the wall where he slid to the ground. The Walther dropped from a limp and nerveless hand to skid across the asphalt and land in a heap of trash.

Kuryakin had covered the last few yards with fleet strides and rounded the corner when he sensed more than heard the fall. He wedged himself between a metal dumpster and the brick wall and looked back. Napoleon was clutching his right thigh, doubled over with pain. The alternatives flickered automatically through the Russian's orderly mind: escape to safety and bring back reinforcements, attempt a foolhardy rescue, or appeal to the mercy of THRUSH and surrender before they killed Napoleon.

The dispassionate mental debate lasted only a fraction of a second. Logic dictated the correct response, even as he made the opposite choice. The sight of his friend in agony made his stomach constrict in sympathetic pain and he knew he could never leave his partner to the wolves. Rifle fire echoed again as shots clipped the asphalt near the recumbent Solo. Kuryakin momentarily distracted them and loosed blind shots at unseen targets. Perhaps it would give Napoleon enough time to crawl to cover. When the clip was empty the Russian quickly reloaded, but already knew his fight was hopeless. Solo was pinned against the wall and the wound would prevent him from any escape. That left Kuryakin only one option.

"Stop firing and I'll surrender!" he shouted at the sky.

The echo of gunfire slowly receded into a silence that almost throbbed in the ears. Even the air seemed to hang think in the stillness and cloyed the lungs. Dust-motes floated in the sunlight like ethereal webs suspended between buildings. The pall of powder, blood, and death hovered close in the sultry, humid brick canyon. Faint, heavy breaths of puffed exertion were the only interruptions of the quiet.

"I'll throw my gun out."

"NO!" Solo yelled fiercely as he struggled to lean up against the wall. "Get away, Illya!" he rasped, and the effort sapped much of his strength. He could feel the energy draining away like his blood spilling to the ground. His head spun and turned the alleyway into a whirlpool. He had to close his eyes to shut out the vertigo. "Run, Illya!"

A shot rang near his head and he flinched away in time to avoid another shot. This time the bullet was so close he could feel the heat on his neck before he heard the buzz. The brick near his face shattered and knife-like chips cut into his cheek. Clearly the THRUSH wanted to capture a second UNCLE agent. His leg throbbed with an all-consuming pain that shot up the length of his body at the slightest movement. Warning shots rang near Solo's head. He flinched away, but they did not deter him from issuing another caution.

"Run, Illya Don't worry about me!"

This time the bullets flew so close he could feel the heat on him neck before he heard the buss. The brick next to his head shattered and razor-like shards cut into his cheek: he could taste the sour grittiness of the brick-dust. Clearly THRUSH wanted to capture another UNCLE agent -- more or less alive -- and he wouldn't let them if there was anything he could do about it. He couldn't stand the thought of his partner making such an insane and futile gesture of sacrifice.

"If you surrender you're fired, Illya," he blurted, but couldn't be sure his voice was any more than a whisper.

His leg throbbed with an all-consuming pain that tremored up the length of his body. A tiny piece of lead could do a great deal of damage and this one felt as if it achieved its full purpose. Another part of his mind closed out the agony and concentrated on channeling the strength he had left to shout some sense into his stubborn partner. He could feel the greyness push in from the periphery of his vision, the misty nullness close on ill his senses. He mentally cursed Illya’s dogged tenacity and penchant for carrying noble loyalty too far by lingering in the alley. He refused to acknowledge that he would have done the same thing had positions been reversed.

"I'm coming out. Don't shoot!" Illya shouted as he tossed his Walther into the alley and stepped out.

It afforded him the first clearer view of Solo slumped on the ground, and his throat was suddenly parched with anxiety. He stepped slowly back into the alley and was mildly surprised that he wasn't immediately shot down. Kuryakin kept his arm' clear of his body as he walked purposefully toward his associate. Before he could reach the downed Solo, THRUSH operatives surrounded them both and Kuryakin was roughly seized in the vice-like grips of two simian-types

"Let me see to him," Illya snapped savagely as he tried to wrest free of his captors.

"You'll have plenty of time to chat later," one of the men returned.

Two other gorilla-like thugs appeared and grabbed Solo by the arms then tugged him to his feet. A cry of torment tore from his throat as he was wrenched back to semi-consciousness. They attempted to make him stand, but the exertion was too much and his legs went limp as he passed out between the thugs. Blood soaked the pant leg around a gnarled hole in the thigh made by the high calibre bullet. Deep red drops splattered onto the black asphalt.

Kuryakin fought against the strong grips. "Let me help him,"' his voice cracked huskily. "He could bleed to death"

One of the muscular guards started to tug the objectionable capture away. "We already have one healthy prisoner," he commented to his fellows. "Maybe we should just leave the other guy. Or better kill him now."

For a terrible moment Kuryakin was afraid they were serious. The spokesman pulled a gun and held it against Solo's bowed head.

"No!"

A tall, thin man with a clean-shaven head stepped into the tense circle and seized a handful of Solo's dark hair, momentarily studying the face of the unconscious agent. "Never discard something that appears useless but could later be useful." He studied the wounded UNCLE agent with negligence, and there was a notable lack of concern in his voice as he allowed the head to drop from his hold. "Get something to wrap around his leg so he doesn't bleed all over the chopper."

Kuryakin was dragged away, and he idly speculated that they were on the way to a nearby satrap, though not one close to the city. They could still get out of this he silently assured himself. It would just take some time and luck -- two commodities Solo seemed fatefully short on today.

II

"Remember you have to make it back to warn the settlers."

He did not want to wake up. Just beyond the dark hollow of unconsciousness lingered a spectre of dread. He knew once he broke the thin veil of wakefulness he would have to confront this black dread face to face. The prospect seemed more than his weariness could cope with. Yet, even sleep held no escape now. The spectre materialized in the very tangible sensation of pain and physically gripped him in clenched tendrils of flame. The cry built in his mind and spilled over to his voice. The sound snapped him to full and painful consciousness.

Solo shifted and was hit with a sharp wave of pain which shot like shards of fire along the right side of his body. It emanated from the thigh and reached through every fiber and nerve as he involuntarily cried out. Gentle hands firmly pushed his shoulders back against a cushion.

"That will teach you to make sudden moves." Concerned blue eyes looked into his from only inches away.

"Good advice," he agreed softly. "No tango for me tonight, I guess."

His watery vision cleared and his eyes came into sharper focus. Beyond Kuryakin was the drab grey of concrete walls, ceiling, and floor. A single, bolted steel door was the only exit. The meager furnishings consisted of a thin mat curled at Illya's elbow, and the small mat he was on.

"How are you feeling?"

"Terrible." Drawing in a shuddered breath he blinked away the tears of pain. His normally deep voice was strained and sharp. "I just ruined -- a perfectly good pair of trousers," he dismissed with forced lightness and hastily changed the subject. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Is it safe to talk?"

"Yes," Illya answered almost as quietly. He took the mood cue from his partner. Obviously Napoleon did not want to discuss anything serious. Desperate situations often required a cavalier approach; else they would not be able to function in this business. "I guess I'm fired," he offered wryly.

Solo seemed to seriously ponder the comment, but there was a glint in his brown eyes. "Considering our plight I think I'll keep you on the payroll. So what have you done to earn your keep?"

"They took our equipment, of course. Even my shirt buttons!" The tone was indignant.

"Nice of THRUSH to think UNCLE has designer shirts."

Solo noted his friend's bruised cheek and split lip. He placed a finger under Illya's chin and turned the face to a better angle. "You had a party and didn't invite me."

Kuryakin's shrug was casual. "It seemed rude to wake you. And you missed nothing. Same old questions."

"Same old answers, too, it appears," Napoleon finished dryly. He carefully pushed himself on his elbows, but even that slow and simple movement was an effort. After a moment he gave it up as a bad idea and sank down again. "Oh . . ." he moaned in agony. "Enough about me."

Kuryakin grabbed his rolled mat. "Here, lean on this," he offered and moved his partner into a more comfortable position.

Watching his friend with grave attention, he bitterly accepting that Solo was badly wounded and there was little he could do to help. The bone appeared to have been split or broken from the bullet. The leg was swollen and fevered and Kuryakin had torn the trouser to relieve the pressure. He couldn't even guess at the muscle, and tissue damage, but suspected some of those injuries due to the to the intensity of the pain. Blood had spread in a wide red patch across the make-shift bandage -- from Kuryakin’s windbreaker -- that offered only nominal aid. Solo was weak from the trauma and blood loss, and medical attention was imperative, if not critical.

Kuryakin hated the helplessness of the situation. There was nothing he could do to helpfor Solo, there was no way he could see to escape, and it left him with a sense of guilt and inadequacy. He wanted to offer some kind of comfort, but his own profound reserves won out over his sincere compassion, and kept him from saying or doing anything too openly caring.

"I did what I could to stop the bleeding. Looks like the bone is broken," he speculated quietly.

Solo looked at him with rueful eyes. "Just full of good cheer, aren't you?"

