RELATIVITY CROSSOVER --
Man from UNCLE, Oscar Goldman, Equalizer;
young characters from -- Scarecrow and Mrs. King, WKRP in
RELATIVITY is a fanzine born from the imaginative mind of
Elaine Gustainis -- <Elgust@aol.com>
FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH
by
gm
The banks of computer consoles and tracking monitors meant very little to Robert McCall. He did not understand the specific functions of the high-tech equipment lining the room, but he knew they performed the function required of them. The technicians and engineers working with the computers knew what they were doing; from the young, brilliant and arrogant Dr. Wright, to the shirt-sleeved engineers bent over their slide-rules. In his own unique way, McCall knew his own duties for this operation, and as with the other myriad members of the mission, he stuck to his job and did it well. Like the others, he was a professional in his field. That was why he was here.
"Everything's looking good," came a quiet voice beside him.
McCall turned to Colonel Stetson. "If you say so, Charles. It's all Greek to me. I have to take your word for it."
"And the word is very, very good," Oscar Goldman agreed with excitement. "Everything on schedule and ready to test tomorrow."
A tall, young man with a fresh face and thick glasses edged into the men gathered with McCall. "Do you want me to check the link-up again, Oscar?"
"No, Ted, I just checked it. Why don't you go to the monitor room?"
The young genius left and Goldman rolled his eyes. "Just what I need, an over-intelligent eager-beaver from NSA."
"It's your brainchild, Oscar, but his brains are making it work," Stetson reminded. "I better be on my way. I need to be in the air before that storm comes in, it looks like a bad one. If only your fancy technology could control the weather, eh, Oscar?"
The director shook his head. "Maybe someday. For now there's nothing I can do with Mother Nature, Charles. I only manipulate technology."
Goldman, head of a scientific branch
of the NSA, scanned the room filled with the latest data from around the
planet. For the next week this room would be his home
as he tested a new spy satellite. The first experiment on the agenda was his
own idea; a super-spy subterranean radar. If it
worked, they would be able to detect deep, underground installations from
space. They would know every missile silo buried under
The test, however, would be more finite, specific, and timely; detecting underground
tunnels used by the Viet Cong. The project was a massive, joint operation by
several branches of service. A CIA agent named Devlin was in
"Best of luck, Oscar," Colonel Stetson offered as he shook hands with the director. He turned to the agent. "To you too, Robert. I hope you have a very boring week, no offense."
"Here, here," Goldman agreed.
"I hope so," McCall
concurred as he shook hands with Stetson. "I told Kay I'd spend some time
with her this trip." There was little enthusiasm in his voice, not because
he was reluctant to see his wife, just her family here in
"Will do. And, tell Lee hi for me," the Colonel said quickly as he left the control room. Almost as if he was embarrassed to mention any sentiment for the nephew remaining behind, but was encouraged to say something after McCall's personal admonition about JJ, Robert's brother-in-law. "I'll see you at the end of the week."
McCall gave him a salute and the Colonel left.
Goldman studied his friend. "You don't like putting JJ in this, do you?"
"No, I think this is perfect for him," McCall corrected. "Enough of a covert operation to give him more experience, but it shouldn't be too dangerous."
"So what's bothering you?"
Not unkindly, McCall retorted, "You're a bloody nosey bloke, Oscar." Goldman's unwavering expression indicated he wanted an answer "I'm worried because JJ's in that damn war! Covert missions are one thing, but a war -- who can control that?"
Oscar sneered. "There are plenty who try, including us." He sighed, his gaze distant. "I understand your concerns. JJ was my nephew Myron's sponsor at the Point."
"I remember."
"In another few years my nephew
will be in combat and JJ will playing spy games in
McCall reluctantly agreed with the observation.
"Now, what about your part of the operation, Robert?" was Goldman's pointed question. "The Agency wants this to go off like clockwork. Those rumors?"
"Are still rumors, old son," he sighed, the concern evident in his tone.
"No word from our friends in the field?"
"Not a whisper for two days."
"Something's wrong."
"That's what my instincts tell
me," McCall agreed. "But they have vanished into the vast
Goldman paced, hands in his pockets. "We all know people in our business disappear for reasons. I can't delay, Robert. Everything is set -- "
"I know, I know," McCall consoled
and put his hand on Oscar's shoulder. "Everything will be fine. We're the best at what we do, Oscar, that's why we're here.
That goes for Charles, JJ and Brian in
"I intend to," was the wholehearted assent. "I've been out of the field too long to do you any good out there."
"You've never liked the desert anyway, as I recall. Don't be such a worried old woman, Oscar, everything will work."
"I hope so. What's your plan?"