"There was nothing to splint it with."

"Well, it doesn't look like I'll be going too far anyway," Solo sighed in resignation.

"Damn them, they didn't have to do this to you."

Solo looked at him sharply, surprised at the emotional outburst from his usually cool and controlled friend. Kuryakin's normally inscrutable face was etched with concern. A rare revelation from his friend, and it at once embarrassed, and warmed Solo to know he us the recipient of this solicitude. The Russian had never been one to give much mention to their friendship, and Solo was deeply touched to see it now, though he wished it would have been under better circumstances.

"It's just a scratch." he dismissed casually, lying as convincingly as he could. "Nothing for you to worry about. Give me two aspirin and call me in the morning," he admonished lightly as he closed his eyes and leaned against the cold, rough concrete.

Even in repose the leg was painful, though Solo tried not to let it show. His face was drawn and pale in the dim light afforded by the weak overhead bulb. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, yet the skin was cool and clammy to the touch. When he spoke, the usually mellow voice was coarse with thready pain. The onset of shock, though it didn't seem too serious yet, since Napoleon was still coherent and alert. Again, Kuryakin silently cursed his inability to do anything useful about the frustrating plight.

His friend had to suspect the true extent of the injuries, but hid them behind a studied air of aloofness. The superficial comments were a way of ignoring the grim and almost desperate reality they faced. By unspoken, mutual agreement they had long ago settled on a detached, even inane attitude to job-related injuries. It was a by-product of a dirty profession that frequently exacted a literal pound of flesh. To acknowledge the extent of the pain would only create deeper emotional wounds, and admit to an open vulnerability that neither could afford to confess.

"Well, what clue have you deduced besides the fact that they're a bit heavy handed?"

"They are also quite primitive. This is a new base under construction. From what I could find out it is soon to be a major satrap for the West Coast. Where on the West Coast, I'm not sure."

This earned a grip of amusement from Solo as he opened his eyes. "Oh really?"

In the spirit of the game Kuryakin played along. "Yes, really. It's quite simple," he instructed in his most scholarly tone. "One, no use of drugs or other sophisticated forms of interrogation -- just the crude, old-fashioned variety. Two, very spartan building with temporary supplies for limited staff and a few guests -- that's us. Three, plenty of building supplies for extensive expansion." His final comment was delivered with a rueful frown of self-pity. "And four, they are so ill equipped, or ill-mannered, or both, they didn't even provide us food -- and my stomach tells me it is well past lunch time!"

"Disastrous," Solo shook his head in mock severity. "We'll be sure to complain to the management. Especially since you've been such a busy little UNCLE."

Kuryakin's voice lost all trace of levity, his face a sober expression of professionalism. "We've stumbled into something very big here, Napoleon."

"Yes, well done, Sherlock. And now that I've had my beauty rest, I guess we'll have to do something about it." He tiredly wiped the sweat from his brow and grimaced at the brown grime that came off his hands. "They can't afford a housekeeper, either. Must be an inch of dust here." He cocked his head at Illya. "Ergo, we must be in a very dusty region. This is like desert sand."

Kuryakin nodded slowly, assimilating the possibilities. "There is certainly plenty of desert in California and Mexico. We could be anywhere in the southwest." He glanced at Solo with approval. "You see, elementary, my dear Napoleon."

"How to deduce the size and status of a satrap in one brief tour. You could write a monograph on it when we get back."

Both fell silent for some time as they individually contemplated the options available to them. Solo was the one to voice the uncomfortable truth they had both pondered.

"You know where our duty lies, of course."

Kuryakin well knew the obligation his partner referred to. "Of course. We have to destroy the satrap, or escape and bring back the troops to destroy it." He was silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "We are sadly outnumbered so it won't be easy to bring the house down. I would suggest the better part of valor and escape."

The innuendo was a tangible chasm between them since both knew the implication. Solo would be almost no help in any escape attempt, and the prospect was improbable that Kuryakin could manage alone, taking on a whole THRUSH brigade single-handedly. Brown eyes sobered into dark pools of resolve and reflected the stern determination of Napoleon Solo/ -- capable and professional;. He had not attained the top rank of Chief Enforcement Agent of UNCLE without grit, efficiency, talent, self-sacrifice, and dedication. Nor had he reached the top of his profession by choosing sentimentality or self-preservation over necessary obligations.

"Well, then we take the first opportunity and do our best to escape. If for some reason I can't make it, you'll have to go it alone, Illya."

Kuryakin dismissed the comment hastily. "We'll both make it, Napoleon," he assured forcefully. "All we have to do is figure out how."

It was a strange reversal of roles and it made the Russian somewhat uncomfortable. He was usually the pessimist, the one who needed encouragement, while Solo was the enthusiastic optimist to bolster them with unflagging hope, no matter how desperate the danger. The word 'impossible' was not in Solo's a vocabulary and Illya realized Napoleon was not giving in, just spelling out the grim reality they both knew and understood all too well.

Solo gripped his arm. “If it comes down to survival, you know where your duty lies.”

Staring at him soberly for a moment, Illya nodded. “Yes. I’m not leaving you behind.”

Making a face clearly indicating this was not the answer he expected. "Any ideas?" Solo wondered thoughtfully.

"I'll let you know." A moment later Kuryakin offered, "I guess there's always the Solo luck."

Napoleon "hmmed" neutrally. "I think we need something a bit more substantial."

They tensed as a metallic clunk indicated the door was opening. With a struggle and a hiss of pain Solo sat up with Kuryakin's help. The three thugs who had captured them entered the room, the tall bald man was just behind them. Kuryakin eyed him with thinly veiled contempt. The man was a sadistic and typically crude THRUSH minion, with no skill or finesse in the art of interrogation.

The thugs held pistols with steady beads on the prisoners, though Illya knew they were dangerous enough without the hardware. Kuryakin came to his feet and instinctively stood between the captors and Solo. It was an obvious gesture of protection, and though the situation seemed bleak, Kuryakin intended to do what he could to protect his injured partner. The THRUSH welcome committee was there for information, and Illya knew it would not be a pleasant encounter.

The bald man glanced coldly, silently, from one agent to the other -- an examination of specimens in a cage -- Illya thought. One look in the iceberg-eyes and Illya knew the man had deduced the vulnerable spot in him. Like a psychological chess match, Kuryakin had inadvertently given away his Achilles Heel -- Solo. He hoped he could make up for the lost ground.

The bald man sauntered closer to the UNCLE team focusing sharp attention on Solo. His eyes were filled with menace.

"Mr. Kuryakin refused to give me any information, Mr. Solo. Did he tell you?"

"Perhaps you weren't properly introduced," Solo quipped passively, blandly. "I can't say I blame him. You don't have the right references."

The THRUSH agent's face set itself into grave lines of contempt. Open hatred eked from his voice. "We need to know how you discovered our San Diego location and how much you know about this satrap. Kuryakin refused to loosen his tongue." He shot a look at the slight blond agent, a glare that was triumphant and sadistic. His tone was deep with deadly threat when he looked back to Solo. "I thought I would inquire to you, Mr. Solo."

The suave agent's voice rang with a false contriteness specifically intended to irritate the warden. "Sorry, he's the spokesman this week. I can't answer any questions till next Thursday. It's in our contract."

The bald man growled with anger and shot a command over his shoulder. "Take him," he snapped, and two musclemen stepped to Illya and pinned the slight Russian to the wall.

He instinctively struggled, but the strong arms, the barrel of the gun pressed against his throat, effectively inhibited much movement. Kuryakin relaxed his muscles and ceased the struggle, saving his strength for when it would most be needed. A chill crawling along the base of his spine like an icy spider told him he would need it very soon. This looked to be an ugly confrontation, and the forces of law and order were sadly outnumbered.

The leader stepped over and knelt beside Solo. "I want the information, Solo. You will get no coaching from your stubborn friend over there, so you better give it to me now." There was raw danger in his tone.

Dispassionate burnished eyes glared back and never flinched with a shadow of emotion. Napoleon Solo seemed completely relaxed, calm, and exuded an air of elegant aplomb. Bland indifference dominated his expression, as if the man had related the score of a soccer match instead of delivering a dire threat. It was an old and long-practiced ploy that was highly effective with egotistically interrogators. It was a classic dismissal, a cunning parry to the psyche of the adversary. Guaranteed to enrage an impatient opponent with loss of control and a crack in the offensive line. It sometimes provided a much needed edge to beleaguered captives -- a slight edge that that Solo and Kuryakin desperately needed now. A very minor point, a mental victory in a deadly and dangerous tryst where the opponents held all the high cards and the stakes were fatal. Yet, to some, it was still important how to play the game, not just to win. Indeed, to those of the Old School of espionage, this cunning and dangerous sneer in the face of death was the game.

Not for the first time Kuryakin was incredibly impressed. No one he had ever known could play the game with the bravado and panache of Napoleon Solo -- the stuff legends were made of. Solo's masterful ploys always possessed a dash, a flair, the swashbuckling traits most agents could never even copy. The style had been part of the charm that eventually won-over the cool Russian agent adrift in Cold-War America. The Solo charisma and foolhardy courage had been a hallmark of the dark-haired senior agent since Kuryakin had met him years before. The amazing spy-chic was always Solo's edge.

Illya observed this with admiration and couldn't remember his partner in better form. Though a dark sense of dread hovered in the Russian's mind, and death was close enough to touch, Solo played the moment for all he could, in a true flourish of style. Napoleon Solo had real class.

The bald man sneered, contempt and hatred snarled his face into an ugly mask. "Fate is particularly unkind to captured agents," he spat, and roughly seized Solo's chin in his hand. "Are you going to make this hard or easy?"

Solo pushed the man's hand away and his expression was insolent. "The questions are routine, but I'd rather not be contaminated."

The interrogator's face distorted into a grotesque parody of a smile. "You'd like it the hard way, then? Good, Solo, I'm glad you didn't disappoint me." He delighted in the prospect of the interrogation to come and seemed to revel in his victim's helplessness.

With a quick gesture he commanded the guard closest to pin Napoleon's shoulders to the wall. Then in a lightning quick move that packed all his strength he threw a clenched fist into Solo's injured leg.

The blow sent reverberations of agony through his body. Teeth ground together as he fought back a cry and his leg throbbed with unspeakable pain. He'd been tensed for the worst, but was never prepared for this kind of excruciating anguish. He curled, trying to melt into the floor in an instinctive maneuver to protect his wounded leg as he tried to catch his breath and retain control of his reeling senses.

Rough fingers gouged -- crushed -- his shoulder slamming him back against the wall. The cool concrete on his face helped clear the vertigo from his blurry mind. Repetitious waves of pain were so intense they drove away the threat of unconsciousness. Vision was hazy from the tears in his eyes, but he saw distinctly enough to tense for the second attack.

The toe of the boot flew into his leg with the force of a pile-driver. Waves of agony washed red behind his eyes in a blind flood of torment. He was sure he must have whimpered from the raw hurt, but the buzz in his ears deafened his own cries and the garbled shouts from Illya. He fell to the mat, his mind nub from the overstressed nerves and senses. With each movement he could feel bone grate against bone and scrape lacerated muscles. Torn nerve ends writhed and screamed from the torment. He could taste blood from the lip he was biting and in a moment of weakness prayed that unconsciousness would claim him.

Kuryakin frantically fought against his captors and succeeded only in having the gun pressed so tightly against his throat that it blocked air passage. He forcibly relaxed, willed self-control back into his mind and his captors relaxed as well. 'Pass out, Napoleon, pass out.'

Repeating the litany over and over again, he prayed his friend would succumb to the numbness of unconsciousness and be spared more agony. Guilt twisted his insides. He couldn't believe that moments ago he was impressed with the bravado of resistance. Foolish bravery was killing his partner an inch at a time and Kuryakin had thought it inspiring. Now the continued violence made him ill. This was no game. This was a fight for survival -- a fight for a life precious to him and he could do nothing but watch his friend tortured.

As much as it agonized him ( and his partner) he had to bide his time and wait for the right moment to fight back. He just hoped the wait didn't prove fatal to Solo, who couldn't endure this kind of torment for much longer. Kuryakin wasn't sure he could stand to witness much more of it either.

"Stop it -- you'll kill him!" Kuryakin blurted in alarm as the man delivered another savage blow to the helpless agent.

Instantly he regretted it, he just revealed that the torture was as effective against him as it was to Solo. There would be no let-up, no mercy now, knowing that hurting Solo was the best way to get to him. Mercifully, Solo slumped into senselessness.

The man fastidiously wiped a bloody fist on Solo’s shirt and smiled wickedly at Kuryakin. "I can stop anytime, of course. Just say the word," he baited, obviously pleased with the response from both prisoners. "I don't t really want to stop so soon."

He gloated and clutched a handful of Solo's hair, forcing the slumped agent to face him. It was an overt gesture of dominance, an obnoxious reminder he had complete control of their destinies. Slapping Napoleon's face, he brought the agent back to painful consciousness. Unnecessarily he continued the stinging punishment and Solo had no strength to pull away.

"I'll see you die for this," Kuryakin breathed vehemently. It was a solemn promise that grated from deep within the Russian's burning soul. His eyes flamed with blue embers of hate directed at the slimy animal who was the cause of so much pain.

The torturer smirked confidently. "I don't think so."

Another blow slammed into the leg with a sick thud and elicited a gagged, tortured cry from Solo. The thigh was awash in blood and a distorted lump indicated a misplaced bone. He was faint from the trauma and could feel his brain dizzily fade in and out of a grey mist that offered no respite from the torment. The only thing that kept him from a shattering breakdown was the stubborn hatred that gave him the tenacity to outlast his tormentor.

Kuryakin swallowed a tight lump in his throat and resisted the urge to turn away from the cruel scene. Knots rippled his stomach with every groan from Solo, and fingers of frustrated anger and anguish clutched his heart knowing he could not stop the savagery. Even if he gave in and revealed everything the bald man wanted, it was too late for mercy. The THUSH relished the torture too much, and would certainly cause them both as much torment as possible before they died. Kuryakin realized the man would probably continue until Napoleon died, then it would be his turn. Hatred and vengeance ran deep and black and cold in the Russian's veins, and he promised himself retribution before this day ended. He would avenge every drop of spilled blood.

"All right." It was a raspy, whimpered, pleading sob that was so soft it barely penetrated the tense stillness of the room. Everyone's attention was drawn to the haggard agent slumped against the wall. "I'll tell you," Solo gasped, his voice an alien grate to his partner's ears.

Illya tensed in readiness. He knew his partner had somehow managed an ace up the sleeve and he recognized the trace of contriteness in the tone. It was a practiced ploy Solo had used before, yet, Kuryakin still felt a twinge of pain and regret at the tone of surrender in Solo's voice. He reminded himself this was a false scenario and Solo was setting the stage to bring the house down.

Napoleon pressed against the wall to steady his ragged nerves. The bald man, leaned over and tugged Solo into a sitting position. Napoleon gasped at the movement and fought the accelerated breathing, his face ashen and streaked with tears, sweat, and specks of his own splashed blood. The THRUSH operative hovered scant inches away and pinioned Solo's face in both hands.

"Well, Solo?" he inquired triumphant, pleased with the way he'd crushed this legendary UNCLE operative. "You UNCLE agents weren't as tough as you like to think. I'm going to take great pleasure in taking you apart -- both of you -- very slowly."

Solo sat up straight and used the wall as a brace against his squarely-set shoulders. He gulped in deep breaths of air to steady weak muscles and trembling nerves. This was their one and only chance. He shot a stealthy glance at his partner and was heartened to see what only he could read - the subtle signs of tensed muscles and eager eyes that indicated the wiry blond was ready for action. There was an imperceptible wink from the Russian, and Solo twitched his left eye in a return signal. They were as ready as they would ever be.

Solo willed the energy to flow through his arms and give him the single surge of strength he needed to pull this off. Failure here would mean certain, slow, and agonizing death for both of them. That was enough incentive to give him an added impetus. In a quick, trained reflex he grasped the man's shirt collar and with all his might flung the shaved head squarely into the solid concrete wall. The impact resounded in a dull crack of bone and the man went limp against Solo's chest. With a last vestige of power he shoved the dead man into the nearby guard.

The distraction was all Kuryakin needed and with practiced accuracy he delivered quick, lethal blows to his distracted guards. In fleet strides he crossed the cell and eliminated the last man with a lusty vengeance that left Kuryakin aglow with ungracious satisfaction. Cautiously he opened the cell door and a brief check assured him their commotion had gone undetected. He turned back to survey the room cluttered with dead bodies. Amazing what he and Napoleon could accomplish with their bare hands. Then his heart sank as he spotted Solo slumped on the floor as lifeless as the others.

He knelt beside his friend, hating to touch the desperately injured man, but needing to check on the serious wound. Solo seemed drifted in and out of consciousness and Illya used the natural damper against the pain to gently stretch Solo into a more comfortable position on the floor. It elicited a moan from Solo and eyelids fluttered open. Kuryakin groaned as well when he saw how dearly the ordeal had cost his friend. The leg was terribly misshapen and bleeding profusely.

"You killed him," Kuryakin reported, and spared a glance at the torturer with a cracked skull. "Nice of you to save me the trouble." His throat was tight and dry and his voice cracked on the words. "Another point for you, Napoleon, you've saved the day again."

The hint of a grin came naturally. "The famous Solo luck. Never leave home without it." The words were slow, and his voice shook unsteadily, but there was a glow of triumph in the tone.

"I'll be sure and reward you with a laurel wreath. Right now we don't have time to wait for a brass band. We have to leave."

Just the thought of movement made Solo recoil in anguish. "No -- please -- I can't."