"Retrace their steps in
When the agents missed two check-in calls, McCall covertly investigated every known spy in the area, but found no trace of the errant operatives. That foreign spies lived in the neighborhoods of every major base in the country was common knowledge. Low grade information gatherers lived near and frequented the neighborhood pubs of every area from Edwards AFB to Wright-Patterson. The FBI and every other agency knew who they were and who talked to them.
Gamma Project could not be a
completely Black, top secret project --
there were too many people involved on various security levels. Word had
filtered through Agency informants that foreign operatives were in the area
around White Sands. One, an East German-born expert known only as Rolf, was
supposedly with the group. McCall was called in to
head an investigation, having crossed swords with Rolf before. The other two
agents, from the underwriting organization, were called in to keep an eye on
their investment, and because they also knew Rolf. Now
those two men were missing.
***
The resonant bass of thunder was more a feeling in the air; a tremble in the ground, than something heard with the ears. In the distance, the cloudy sky was dusky brown, graduated to black from an approaching storm. The dust and wind would come before the desert cloudburst. It looked like an infamous southwest storm with lots of bluster and rain. Already Lee Stetson could smell the dust.
The sun was veiled
by filtery-gauze white-grit from the
A twinge of regret flashed in and out of his heart. Should he have come? The elation of his summers here on the ranch were always tempered with the pain of leaving at summer's end. Now he was here for Easter vacation -- only for a week, but he knew it would be a wonderful week, followed by a bitter parting. Clouds lined with black.
This trip his thoughts were shadowed by deeper concerns.
He never paid any attention to world affairs. The Colonel commented regularly
on the news and what it meant to
The Colonel would be in
Lee Stetson shook off the momentary gloom. There was so much to be happy about, why let things irritate him today? He was here at the ranch and his cousins were able to join him for vacation! Making it even better was this morning's news about his favorite 'uncle' dropping in for a surprise visit.
The screen door slammed and Lee turned toward Uncle Jake.
"Get the horses settled?"
"Yes, sir. They're edgy."
Jake Michaels gave a curt nod. He walked with Lee to the barn, the dog trailing close behind. Jake gestured toward the animal. "They can feel the storm comin'. It'll be a big one. Now remember what I told you?
"Yes, sir. In case you're stopped by flash floods, we're to sit tight till morning."
"Any trouble, you ride over to Ironhorse's. They're all right for
Indians. The
Lee bit back an angry comment at the
slur about his friend Paul Ironhorse. There was no
sense getting into an argument now. "Yes, sir.
And Grandma and Grandpa are meeting you in
"Right.
Then we'll all come back tonight, together. If we have
to stay in
***
The spacious ranch yard seemed almost ethereally peaceful in the late afternoon heat. The high humidity lent a tangible mugginess to mask the stark hot of the sun. There was little sign of life; the rustle of horses flitting around the corrals -- in and out of the barn. The faint sound of voices drifting on the eerily-still air. The low rumble of thunder came more frequently. The charged atmosphere was alive with the percussive electricity of approaching danger.
From the vantage point of a small hillock matted with dry prairie brush, two men silently observed the tranquil country scene. Both spectators stiffened as a man in a western hat and work clothes, and a younger man in a baseball cap, crossed from the house to the barn. A brown and tan dog nervously trailed behind them.
"Looks quiet enough."
"So does a python," came the whispered retort. "Before the strike. You thought the goat farm was quiet, too."
Napoleon Solo, the older, dark-haired man grimaced in silent disapproval of the sarcasm. He glanced over his shoulder at the western horizon and measured two fingers between the sun and the storm-front. He turned back to resume a study of the homestead.
"One little mistake -- "
"One?"
"I gave Rolf more credit than he deserved. A goat farm!"
Kuryakin hmphed. "You're right. Paul Kobal must have thought of the farm."
Solo shivered. Rolf was bad enough as an
opponent. Discovering the ruthless Soviet agent Paul Kobal
was behind the spy operation was a nearly fatal surprise. The counter operation
was much bigger and deadlier than the good guys
anticipated. Kobal was a merciless mastermind. His
counter plots were big, deadly and usually successful. Yesterday the Soviet
left for
"Maybe they're the only ones around," he commented with hopeful speculation, ignoring the caustic blame from his Russian partner.
"Maybe there is an entire posse lurking in the underground," his blond companion responded instantly.
A weary grin of resignation spread across the senior agent's abrased, dirt-smeared, bruised face. "In this part of the country they're called cellars."
The correction was automatic. A
conditioned response from someone long-ago resigned to explain American idioms
to a foreign citizen. Though residing in the
"An outlaw under every cactus?" Solo countered rhetorically.
"I dislike cactus."