He wanted only to be left alone, to flee into the blessed cushion of unconsciousness. Certainly, even death was preferable to the agony he'd just been through. Abstractly he wondered if he might already be dead since he seemed to have lost all will to live and his perceptions were cloudy, detached -- could that be a definition of death? No, he reasoned, his pain was all too mortal and persistent. For once it would be so simple, so easy to give in, to surrender to the lull of non-resistance. Why did they have to fight life, to struggle so to survive? And was survival really worth the effort? Just this once couldn't he throw in the hand and let fate win the toss -- the game?

The plaintive plea cracked Kuryakin's heart. It was a shock for him to see the familiar, strong features slipping into a pallid void, a blank. Napoleon was as ashen and bland as the pale grey walls around them, but what completely unnerved him was the listless brown eyes. The expressive amber windows to the soul, which were usually aglitter with a vibrant zeal for life, were now dull and empty, as if they were portals to a vacant body. The tremendous stamina of UNCLE's top Enforcement Agent had been taxed beyond Solo's incredible reserves.

Kuryakin's natural pessimism surfaced unbidden -- Napoleon was finished, the soul, the will, had died. The body could not last long without the spirit. Death hovered in spectral tendrils just beyond touch, and his Slavic imagination could feel the frosty brush of the cold breath of the Shade. Illya angrily shook away the morbid thoughts. His resourceful friend had proven time and again indestructibility, and Solo would never, could never give up. Never! The survival instinct, the passionate love of life was too great in the American he was so fond of. Kuryakin refused to give up, or give-in, either. Napoleon's life rested in his hands, and he would not fail. Keenly he felt the responsibility to get them both out of this --alive.

The pressing danger to his friend, the subliminal suggestion that Solo would not make it -- whether from his own lack of motivation or from their enemies -- drove Kuryakin to savagely, swiftly prepare to travel. Driven from his heart was all sense of compassion and understanding. The anguish -- and resentment --he felt at Napoleon's suffering was buried under years of studied denial. Ignore the problem -- the pain-- and move on. That was something the Russian understood perfectly. He was going to save his friend's life and not show Solo how much it was costing him to do it.

Illya tore the shirts from the dead men then returned to strip off the old, inadequate bindings on Solo's leg. He realigned the bone the best he could and managed a stiff pressure bandage that would have to double as a jury-rigged splint. The merciless pounding had shattered the broken bone and caused excessive bleeding. The cinched knots shot tremors of pain to rouse Solo from his stupor. The wounded man winced and bit his lip to restrain the groans as his partner managed to stay the flow of blood. Ruefully, he thought he looked as if he'd been in a wrestling match with an amok can of spray paint. Scratch one more section of his wardrobe. Kuryakin had scrambled over to the dead THRUSH men and retrieved three pistols, which he tucked into his waistband and pockets.

"Napoleon, we must leave now."

The statement elicited a groan from Solo, but he made no attempt to move.

"Napoleon, we must make our escape with all alacrity." He grabbed Solo by the shoulders and forced the wounded agent to sit against the wall. An involuntary cry escaped Solo, and Kuryakin cringed, but did not lose his determination. "Ready?"

Solo shook his head and weakly pushed away the arm of support. "You go ahead. I'll catch up later."

"You're delirious," Kuryakin accused as he pulled Solo's arm around his shoulder.

This time Solo pushed him away with more force and determination. "Go on. You'll never make it out if you have to drag me along. You can consider that an order."

"I will not leave without you," Illya enunciated angrily. "Besides, when do I ever listen to your orders?"

Kuryakin was irritated at his stubborn partner and momentarily perplexed and unbalanced with the task before him. Solo was usually the one to come up with the daring plans, the absurdly impossible and risky schemes that always, miraculously worked. An innate ability born of Solo's natural leadership instincts and swashbuckling tendencies. This time it was Illya's task to take the initiative and assure their escape -- more, his task to drag Solo out of their prison.

"It's too late for me. Save yourself," Solo ordered quietly, then a grim smile appeared on his pale lips. "Sounds like a bad B-movie melodrama, doesn't it? This is where I remind you that the mission is more important that the agents." The brown eyes were unfocused and the voice wispy with shock. "Remember you have to make it back to the fort to warn the settlers."

"Or bring back the cavalry?" Kuryakin played along wryly.

The dark head shook in unusual seriousness. "Chief Enforcement Officers can't afford to believe in the Cavalry, Illya. Remember that it's your job now."

There was a strict rule which stated the mission came first and any field agent was expendable at any time. The nature of the job demanded such altruistic fealty. To match this standard was an unspoken code among the agents -- a personal code -- to save the life of your partner, even at the risk of the mission, or the risk of your life.

As Chief Enforcement Officer, Section Two Number One, Napoleon Solo could never openly endorse this practice, but it was a code he'd indulged in many times in the course of the job.

It was a personal ethic that superceded any other directive. A code of honor, and to some, honor and integrity ran deeper than any other values. It wasn't always easy to separate the moral obligations from the importance of a mission, but no one ever said the life of a spy would be easy. Sometimes it was very difficult indeed, and one of the harshest realities of the job was death. Especially the death of a friend -- a partner -- who was more than a friend. It was an ironic paradox that death was part of their lives

Strangely, some agents could never come to grips with that paradox. Some found it easier to risk their own lives than accept the death of someone else. Death was an inevitable part of their business. Solo and Kuryakin had never been ones to accept the inevitable. They didn't count up the dangers, the risks, the daring rescues, the hairsbreadth escapes, they only counted that they were both still alive. Through their skill, training, and good luck, they would continue to defy the odds and deny the inevitable. Kuryakin was not about to change his philosophy now at this moment he clearly knew what his duty was. A more conscientious agent might be able to turn his back and walk away, but he could not. Perhaps it was the most vulnerable weakness in a conscience he had trained into armored hardness, but he would not -- could not -- abandon his partner as long as there was a breath of life in either of them.

It was a vulnerability of humanity, to never give up hope, to value human life. What would be the meaning of their lofty goals if they could save the world time and again, then let their own humanity be choked with insensitivity? It would make them no different from the enemies they constantly battled. One of an agent's duties was to survive and continue to serve the organization. Frequently that survival meant total dependence on a partner, and that meant the survival of the team, so it came full circle. Survival of the team could be construed to be more important than the mission or the organization.

Well, it sounded like a good rational at least at the moment. There would always be another battle with THRUSH, another mission of vital importance, another chance to save the world. There would never be another partner -- friend -- like Napoleon Solo. It confused and hurt Illya that Solo had apparently given up, that the optimism, had been sapped away along with his strength. So unlike Solo, no matter how bleak the situation.

'Be brave a while longer, Napoleon,' he silently pleaded. Then realized that could be the problem -- Napoleon wanted to be too brave and valiant, but no longer had the strength to do so. It was a favorite chivalric weakness of Solo's to play hero. Fear and anger spurred resolve into the Russian and he would not allow Napoleon to make some kind of grand and noble sacrifice -- he just wouldn't have it! "We are both getting out of here!" his voice cracked with emphasis. "Even if I have to carry you so stop trying to be gallant."

The chestnut eyes seemed to clear to an image of their former vibrancy and sparkled with the luster of deep emotion. A grin tugged at the colorless lips. "You're hopelessly stubborn, you know that?" he whispered rhetorically.

Kuryakin had been geared for an argument and opposition. He hadn't expected the glimpse of emotion and affection, or the natural humor, but it helped him get back on track. "So you keep reminding me," he countered as he took a firm grip around Solo and eased them both up, support of the wounded man entirely on his shoulders.

"Ally-oop," Solo muttered between grinding teeth.

He swayed there for several minutes, faint from the effort. Even the solid support of the wall at his back and Illya beside him did not dispel the feeling of vertigo. He closed his eyes and caught his breath.

"Now for the hard part," Kuryakin warned. "This will hurt me more than it will hurt you," he said as lightly as he could muster.

Solo shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Ready?"

There was a persistent throb at the top of his skull, but Napoleon shook his head again -- it seemed simpler than too much speaking. "I can't even take one step, Illya. I'll never make it." He opened his eyes and looked soberly at his friend, so intent that they both escape. "Don't risk your own chances -- you have to leave me."

"No!" Kuryakin refused flatly.

"I can't let you get killed to save me! Can't you understand that?" he implored in a plea for understanding.

It was insane folly for Illya to try and escape with him. And it was against every code he held dear to allow anything to happen to his friend if he had the power to stop it. Had he possessed the strength he would have physically pulled away to emphasize the point.

Kuryakin refused to enter into the serious debate, or acknowledge the somber mood. "You have to come back with me, you're the one who has to explain this whole affair to Mr. Waverly."

Without waiting for a reply he took a decisive step forward and literally dragged Solo with him. One more tortured step and Solo's knee buckled and he sagged to unconsciousness. Kuryakin had anticipated, imagined, even hoped for the blessed unconsciousness for his friend. He easily caught Solo in a strong grip then carried him out of the cell.