"We could always go up and knock."
Illya Kuryakin raised an eyebrow at the mocking aside. "That's what you said when we approached the goat farm."
"You're right, it was my fault we were captured. But how could I have known the farm was a cover for Rolf? I just wanted to ask directions! And you'll never let me forget it, I suppose."
"Correct." Illya frowned as he studied the ranch. "This is too close to the mines and Rolf. These people are likely part of the operation."
"That looked like a kid down there!"
"Looks can be deceiving. When the dog is confined, we steal the truck and get to White Sands. Until then, you can rest."
The admonition -- voiced more like a stern order -- left unsaid any obvious specifics on their conditions. Both were in need of food and sleep. After two days imprisoned in a mine shaft, weakened by drugs and torture, the UNCLE men managed a ragged escape. Through their resourcefulness they literally collapsed the enemy camp. The victory was less than complete; Solo was wounded, and a few enemy agents, including Rolf, were still alive and probably in pursuit.
Because of fatigue and Solo's injury they halted on the rise overlooking the ranch. By silent, mutual consent, they made no effort to leave. The storm front was edging out the sun as dust blew around them, even while errant sprinkles pelted their skin with large, hard, wet drops. Suspicion, so far, won out over comfort, so they remained at the observation post.
Solo wiped a sheen of sweat from his face. "You're probably right, stealth is our best option. Even if they aren't connected with the spy ring, they are as likely to shoot us for trespassing. Or your accent," he pointedly complained.
"My accent?"
"Russian. Not the most popular country in these parts."
Illya scowled. "I am here on assignment. I did not plan to be marooned in the desert without identification."
Napoleon nodded, wiping away more perspiration, his hand trembling. Each slow movement was a forced fight against ever increasing weariness. He laid his head down on the dirt, still keeping watch on the farmyard. As the shadows across the homestead lengthened, Solo drifted into uneasy near-sleep and unpleasant dreams of their capture.
"So much for being silent partners." Kuryakin paused in his tirade to touch a hand on his friend's face. "You are fevered." He sighed deeply. "This has all gone extraordinarily sour."
"We'll have to make our move as soon as possible," the senior agent mumbled, foregoing further comment on their circumstances.
Kuryakin watched the yard swept with the dusky shadow of dirt and clouds, the forewarning of the quickly approaching storm. It was muggy, windy and his eyes blinked from fatigue and grit.
Should they risk going down there and announcing themselves? With no identification they could not prove their affiliation with UNCLE. They could well be mistaken for fugitives; the ragged appearances, the bullet-wound, travelling on foot -- all highly suspicious. Solo had warned him that country farmers were notorious for shotguns first, questions later and he believed it. This was, after all, the wild west.
Kuryakin was unwilling to take the risk of
approaching the people in the house. At worst, they were part of the spy-network
set to sabotage the UNCLE project at White Sands, or, they were trigger-happy
cowboys. At best, they were innocents, who would be
inadvertently crushed under the boot of espionage if the enemy agents
were still pursuing them. Getting involved with these country-folk could cost
all their lives if caught by the foe, he decided, as he drifted to sleep.
***
"Napoleon!"
Solo opened his eyes to find Kuryakin only inches away. Dust roiled around them and the sun was now a smudge behind the black clouds. Thunder echoed on the desert hills. He heard the thrum of an engine. Rolling over and he watched as an old pick-up truck putted out of the yard and down a dusty road. Four young men waved after the truck, then all disappeared, with the dog, inside the house.
"So much for plan A," Kuryakin snapped, angry at himself for drifting to sleep. Only moments of nap time had passed, but the unforgivable lapse cost them their transportation to freedom. He prayed the error would not, ultimately, bring a higher price. He cast an anxious glance at his partner. "On to plan B."
"Always my favorite," Solo mumbled with a tired sigh. Right now, he just didn't care anymore. He was too tired and sore to summon the energy to think. The dust-stifled air whipped around them in swirls of stiff wind. Fat drops of rain flew against them in a flurry of grit and moisture. At least the storm would cover their tracks. Maybe, when it all cleared, they could find a way out. Maybe there was another car somewhere on the ranch. "Those four look young. Teenagers, maybe?" he offered. "You still think we need to use the covert approach? Why don't we just go up and ask to use the phone?"
Kuryakin slapped him on the arm. "Look!" he gestured toward the dirt road.
A dark sedan pulled into the yard. Instinctively the agents slouched closer to the dirt. A tall, blond, muscular man emerged from the driver's side. Rolf. Two of the four young men came out to meet the enemy agent. The barking dog scratched and howled from behind the screen door.