"Sorry about that, Napoleon, but I never said it would be easy, however, I did warn you we would leave together even if I had to carry you." He checked the corridor and found it empty, and continued muttering as he cautiously stepped out. "When will you ever learn to listen to me?"

Kuryakin had been through several areas of the complex for his interrogation session, and through the brief tour had deduced the size and strength of the compound. It had also given him a familiarity of the enemy camp, both invaluable tools to a successful escape. There weren't more than a dozen men the small complex--less four already, so the odds were not outrageous. With a little luck and a lot of instinct -- or visa versa -- he managed to avoid the few guards who wandered the corridors.

He expected the klaxon of alarms, the cry of warning any minute. Surely the dead men would be missed by now. What he did not need to complicate things was a pitched gun-battle in the halls, or organized resistance to block the escape. Solo's condition negated any kind of crafty maneuvers or delays. The number one priority was to get out of the complex and deliver Solo to a hospital. That would have to be very soon if he was to save his friend's life. It meant there was no time for the destruction of the satrap, or for garnering any more information. Kuryakin could not waste of time. A few more turns in the corridor and they arrived at the sought-after destination. A door was clearly marked as the access exit to the helipad.

"Nothing like providing directions," Kuryakin approved as he cracked open the door.

Fifty yards away a helicopter waited on the pad. Two coveralled mechanics were conducting either a pre-flight or post-flight check. The former, he hoped, since that would mean the chopper was set to tae of f. The techs leisurely performed their jobs and Kuryakin was acutely aware of the seconds ticking by -- time he could note squander.

He could never sneak up on them and his burden ruled out a rush. Leaving Solo behind would waste more time than he had to play with. There was nothing for it, he'd have to take the risk. It would certainly give away their position, but he had no choice.

He leaned Solo against the wall, then used the doorframe to steady his aim. He waited breathless seconds as the mechanics wandered into range and close enough for him to pick them off instantly. They came together in the front of the helicopter and he snapped off two shots and both THRUSH folded to the pavement. The lot was cast, and he grabbed Solo and ran to the pad. He literally tossed the wounded agent into the cockpit and jumped to the pilot's seat to start the chopper. All the abrupt activity brought Solo to consciousness and he watched in dazed interest as Kuryakin flipped switches and the rotors slowly swung to life.

An alarm klaxon sounded somewhere in the complex, and the blare was muted by the whine of the blades. A 'ping' on the windshield alerted them to the arrival of the enemy forces. Several THRUSH personnel appeared and opened fire with automatic rifles. Instinct and reflex surfaced when the bullets flew around him and Solo shakily picked up the pistol Kuryakin had dropped. He could barely keep the weapon in hand, but he managed to return a ragged fire. The shots were hopelessly wild and for the moat part off target but were at least aimed in the right direction. They even had the benefit to send the foe scrambling for cover long enough for Kuryakin to lift the chopper off the pad. One lucky shot of Solo's even managed to hit a THRUSH guard.

The copter veered sharply away from the complex and into the declining sun. Solo wearily dropped the pistol to the floor and glanced over to the pilot. "I just love hairsbreadth escapes!" he quipped sarcastically.

"Never have it any other way," Kuryakin -irked. "You see, we couldn't have made it without you riding shotgun."

"The only way to fly," he countered wryly. "Just don't report my shoddy aim." He studied the Russian for a long moment. "You're hopelessly stubborn."

Kuryakin grinned and shouted above the noise of the blades. "You're repeating yourself, Napoleon. And as I said before, I had to get you out of there."

Solo closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the seat. "Never say die, What about almost die," he murmured.

"What?"

He gave Kuryakin a weary gesture. "Never mind, just get us home."

III

"Funny, this doesn't look like Waterloo."

Hot desert wind blew sand and grit into his face and madly whipped thick dark hair against his forehead. He squinted into the intensity of the sun as the rays pierced tired eyes and the raw, naked heat prickled his skin and rivulets of sweat slid down his neck. It felt good to taste the sand and salty sweat on his cracked lips, feel the stark sun burning his cheeks, the grit in his eyes and the smear of grime on his hands.

Somehow the physical, tactile elements brought all his senses back into focus. The pain in his leg momentarily receded to the back of his mind and Solo felt alive -- after a fashion. For a while he wasn't sure he'd feel anything again beyond the weak helplessness and the thick barrier of pain. Now he thrived on the extra time his friend had bought back. For however long it lasted he reveled in the good feeling of just being alive.

The chopper sped low across the low desert floor. They rapidly approached a small hill and Kuryakin expertly and gently lifted the craft above the rise with the practiced ease of a skilled pilot. They continued to climb as Kuryakin navigated over several rocky bluffs. Then suddenly the helicopter dropped down again to the drab, dull brown expanse of sand and the instruments indicated a problem. Their altitude declined as the oil pressure, fuel, and altimeter gauges plummeted.

Solo sat up and focused keenly on the instruments. An expert pilot himself, he could read the signs well enough. However, a glance at Kuryakin's strained face was an even better indicator of trouble. The pale Russian was uncharacteristically obvious in his concern.

"What do you think?" Solo shouted over the wind and blades.

"Damage to the fuel line maybe," Kuryakin shrugged, his attention concentrated on flying. "Hard to tell."

"One of those nasty bullets, I'll bet," Solo grimaced.

Kuryakin slowed the helicopter and brought it low to the ground. He glided over the desert terrain and searched for a spot of firm sand, cleared of the ubiquitous scrub-brush.

"If we had one, the 'fasten your seatbelt' sign would be on," he yelled helpfully.

Solo struggled with the safety belt and finally managed to snap it in place Just as Kuryakin landed and the chopper skidded and slid along the dirt. Dust billowed in voluminous clouds that choked their lungs. Sand whipped their faces and stung their eyes in a blinding spray. Kuryakin waved away the smut and quickly snapped switches to shut the engine down. The broad blades gradually wound down and dust settled over everything, including them, in a fine light powder that floured their skin and hair. As a textbook landing it was less than perfect, but at least they were in one piece.

Kuryakin glanced at Solo, whose eyes were tightly clamped shut and jaw clenched like a vice. The landing had jarred the injured leg and the impact had not yet faded. "All right?" Kuryakin asked as he nudged his companion.

Solo nodded. He made a face, wrinkling his nostrils, as the odor of burnt fuel and over stressed engine wafted into the cockpit along with the dust. He opened one eye, then the other. "I'm in better shape that this helicopter. I think." He fastidiously brushed the dirt and grime from his hair and clothes in an instinctive reflex of neatness. It was a useless effort, since even the impeccable Napoleon Solo could not remain unsoiled in the enduring desert silt.

"I'll check the damage," Kuryakin commented, amused at his friend's exasperation. "To the helicopter," he added and left the cockpit.

A thorough and efficient check of the engine confirmed his worst fears. A tear in the fuel line had drained the fuel, and another shot had damaged part of the engine. It was beyond Kuryakin's ability to repair in the middle of nowhere. He remained there for several minutes staring bleakly at the offending desert. He vainly hoped for a solution but there was nothing he could do. They were stranded in the desert with no transportation.

This effectively sealed their fate -- Napoleon's fate to be precise. Kuryakin could survive the desert, could handle the heat and take several days of the harsh elements and live off the land. Solo would not last through the night without medical attention. In a rare moment of unrestrained frustration and anger, the Russian slammed his fist against the metal in a rash release as he muttered dark curses. To stall for time would not ease his task or make the problem go away. He formed his face into his most inscrutable mask of control and walked back to the cockpit.

Solo seemed asleep -- the faint rise and fall of his chest indicated he was still alive. Tension lines coursed his pale face, his lip twitched. Even in repose it was evident he was in pain. Kuryakin decided not to disturb him just yet and rummaged behind the seat for the first aid kit and managed to scrounge a few supplies. There was a small knapsack with snack foods and containers of water. Enough for two people to last a few days in the wilderness.

From the angle of the sun he judged it was probably six or seven hours since they had been captured in the far-away alley in San Diego. A quarter of a day, yet, in many ways it seemed more like a lifetime. Each passing minute was their enemy now, and he would have to find help soon. Solo could not afford the loss of much more blood.

Solo felt his face cool, the brightness of the sun faded, and he realized he was under a shadow. He blinked open his eyes, but made no other movement. It had taken long enough to achieve this semi-comfortable position. He could read hard lines in the somber face which leaned close and strove for a stoic detachment. Years of practice enabled him to clearly interpret the studied lack of expression.

"No luck, huh?"

Kuryakin shook his head and it sent locks of blond hair into his eyes. "I can't repair it. We'll have to walk." It was a grim challenge, almost daring Solo to debate.

"Walk?" the dark agent repeated ruefully. "Where? We're in the middle of nowhere!"

"I don't know. Yet."

"You mean we're lost."

"Not exactly," Kuryakin qualified hastily. He suddenly made great busy work out of searching the first aid kit and assembling an assortment of bandages, gauze, and a splint. "Be still I will set your leg."