Solo and Kuryakin could read the pantomime from their distant perch. Rolf asked something, both young men shrugged 'no'. Rolf gestured toward the barn, the two boys accompanied the tall stranger, then several minutes later returned. Rolf got into the car and drove a slow tour around the barn and house. He gestured toward the nearby hills, now cloaked behind the heavy storm. The boys again shook their heads negatively. Rolf gave a nod of acknowledgment, then drove slowly back down the road.
"He didn't even look bruised!" was Solo's dejected comment.
"We are unprotected, unarmed, cornered
by a ruthless adversary and that's all you have to say? There are more
important considerations than your ego, Napoleon. Besides, he is bigger
than us," he finished with his own hint of wounded dignity. "We did
beat him in
The clouds moved over the hill and ranch as intermittent drizzle turned into a sudden downpour. Huge drops splattered on the desert floor around them. They shielded their eyes.
"Looks like those are really just innocent kids down there."
"Let's get to the barn. It is easier to plot stealthy alternatives in a dry environment. We should not approach the occupants, yet," Kuryakin suggested.
"Wait to make sure Rolf is gone?"
"Yes. If we go around the corral, we will be out of sight of the house. Can you make it?"
"I'm not an invalid! It's just a
nick." Solo gestured the go-ahead. "Lead on, McDuff."
***
"It's only fair you wash," Skip insisted. "I fixed the dinner."
"Some dinner," Andy joked.
"What's wrong with macaroni and cheese and hot dogs?"
"I saw you scoop up thirds," Lee accused Andy.
He cleared the last of the plates and glasses off the table. His cousins leaned against the counter. Skip and Andy were taller and leaner this summer. They all were. Murphy was still the shortest -- probably always would be.
At the beginning of the vacation, Lee felt a tendency toward thinking of Murph as young and immature. Lee, was, after all, in high school now. A few hours with his cousins had set him straight quick enough. The first day back together, the four of them had readily settled into their old ways.
He glanced out the window and saw the dark rain streak against the white lightning bursts. Every visit was a little different. This was a holiday of change and transition. This time instead of baseball and hoseback riding they talked about girls and dates and cars. Lee worried about The Colonel.
All the boys were growing up. They would always have the bond they had forged since that first summer together. They were, however, shaped and formed by individual experiences during the rest of the year. The ranch was their anchor. The other months were their separate trials and triumphs.
Another flash of lightning nearly blinded him. In that instant he thought he saw a shadow move near the barn. "Hey!" He blinked.
"What?"
In the next lightning flash, he saw nothing unusual.
"Seeing
things, I guess," he shrugged, but sat on the counter near the window just
to keep an eye on things as Murphy got down the cookie jar.
***
Thunder rattled the wood slats of the barn and cracked like a sonic boom right over his head. Solo started at the sudden flash of light against the black, then the darkness swept over the barn again. The horses neighed nervously. Rain clattered on the wood like millions of tiny pebbles thrown against the roof.
"Illya?" he whispered. He sensed he was alone, but wanted to make sure. His partner was undoubtedly out scouting for a vehicle or foraging for food.
He wondered how long he had slept. Carefully, slowly, he sat up and looked around. Even the slight movement was painful to his sore muscles and injured side. In the next lightning flash he checked his wound. Blood was dried and matted, sticking his cotton shirt to the bullet hole on his left side and he restrained the temptation to scratch the irritated, itchy skin. At least the bleeding stopped -- at least until he had to move. Little comfort. The wound was tender, the bullet still inside. If they did not get to civilization soon the infection would kill him if blood loss did not.
The rustle of dry hay was the only sound of Kuryakin's return. Solo absently noted Illya's blond hair was dirt-smeared brown. In the glow of the lightning flashes the Russian's fair skin looked blistered, bruised and lacerated. Good thing they did not try the direct approach; they indeed looked like fugitives from a chain gang.
"Did I miss anything?" Solo cautiously propped himself against the wall, cringing at the movement.
Kuryakin handed him a canteen. Parched from the hot run across the desert, drained from loss of blood, Solo took the water, wincing, then drank so fast he could hardly breathe.
"Napoleon, easy," Illya warned and took possession of the canteen. "Slowly," he cautioned, and regulated the flow of water. "Just a nick?" He attempted to pull part of the shirt aside, but Solo stopped him.
"Don't worry about it. We've got bigger problems. What did you find out?"
"Would you like the bad news now or later?"
Solo returned the canteen. "Get it over with."
"During your beauty sleep I found another truck."
"The bad news?"
"The engine is in more pieces than you are," he sighed in an almost off-handed tone.
Solo wiped sweat and grime from his eyes and studied the barn. The strobing lightning cast anemic illumination around the straw floor, the loft, the hay. It was not a bad place to hold up for a while. There were worse places in their checkered past. He just didn't want this to be their final resting place.
His throat still felt dry and gritty with dirt. They had not had any water since early that morning. Dehydration was becoming as great a threat as the adversaries. Beside their physical difficulties, they still needed to get out of here and contact Oscar at White Sands. Time was their enemy and it was running thin on all counts.
"Any other vehicles?"
Kuryakin's low laugh was mirthless. "Only for Cossacks."
"Steal a horse?"
"Borrow," Illya corrected. He walked over to one of the skittish, suspicious animals and soon won him over, stroking the horse's forelock. "A ride across unknown country in this storm is too dangerous."
"It's an option you may have to utilize, Illya. I'm not exactly rodeo material --"
"I'm not leaving you behind," he snapped back. "And Rolf could still be out there."
"In this weather? No, he's at White Sands by now. He'll save his vendetta for another day. You could wait till everyone in the house goes to bed and ste -- borrow a weapon, then ride to the Alamo and warn our forces of an ambush."
Kuryakin shook his head. "I don't like it. "We'll come up with something else.
"Hmm," was Solo's skeptical retort.
Illya studied his friend for a moment before turning his eyes back to the rain-soaked yard. His thoughts ran through a mental list of alternatives. The process was quick due to the lack of options. They must leave soon. There was no way to tell if their pursuers were stalled by the storm, or if they were still in the area. More likely, Rolf was already at White Sands to carry out the original mission. Perhaps, even now, it was too late to stop the sabotage.
Even without their enemies to consider, there was the complication of Solo's wound. The senior agent needed medical attention very soon. Blood loss, infection and internal injuries were exacerbated with every passing minute. Napoleon's increasing fever and drowsiness were symptoms intensifying Kuryakin's anxieties.
Solo's head was leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed. "Any ideas?"
Kuryakin glanced across the yard to the house. The lights in the kitchen were still on. He could see shadows behind the curtains. His stomach grumbled at the thought that the people inside were probably eating dinner.
"After all are asleep, I shall call Oscar at White Sands."
"Still leery of the direct approach?"
"Visibly, Rolf holds much more credibility than we do. The residents are likely to find him believable and we my friend -- " he sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
"Something the good guys should drag in," Solo nodded slowly. "Just be careful," he advised, blinking to stay awake. "I'm tired now -- let me know when you need help," he trailed off, once more drifting to sleep.
Another burst of lightning exploded across
the desert. The lights in the house flashed and died. The electricity was out.
The phone lines could be down. Time to think up plan C, Kuryakin sighed to
himself.
***
"Wow, this is some storm," Andy grumbled as he fumbled for candlesticks in the intermittent glow afforded by the lightning. He passed out matches and candles from the cupboard. "Light these, then we can find some flashlights. We should have been prepared for this, I guess."
Lee tapped his arm. "They're in the hall cupboard," he invited as he lead the way.
"Guess I can't wash by candlelight," Murphy offered, his own voice unconvinced of the meager excuse.
"Guess again," Skip laughed as he snapped his cousin with a dishtowel. "Come on, I'll dry, it'll go quicker."
"I'll put away," Andy volunteered as he and Lee returned with flashlights The candles were set in pools of wax around the counter. One flashlight was pointed toward the ceiling to offer dispersed, but weak light. "We'll be done before you know it, and Grandma won't believe how neat we were."
Lee's gaze was drawn back to the rain. "I hope they don't try to come home in this weather."
Skip stared out the window. "What're you worried about, Lee?"
Stetson shrugged. "Nothing. Just a shadow."
Murphy joined them. "You think it was one of the escaped prisoners that Federal guy told us about?"
"Nah," Andy refuted. "He was spooky, wasn't he?"
"Federal agents are supposed to be, right? They can't all be like James Bond."
Lee stared out at the rain and darkness. "Robert isn't spooky." Soon his eyes blurred and he blinked, turning away from the mysterious shapes in the night. "Who's James Bond?"
Andy laughed at the joke and suggested, "Maybe there's something on the news about any flash floods. I'll go get the radio."
The portable transistor was tuned to a station out of Roswell which reported damage throughout the area. Roads were washed out in many neighborhoods and residents were advised to remain at home. The storm front was stalled over the region and there would be no clearing until the next day.
Skip was the first to mention the obvious. "Guess we're on our own."
"Hope everyone is okay."
"Uncle Jake knows his way around," Andy assured them all.
The boys finished the clean-up and went to Andy's room. They listened to music and played darts while Andy tinkered by candlelight with repairs to an old phonograph. After three games, they were bored and agreed it would be a long night.