Solo sat up, bracing his back against the seat cushion. He had to focus his attention on the conversation to keep his mind off the medical administrations of his companion. Illya was a good agent and a great friend, but he left much to be desired as a physician.

Through gritted teeth he fought to sound casual and not reveal the pain. "I give up. What are we if we're not lost?"

Kuryakin was intent on his task and it was a moment before he responded. "We are not far from civilization. I'm not completely clear where we are on the map, but we must be near a small town." His tone was decidedly lacking in confidence.

Solo picked up the nearby charts and glanced at then a frown marring his handsome face. No doubt about it, they were good and properly lost. He dropped the maps and studied the bleak brown landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. He had to face the grim truth. Illya could still come out of this alive, could conceivably complete the mission. Just for him the game was up. He wouldn't be walking out of this one either figuratively or literally.

"Funny, this doesn't look like Waterloo. Or even St. Helena," he observed dryly to himself.

Kuryakin shot him a suspicious look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It won't work, Illya. We can't go on pretending I can make it. You'll have to go it alone."

"I can help you," Kuryakin growled sternly and tightened the knot on the bandage. It elicited a sharp cry from Solo, and he brutally closed any sympathetic emotions away behind his iron Slavic resolve.

Solo clenched his teeth against the pain, but would not give in. "How far, two miles? Four or five before you collapsed?" His voice was unnecessarily cruel and harsh, giving no quarter. "You wouldn't last for more than a few hours, and I certainly couldn't last even that long." He looked away, as if he didn't want to face his friend and when he spoke again his tone had mellowed. "You shouldn't feel as if you're abandoning me or something, you know. We both knew the risks when we took the job, this is just one of the risks."

Anger frosted the blue eyes with stubborn born determination. The brittle tone matched the cold expression. "We've been through this already, Napoleon. I will not leave you!"

Hazel eyes sparked in flint-like hardness. "You don't have much choice, do you? THRUSH will be after us soon enough. You can't wait for them here, and you have no chance of escape if you try to drag me along!"

"And you think I'll just abandon you and leave you here for them to kill?"

Solo sighed in frustration. He knew the chances were slim for survival and odds on favorites that he would bleed to death before THRUSH ever found him. The least he could do in the situation was to save his partner, not drag Illya down with him. And Illya was fighting him all the way. It required a whole new kind of fortitude since he was once again called to offer his own life in sacrifice for his partner's safety. A common enough scenario they had reenacted countless times, but this time there would be a twist. He would not be doing something heroic under blazing guns or imminent threat of death. This was a calm, dispassionate, premeditated decision but no more difficult that if he had made it instantaneously in the heat of battle. The result was the same -- he would do anything to convince Illya to leave.

"WE can always wait for them to pick us up," Kuryakin said obstinately, his Slavic brows knit in serious thought. "They might want to recapture us."

"I don't think they'll welcome us with open arms. We killed several of their men, we broke their helicopter -- they might even be mad at us!" Kuryakin offered no response to the sarcasm and Solo continued acerbically. "Besides, you have to give the location of this base to HQ. You' re the only one who can finish the mission now."

"Don't throw the mission at me," Illya snapped and turned away.

Solo wiped both hands across his face and wished the gesture could sweep away the headache that throbbed his senses and made it hard to concentrate. Illya wasn't making it any easier, but then, what had he expected? If positions were reversed, he wouldn't give up either, though the thought did nothing to lessen his conviction.

"Never fold your hand until you've seen all the cards on the table," Illya quoted over his shoulder without facing his partner. "Isn't t that what you always say?" Illya's words were rhetorical, his tone biting. Napoleon could try to be so ridiculously noble at times. "In a few hours it will be dark. We can cross the desert with less difficulty and THRUSH will have a hard time tracking us. I'm sure there's some kind of town in the near vicinity."

"Look, you know you have to make contact with headquarters," Solo offered reasonably, urgently. "Let go, Illya. Accept what you know is right -- accept what we both have to do."

"I will not leave you to bleed to death in the middle of no where. I categorically refuse and there is nothing you can do or say to change my mind," he snapped as he turned around and glared at Solo, defying his friend to offer a challenge.

They were mad -- it was be the only explanation. Unreasonably, stubbornly, and stark raving maniacally deranged. Here they were in the torrid sun and unrelenting heat, and they argued precious seconds away as they tried to convince the other of an untenable, unacceptable proposition. Solo stared out at the depressingly bleak landscape and refused to give an inch. Part of him cringed with every scalpel-edged barb he flung at his partner, but the harsh, even cruel words were necessary. He couldn't let Illya linger when there was nothing to be gained. Solo had already accepted the bitter verdict that he would not survive this ordeal, he would not let his friend be sacrificed as well.

Solo covered his eyes with a shaky hand, then brushed fingers through his thick, damp hair. "Okay." He leaned back with his eyes closed. "Let's forget about the mission." Reaching out he took hold of his friend's arm. The gesture of reassurance was diminished as the hand trembled. "I'm asking you to do this for me." Voice hardly above a whisper, the plea was as shaky as his grip. "I want you to survive this. You can't do that if you have to worry about me."

Kuryakin pulled away. "Don't." It was a low threat.

Gritting his teeth against the inner anguish that was more pronounced than his physical pain, Solo blinked back tears of grief. He hated inflicting this emotional brutality onto his friend, but he had no choice. Any method was fair in trying to save Illya's life. Staring at Illya's back, his expression was a grin mask of resolve. "There's always Joe Harrison's option,"

Frozen slivers of ice coursed through Illya's nerves and chills ran the length of his spine like tiny pinpoints of fire that danced under the skin. He jolted, as if physically struck. For a long moment he was too shocked to respond.

Harrison was an UNCLE agent, who, several years before on assignment his partner had been wounded and capture meant certain torture, a prolonged and agonized death, and failure of the mission. To successfully accomplish the assignment, Harrison would have to escape on his own. To spare the gravely wounded partner further anguish, Harrison had killed him, then escaped.

Waverly had grudgingly sanctioned the actions. As Number One Section Two, Napoleon had been shocked and disgusted by the callous act and had never condoned it. When Kuryakin and Solo had fleetingly discussed it they shared a natural revulsion and shock along with a lack of comprehension. They could not accept the situation of total helplessness. Superstitiously, they rarely discussed it, as if just the reminder would acknowledge it as a viable alternative. Their same reasoning prevented them from carrying suicide capsules. They confidently knew they would never be in a similar situation. They overcame the impossible on a routine basis and escape was a recurring Houdini act for them. They had enjoyed too many miraculous escapes to ever believe in defeat or surrender.

It chilled Illya's soul to even contemplate the possibility of killing Napoleon. It was beyond belief, beyond comprehension. To even suggest it exceeded the bounds of gallantry, or even insanity. How could Napoleon even consider him capable of such -- murder? Kuryakin had been forced to kill, many times, in the performance of his duty. Never a murder like this.

Part of him wanted to strike out -- even physically -- at his delirious partner. Knowing that would be as senseless under the circumstances as Napoleon's stinging words, Illya contained his disgust and sighed. "It must be the heat. Mad -- you are no longer capable of rational thought." He muttered to himself, confused and disoriented, unable to address his partner. "How can you even suggest that?"

"Survival of the fittest, remember?"

Inside, Kuryakin felt part of him die and abstractly recognized it as hope. His struggle for optimism was over. With it died his righteous indignation and the will to keep arguing. "I've rarely seen you afraid of anything." Disillusioned, disheartened, his voice was flat, but the accusation and disappointment burned in his eyes. "I never thought you would lack the courage to keep trying. I'm afraid you are already beyond hope, my friend. Already dead. Survival is as much a state of mind as a physical state. You have already given up," he volleyed, then walked away.

The words sliced into Solo like the edge of a steel blade. Survival WAS a state of mind. Survival was an ingrained instinct which ran deep and strong in his blood. Somehow intertwined with the core of the human soul; the will to fight, the stubborn tenacity to live, was an indomitable primal urge that made up the basis of the human being. Perhaps that was the mortal fear they all harbored deep within their hearts. Did they dread death because it was the ultimate surrender?

With sudden clarity he knew that was not right. Survival -- the will to live, no matter how difficult -- could never be crushed. Not as long as there was a struggle right to the end. Survival meant to conquer the pain, the hopelessness, and fight for the last breath with every fiber of energy in mind and soul. Then even death would not be victor over the indomitable spirit. He had been face to face with death many times in the past. Never had he ceased to fight. Even in the bleakest dark of midnight, he had never lost the hope of a dawn. There had never been a surrender.

Napoleon had never given up at anything in his life, and refused to start with death. In the attempt to nobly remember his duty, and his friend, he had almost given up his spirit. He had never intended to surrender. Was it the shock of his injuries? Was this some kind of personal Rubicon that must be conquered? A gambler at heart, he depended on luck and skill to beat the odds. He had not lost that ingrained will to live, but had to be sure it would not cost Illya's life as well. He had no desire to die, to surrender his life. And if he did die, he did not want to leave Illya with the impression that he had surrendered to anything.