They listened to the Roswell rock station that promised to play the A Hard Day's Night album in it's entirety. Andy was thrilled, and cranked up the volume for the songs he knew well enough to sing along with. Lee knew very little of the Beatles, since the Colonel did not approve of rock and roll. He liked the sound and laughed as his cousins, who had seen the movie, acted out silly parts of the film.
"I can't believe you haven't seen it," Andy said to Lee. "It's the greatest!"
"The Colonel only lets me see on-base films. The theater at Point Magu never showed it."
After the set of songs they noticed the dog was pacing and scratching at the door. They all agreed it was time for a break. Murphy accompanied the hound to the kitchen and snacked on cookies. He let the dog outside, where the animal sniffed the ground near the porch, but seemed to have lost his trail in the rain-washed mud. Unwilling to get wet, the dog stayed under the eves. Murphy looked for leftovers from the macaroni and hot dogs, but could not find the foil-topped pan. The dog came back in and Murphy gave him some cookies.
Murphy was about to leave when he noticed water pooled at the door. He got a towel from the linen closet and wiped it up, waiting for a moment to see if more rain seeped in. No more water came under the door, but he placed the towel there just in case. The dog started barking again, and Murphy plied him with more cookies. He took the jar of goodies back to the room. Everyone was sitting on the floor, reading comics by the glow of flashlights.
"What was he barking at?"
"Don't know. Maybe the storm spooked him." He handed out cookies. "Hey, who ate the last of the left-overs? I was going to have a snack."
"You're blind, Murph," Andy accused as he took a handful of cookies. "Is this all you brought back?"
"The hot dogs were all gone!"
Andy playfully shoved his arm. ""You're such a pig, Murph. At least you brought back enough cookies for the rest of us."
"I didn't eat the leftovers! Really!"
"You think the horses are okay?" Skip asked.
"We should go check," Lee decided.
Andy agreed with, "And we can scrounge some food before Murph get his paws on it."
Armed with flashlights and slickers, they congregated in the kitchen. The dog sniffed the floor and started barking again.
"Why is the towel here?" Lee wondered.
"There was some water that came in."
"From where?"
"From under the door."
Skip leaned down and placed his candle as low as he could. "No leaks now. Not at the door, anyway. He moved the candle low across the floor. Muddy puddles pooled on the linoleum in front of the fridge, at the sink, and by the wall phone. He stood and traded his candle for a flashlight and shone it on the ceiling. The others turned their flashlights upward. "No drips."
Lee told them to kill the lights. He looked
out into the rainy night. The intermittent illumination of lightning showed no
intruders in the yard. Still, there had been that shadow earlier in the
evening. And there was the dog in the night --
barking over something.
***
"I won't leave."
"Fine."
"We will wait out the storm together. The phone lines will be restored soon."
Solo nodded tiredly, eyes closed. "Whatever. Just let them destroy UNCLE's project at White Sands. Who cares? Our friends working on the project in Vietnam will be killed. Oscar's reputation will be ruined. The satellite destroyed -- they'll just take it out of our paychecks for the next century."
Kuryakin refused to respond to the sarcasm. He sat down next to his friend. "You must eat, Napoleon. You are much too weak."
The injured agent shook his head. "Not hungry."
His own appetite gone, the Russian pushed aside the food saved for his friend. He laid a hand on Solo's face, which was hot and damp. Glancing at the blood-caked shirt/make-shift bandage stuck to the still, slightly-bleeding entry wound, he cringed. Napoleon needed a doctor. He would die on a horseback journey, so moving him was out of the question. Kuryakin could sit out the storm, sticking by his friend, watching him bleed to death -- dying of lead poisoning. Or he could do something, like go for help.
For a time he sat thinking, watching the rain. Intermittently tunes from A Hard Day's Night, how appropriate, he sighed, floated like a wraith in occasional punctuation to the storm.
Leaving -- deserting -- his friend was the last thing he wanted to do. What if the spies were still on the trail? Napoleon would be completely helpless. And the innocent (Illya had decided they were no threat) people inside the house would be killed as well.
"Perhaps I could find a doctor tonight . . . "
Solo opened an eye. "In strange country, on horseback, in this storm? Forget it."
"I must do something!"
Solo laid a hand on his friend's arm. "You stole food, you tried to call for help --"
"Both useless."
"What do you suggest?"
Kuryakin shook his head with defeat. "Very few options, I fear."
Napoleon soberly stared at his friend. "You have to make a decision you can live with, Illya. Or, I'll make it for you if that's any easier."
"You are having a bad run of luck on ideas, my friend."
"You'll never let me live it down," Napoleon muttered under his breath.
"Never."
"You could avert disaster, save the project -- probably even save the lives of McCall's team in Vietnam, if you beat the saboteurs to White Sands," Solo stated soberly. "Agreed?"
Kuryakin hesitated responding, clearly disliking the trap he had been adroitly maneuvered into.
"Illya," Solo urged sternly.
"Agreed," Illya finally, reluctantly, snapped out.
"Then that's what you've got to do. Get to White Sands. Send back a doctor. Simple."
The Russian's silent glare was his only answer.
Napoleon gave
him a pat on the arm. "Now saddle up, Tex. You've got to go save the fort
from the savages."
***
Lee carefully loaded both shotgun barrels. He was properly trained in weaponry by the Colonel, as well as a few basic instructions from Uncle Jake. The other boys knew how to target shoot with the old Winchester Skip was holding. They were armed for bear and would probably find nothing more sinister outside than a stray Puma driven out of the hills by the storm. Still, Lee was suspicious of the shadow he thought he'd seen; images of desperate murderers lurking in the barn filled his thoughts. The cold, eerie Federal agent still spooked him, and the muddy prints in the kitchen didn't appear out of nowhere. Someone had been in the house! The boy's burgeoning maturity and memories of a long-past brush with violence, convinced them to meet this threat with deadly force.
"Stay out of the open, but keep each other in sight. We don't want to accidentally shoot each other."
With a nod of agreement, the four
waited for a lightning flash to end, then slipped out of the kitchen.
***
The spirited animals restlessly trotted around the stall eluding the lithe agent. Several neighed cries mingled with the plod of hooves on the hard ground. The ranch cacophony was completed by the staccato barks of the approaching dog, the close explosions of thunder and the driving rain.
Illya caught and saddled a horse. He tied the rains on a post and rejoined his friend, reluctance barring his escape. An infinitesimal shift in shadows and light alerted the UNCLE agent. In the next flash of pale illumination he clearly saw shapes -- armed men -- moving against the dark form of the house. His clumsy foray to the kitchen was detected. Or had Rolf discovered their refuge? Indecision was swept away in an instant. He and Napoleon were no match for four armed men.
Illya shook his friend. "Napoleon, they're coming."
Solo snapped instinctively awake and instantly alert, looked out a knot-hole. "An armed posse. Damn, I can't believe it! Another group of the spies!" With help from his partner he slowly struggled to his feet. "Get going."
For a moment Illya stared at him, his eyes reflecting the agonizing dilemma playing out in his thoughts.
Napoleon gave his friend a gentle shove. "Go on."
Kuryakin nodded, then touched his friend's shoulder. "If there was another way --"
Solo shook his head. "No choice. Not even the most paranoid farmers would come out armed like that! Now get out while you can. I'll be here when you bring back the cavalry."
It was a false hope. They both knew, against the opponents closing in, there was no chance for the unarmed, wounded Solo. Kuryakin tried to shove the dismal thought behind a wall of clinical logic. At least he would get away and hopefully avert the sabotage at White Sands. He could save some lives tonight, just not the most important one to him.
"I'll get the door, and you ride like hell."
Solo opened the door a crack. He was instantly soaked with rain atop his cold sweat. His right side burned with pain and he had trouble focusing his eyes. He leaned on the wood and forced himself to breath steady, to stay on his feet. The rain in his eyes was nearly blinding. "Go!" he shouted.
Kuryakin rode toward Solo. With a half-salute of farewell, the senior agent pushed open the big doors. The horse sprung into the yard. The dog barked and growled, calling to his owners of the intruders.
A shotgun blast cracked above their heads and echoed in the night. The already nervous horse reared, hitting the door and knocking Solo to the ground. By the time Kuryakin regained control of the animal the shotgun was pointed only away inches from the senior agent's head.
"NO!" Illya shouted to the gunman
The breath knocked out of him, Napoleon waved for his partner to leave.
Kuryakin evaluated the teenager in front of
the horse, aiming the rifle at him. There was a chance he could escape without being shot, but he would not even make the effort.
Abandoning his partner with a gun, literally, to Solo's head was not his style.
With a sigh of resignation the Russian raised his
hands, flung a leg over the horse's head, and slid to the ground in surrender.
***
"They're the escaped convicts," Murphy assured.
Murphy, Skip and Lee stood on one side of the kitchen table, weapons at the ready. The captives sat in the corner of the far wall, Solo's head leaning against Kuryakin's shoulder, eyes closed. One elbow was propped on a chair, supporting the hand that was clutched to his side.
Kuryakin grimaced as he glanced at his partner's wound. Whoever these young men were, there was no choice but to accept surrender and make the best possible terms.