For a moment he reevaluated his position. Kuryakin was still game, and it sparked a challenge in Solo's competitive nature. Maybe there was still a chance they could both come out of this alive. Remote -- almost impossible -- but if there was any chance at all he had to grasp it, as much for Illya's sake as his own. If he did survive, then he would face his fate with the same attitude of invincibility. He would dredge up every bit of courage to face his fate -- whatever that destiny would be. If he would not let THRUSH defeat him, how could he let his own doubts destroy his hope? Had he found the limit of his courage? Was the invincible Solo finally vanquished by his own fears? No, he couldn't give up. He couldn't disappoint Illya. He was so tired, now he was afraid he WOULDN'T survive. He had to last just a few more minutes . . . .

Kuryakin took refuge in an examination of the emergency rations. There were scant protein bars, canteens of water and a few general survival necessities one might need in the desert. He packed the commodities they would need with the first aid kit. It was as much preparation he could make for what he knew would be a grueling trek. Illya refused to look at his recalcitrant partner. His emotions were still in turmoil and the return to control was slow. Strange how easy it was to lose his cool, dispassionate equilibrium with Solo, who could bring out the best -- and worst -- in him.

Solitude gave him the opportunity to regroup his rationality. It was absurd to be angry at Solo, who had obviously been affected by the shock of the injury. Though their argument had somewhat shaken his faith, he had to chalk it up to the untenable situation. They had been in desperate situations before, but never like this, because Napoleon had never given up before. Illya had never been this afraid he would lose his partner.

The dark fears sprang unbidden from a black pit of despair harbored deep in the subconscious: Napoleon would die. The harbinger of doom, the foreshadow of the Grim Reaper, had been the death of the will. Kuryakin was ever the one to quote dire predictions and fatalistic epigrams only to have the buoyant Solo retort with wise remarks and flippant optimism. Now the Russian found it difficult to keep the faith by himself. Not for the first time the beauty of a partnership struck him where each complimented the other in a symmetry that made the whole greater than the sum of the parts. Their relationship was everything a partnership was meant to be and he refused to give it up now.

'Dour remnants of a dark heritage come back to haunt me,' he reasoned. A fine example to lecture Solo on state of mind and positive mental attitudes. 'Men who live in clear houses should not throw bricks,' he recited silently. "I promise you," he muttered darkly, temper still seething from the argument. "I will get you out of this desert if I have to knock you out to do it, Napoleon!"

"Never say die."

It was a quiet utterance. So quiet, Illya thought he had imagined it then realized Napoleon was speaking to him. Something in the tone scared him and he quickly joined his friend. Suddenly all other considerations receded in a tide of anxiety. The wounded agent had visibly faded from his precarious hold on life. If Solo had been ashen before, his face now held a pasty grey hue, death like in it's pallor, though Kuryakin quickly pushed the analogy aside. Napoleon's battered lips were colorless and the facial skin clammy. The listless eyes were the most frightening features. Devoid of resistance, the brown pupils were dilated and stared out in glassy non-recognition.

The Dark Shade lurked just out of sight in the far reaches of the velvet depths . . . 'NO!' he screamed back at his fevered imagination. Napoleon's survival depended as much on his strength of will, or mind, as it did on Solo's. Perhaps more.

Kuryakin leaned closer, taking his friend's face in his hands and was glad to see the amber eyes sharpen into focus. His throat was tight and dry. This could very well be the end. "What did you say?"

Solo was weak. His energy and strength were sapped -- drained. Sands -- grains poured from an hourglass until only emptiness remained. Yet, there was something important left to say before he could rest. He had to tell Illya, who was now attentively close. If this was his time to die, it was at least cushioned by the calming presence of his friend. It was a warm cloak of comfort -- a candle in the midst an ever-crowding darkness. He was grateful he was not alone. Though there seemed so much he wanted to say, he knew he did not have the strength left to say it all. Fortunately, much of it had already been said, communicated in the unspoken companionship enjoyed over the years. But there was one thing -- and Solo put all the power he had left into his voice. Illya had to know . . . .

"Never . . . ."

It seemed more like a quiet echo even to his own ears, but Illya heard it. Kuryakin's concerned face brightened. Solo's thoughts came with slow dullness, yet the natural humor remained intact. The pun surfaced with unbidden instinct and seemed a fitting message if these were to be his dying words.

"Never . . say . . uncle," he whispered with the spectre of a grin.

Kuryakin shook his head and smiled. "You aren't too far gone if you're making bad jokes," he commented, but his voice faded when he saw the brown eyes veiled as the eyelids dropped to a close.

Chilled fingers of fear gripped Illya as Solo went so suddenly still there was no longer an obvious rise and fall from the chest. He frantically searched for a pulse. A very faint beat coursed weakly through the limp wrist. An almost tangible ebb of life.

Illya was filled with urgency. "Don't give up, Napoleon!" There was no time to lose. He gathered the equipment and realized he didn't even know which direction to go. He refused to let the detail falter his newly recovered faith. Kuryakin would rely on his instincts and perhaps just a little bit of the Solo luck. "This is when we need it most," he whispered.

He gathered Solo in his arms and resolutely started in a northerly direction.

IV

"A useful commodity in a friend."

Forced to estimate the distance he would have guessed they had traveled five miles, seven on the outside. The sun had dipped beyond the distant, purple mountains some time before and a cool nip edged the desert air. Wispy clouds of pink and blue had fingered the sky for a while in a sunset afterglow, until the verdant midnight blue of darkness had erased everything but the stars. The silver points of light glittered close and bright in the wide, clear firmament and the Milky Way was so clear it looked like a silver belt across the sky.

Time and distance had melded into a void of silence which stretched long and profound into the night. There was a quiet, soft peace in the shrouded dark. An occasional coyote howled mournfully to the moonless sky; unknown creatures skittered in the blackness, odd, unidentifiable sounds drifted on the stillness, but nothing really disturbed the serenity. There was almost a reverence in the aloneness, as even the cool breeze whispered nocturnal hymnals to nature.

Nearly a mile back he'd stumbled onto an old asphalt road. Weariness clung to him like a shadow, but he had long ago turned off the conscious thought of rest, or acknowledgment of his fatigue. He was in good shape and could handle the aches of the arduous journey just as long as he kept his pace. The solitude and darkness offered a great deal of time for introspection. This long, disturbing day spawned analysis as a natural transition into the peace of night.

To the world the Russian presented a controlled image of consummate aloofness which was, for the most part, an accurate perception. He tried to remain a step or two removed from colleagues and neighbor, even from life. At a young age he had learned to isolate himself from personal involvement and like any other professional who saw tragedy on a daily basis, this trait was intensified when he came to work for UNCLE. Mostly he insulated himself against feelings and emotions that would bring him close to others. A successful agent could not afford weakness. Someone who had been deeply burned early in life could not afford to draw too close to flames in this troubled world. Carefully shielded were any personal reactions and he did a good job of ignoring the few vulnerabilities he possessed.

So adept was his skill at subversion, he had managed to hide the depth of his emotions even from himself! Until this fateful day and the capture by the THRUSH agents, he had never really faced his greatest vulnerability -- his closeness, his affection and concern for his only real friend. There had been so many close calls, uncountable anxious moments, and dire threats to their lives ad infinitum; Illya hardly took them seriously anymore. In moments of black humor the bantered that they were expendable, yet shared a continual denial of that dictum. AS a team they were nearly unbeatable and there always seemed to be a hairsbreadth escape, another ingenious plan, more miraculous luck to help them beat the odds.

Death. The existed under its continual threat, defied it and laughed in its face many times. Comrades and colleagues had failed in its wake, yet they had always survived. Bloody, bruised, but unbowed, they had never failed to return victorious. What if all the luck and immunity had been sapped away? What if there was now nothing left to spare for Napoleon? The thought brought a stab of anguish to Illya's chest. Emotions ignored and denied for years struggled for attention and the intensity of his pain startled him. The thought of Solo's nearness to deaths door left a desolate emptiness in his heart.

Stubbornly, Illya refused to pause and check his friend's condition. It was impossible to tell anything in the darkness anyway, but he did not want to tempt Fate and stop to check now. The eerie starlight cast a faint, waxen glow on the relaxed face, which had finally settled into a peaceful repose. Too peaceful perhaps? His most abysmal fears whispered that Napoleon was dead already -- the Grim Reaper already wielding his scythe and closed the black curtain between him and his friend. Kuryakin pushed away the pessimism and tried to believe he would be able to save napoleon. Without that ray of hope he would not have the power or will to take another step.

Too much introspection had its drawbacks. Priorities that were once orderly were easily rearranged if pondered through the prolonged tunnel of meditation. New discoveries were confronted and logic dimmed in the stark light of reality. A new precedence came to the forefront of his motivations and he new, right now; the most important priority in his life was the survival of his friend. The mission, the espionage games, the fate of the free world receded to insignificance when measured with the priceless value of friendship.

Kuryakin and Solo had come to depend on each other as a team, as skilled professionals, as friends. The loss of that interaction would leave Illya depleted and incomplete. Dependence suddenly seemed a fatal liability in a spy, never a consideration in the past. In fact, they had relied on that power and erroneously thought they could overcome anything, even death. He knew now nothing could ever prepare him for the hollow ache he felt now that death stretched its shadow insidiously over their shoulders.

The Russian tenaciously believed they could still win, still pull off one more miracle. Napoleon would fight, would do his best, and so would he. Between them they could cheat the Shade once more because they were still the best.

A three-quarter orange, harvest moon rose through the mist on the horizon and spilled a golden tint on the open fields. In the dim light he saw the shape of a building silhouetted in the unnatural glow. He came to a dead stop and allowed his eyes to focus. If he believed in miracles, and he had to after knowing Napoleon Solo, then unmistakably that was an inhabited building less than a half mile away. He started walking at an accelerated pace with renewed energy. Covering the distance with quick, sure strides, he moved with a power that he didn't think he had left.

***

The Outpost was an ancient tavern/grocery store/gas station in the outback of the California desert. Kuryakin was nonetheless grateful for its presence. He could distinguish the lights scattered around the area and deduced it was a small farm community. The scent of alfalfa was prevalent on the wind. A few jeeps and old trucks were parked in the dirt lot in front of the building.

Kuryakin pushed open the old screen door and came to a stop at the bar. He was aware of the startled stares of the patrons, but did not acknowledge them.

"My friend's been badly injured. Can you call an ambulance?"

Sure," responded the surprised bartender. A big man in rolled shirtsleeves, he came around the bar. "Let me help --"

"No, I've got him. Just call an ambulance -- a helicopter if possible. Is there somewhere I can put him?"

A man in a battered cowboy hat was already dialing the phone. The bartender lead Illya through a side door to a small room where a bed and small refrigerator was crammed in with cases of liquor and bottled beer. Carefully placing his burden on the bed, he collapsed to the floor. Solo's face was pale and clammy, but he was definitely alive. Kuryakin breath caught in his tight throat. Until now he hadn't realized how real his fear had been. He groaned as a sigh of relief escaped him.

"Blankets," he muttered when he could get some words out. "He's in shock. Blankets."

"Comin' up."

Illya checked Napoleon's pulse, then gingerly studied the wound on the leg. It looked bad, still seeping blood. The fear returned and Illya tried to shut out the dangers still ahead.

Leaning his head next to Solo's he whispered into the ear next to his lips. "We're almost to the finish, tovarich, don't give up now."

The bartender returned with blankets and some water. He reported an ambulance would be there in about ten minutes. Illya tucked the blankets around the patient and leaned his head on the side of the bed. Exhaustion threatened to overcome him, but he couldn't let go yet. If he gave in to the fatigue, he was afraid what he would find when he awoke. He couldn't give up yet. Keeping a hand on Solo's arm, he wanted Napoleon to know he was there, feel the touch of a friend, understand that he could not give up.

A long, thin timbre came from far away and clarified into the distinct wail of a siren approaching. The ambulance came to a halt in the dirt lot and Kuryakin was quickly out the door to meet the attendants. They made quick and efficient work of transferring Solo to the ambulance and in a matter of minutes they were speeding toward the hospital.

Kuryakin leaned his head against the wall of the vehicle and was mesmerized a he watched to slow drip of the IV. It was an alien sensation to relax, to let the responsibility pass to someone else. He wished there were something more he could do, but now Solo's fate was in the hands of others and losing that precious control made him uneasy. To combat the sense of helplessness he took a hold of Napoleon's wrist. He had been the guardian of his friend for so long, he did not want to let go now.

***

When something jostled his arm Illya jumped to instant and wary wakefulness. A middle-aged man in a white coat sat beside him. "Your friend has just been moved into the emergency room. I'd like to check you over --"

"No, I'm fine. How is my friend?"

"I think he'll live. There will, of course be the usual necessary forms to fill out. Come in and you can start on that while I give you a quick once over."

"I require no treatment, thank you. What is your diagnosis? My friend is blood type A, I told them that already. I can give you a complete medical history, anything you need to know."

"That's a useful commodity in a friend," the amused physician stated. "But let's take care of you first."

Reluctantly, Kuryakin agreed deciding cooperation was probably the fastest course in dealing with this persistent physician. They stepped into a small, crowded emergency room that was overstuffed with equipment and patients. In a narrow examining room the doctor cleaned and bandaged the several cuts and abrasions Kuryakin had collected in captivity. After unrelenting pestering, the easy-manner physician reassured him that Solo was in the best of hands.

They walked to a small snack area where they could fill out the paperwork over coffee and snacks. Illya's stomach was still tight, and though he hadn't eaten in what seemed forever, he found he had no appetite. He did however, attack the paperwork to get it over with.

"Does this sort of thing happen often to your Mr. Solo?"

Illya was guarded. "Why do you ask?"

"It's not everyday we get gunshot wounds." He nodded toward the Russian's injured face. "And other wounds from violent encounters."

"We're very accident prone," was the spy's curt reply.

"You know I have to report shooting injuries to the authorities."

Kuryakin sighed with irritation. Red tape was always so complicated when their Ids were stolen. He would have to make direct and unorthodox contact with Waverly to cut through the bureaucratic problems. THRUSH could certainly make life difficult.

"If I can make a phone call I can clear everything up to your satisfaction. Including insurance details," he finished wryly.

The doctor agreed and took him to a small administration office. Illya put through the long distance call and waited for the connection.

"Do you really think he'll make it?"

The doctor studied the stern blue eyes and knew the truth would be the only acceptable answer here. No sugarcoating, no disseminating, this man wanted honesty, even if it was the worst possible news. "I can only give you a guess right now, but I think so, yes. The injuries are repairable, and while shock and blood loss are tricky, he is probably going to be fine. Besides, if he's anything like his friend, he'll be a pretty touch customer. This elicited a grimace from the Russian. "Survivors is what we called your type in the army. Don't know what it is -- some kind of inner quality guys like you seem to have. Some kind of very strong will to live."

Kuryakin allowed himself a slight smile of relief, of rueful amusement. "That is what it's all about sometimes," he agreed. "Now, if you will allow me to call New York, I believe I can answer all your questions."

EPILOGUE

"I see you're finally awake."

Turning from his study of the bland landscape outside the window, Solo flashed a quick grin at his partner. He remembered being in and out of consciousness several times, and usually Illya was there in those brief, dazed moments. Tired, sore, numb with painkillers, Solo gave a slight wave with one hand.

"I see you forgot the sun tan lotion again."

Kuryakin touched his cheek that was peeling from the intense burn he'd received from their ordeal. "Yes, I shall have to remember it the next time we come to sunny California."

Solo gestured at Kuryakin's garb of desert fatigues. "Going on another expedition?"

Standing at the window, Illya did not look at him. "I went with the strike team to clean up the satrap." With an easy shrug he dismissed the expedition. "Very little resistance. Mr. Waverly is quite pleased with our little coup." There was no joy in the triumph.

With a sigh Napoleon matched the tone. "All part of the job," he concluded flatly. Studying his friend, he sighed again. "Illya --" Swallowing, he paused, uncertain if he should continue -- uncertain what he would say if he did. It had been at the back of his mind every time he awoke, but the time, or the courage, never seemed appropriate. "When we were out in the desert --"

Illya turned his back to his partner. "You don't have to say --"

With effort, Solo grabbed his arm. "You're always saving my life, tovarich. Usually you don't have to save me from myself. Looking back --" He shook his head. " I went crazy. As usual you stuck by me." Stopping, he cleared his throat, his next words thick with emotion. "I certainly learned a lot about survival." Striving for a lighter tone he offered a weak grin that never reached his sober, dark eyes. "I probably put you in more danger with the arguments than you would have been anyway."

Turning around, Illya darted a glance from under his bangs. "I hope you will remember that lesson." The tone came out more sharp than ironic, and Kuryakin stepped back to the window, staring out at the desert that nearly ended everything for him. "It is good to hear you know better than to argue with me."

The smile crept into his words. "I didn't say that. But I wanted to apologize. The last thing I wanted was to endanger you." His laugh was tart. "That's what we were fighting about."

"I will not apologize for battling your misguided notions."

Noting Illya's scowl, he forged ahead, now completely serious. "I don't expect you to. But if we're ever faced with this situation again, don't expect me to act differently. I won't survive at the cost of your life."

This time Kuryakin sighed. Finally he stared at his partner, unable to hide the glint of irony and humor from his expression. "Such is to be endured with a stubborn partner. I hope you understand my philosophy is the same."

Solo's lips twitched with a ghost of a grin. "Yes, well, once again, it looks like we're stuck with each other."

Kuryakin gave a quick nod. "For a very long time I hope."

THE END