"I believe we have a misunderstanding here," the Russian began reasonably. "Since the explanation will be a long one, we should set our priorities. My friend is in need of medical attention. Is there another vehicle we can use to get him to a doctor?"
Lee was suspicious. "Another vehicle? Have you been watching us?"
"Don't answer any questions like that," Skip warned. "They'll kill us and try and escape."
Solo opened his eyes and looked at Kuryakin. "Try the truth," he sighed. "What have we got to lose?"
"More of your blood," was the curt reply. Illya stared at each of the young men, focusing finally on Lee, who was armed and obviously the leader. "We are agents of an international enforcement agency called the U.N.C.L.E.."
"Uncle?" Skip snorted.
Kuryakin rolled his eyes. "Admittedly, it does not command much respect when spoken like that, but there you have it. We have spent the last two days in a mine shaft as, yes, prisoners. But not what you think. We were imprisoned by -- foreign spies." He grimaced at the pathetic story he himself could hardly believe. The cousins exchanged glances, which Illya did not miss. "That means something to you," surprised that they were not as skeptical as he expected.
"We've had our own experiences with mine shafts," Skip responded with feeling. "But that doesn't mean you're telling the truth."
Kuryakin singled out Stetson. "You recognized the name of UNCLE. United Network Command for Law and Enforcement."
Lee shrugged as causally as he could. "My uncle has mentioned something about that kind of outfit, yeah. He's a Colonel in the Air Force."
"Robert would know," Skip was sure.
"Yes, wonderful!" Illya declared. "Who is Robert?" Napoleon groaned and Illya looked at his friend whose skin was pale and shiny with sweat. He put a hand on Solo's face, which was hot. Blood was seeping through Solo's fingers. "At least give me some towels or linen," he said to Stetson. "Perhaps I can stop some of the bleeding and bring down the fever."
"He wants to separate us so he can jump you," Murphy warned.
Kuryakin cast a concerned look at his friend, then refocused on his unreasonably paranoid captors. "There must be someone I could talk to. Where is your uncle -- any uncle?"
"Don't say anything!" Skip warned.
"I've heard of UNCLE," was Lee's cautious reply, "but that doesn't mean you're a member. You sound like a foreign agent."
"A Russian spy!" Murphy accused. "Where's your ID?" he demanded.
"Taken by our captors." He rubbed his face. The situation was already desperate. That he was being held captive by teenagers was insult to injury. Ever mindful the phrase held a very literal meaning to his partner, he tried again to explain the urgency of the situation. "The spies we escaped from are after us. The leader, the blond, foreign man who stopped here earlier today was asking about us, was he not?"
The cousins exchanged silent glances.
"He is a Soviet agent. I am a Russian citizen, but do not work for the USSR . . . " his voice trailed away as he read the incredulity on the young, expressive faces. "Rolf, the enemy agent, knows you are here. He may come back to see if my partner and I are here. There are few places of refuge in this desert. For your own safety as well as ours, it is imperative we -- all of us now -- get to the nearest local authorities. My friend needs a doctor and I must contact the intelligence officers at White Sands."
"That's just what you'd want," Skip accused. "You want us as hostages to get you into White Sands!"
"Hold on," Lee interrupted. He wasn't sure what to make of the fantastic intruders, but it would do them no good to be hysterical. "Let's hear him out."
"This is ridiculous!" Murphy insisted. "You expect us to believe that? It's like something from that James Bond movie."
"Who?" Lee asked again.
"A new spy movie."
"This is the truth!" Kuryakin snapped back.
Solo laboriously raised his head. "Let my friend go and bring help back. You can keep me here as a hostage." With the lethargy of shock, pain and exhaustion, he noted the blood dripping through the fingers. "And your mother will be very mad at you if you let me bleed all over the kitchen floor," he announced tiredly. "Let my friend go."
"You are the one in need of help, Napoleon," Illya reminded. He pressed a hand to Solo's face. The fever was high. Placing the hand over Solo's he cringed -- the skin was still hot, the blood flowing. Kuryakin looked back at the young men. The fear he saw in their eyes angered him. "Regardless of who you believe us to be, are you going to allow my friend to bleed to death?"
Murphy looked to his older cousins. "I could get the first aid kit."
Lee gave a nod of acceptance, and Murphy took a flashlight and left.
"I think you guys are escaped prisoners and will slit our throats the minute we put the guns down." Skip glanced out the window at the slashing rain. "Andy's taking a long time putting the horse away." He glared at the blond prisoner. "Someone else hiding in the barn?"
"Not to my knowledge. Look, if it makes you comfortable, tie me up -- do whatever you feel necessary -- but someone has to go to town for the local police." He glanced again at Solo. "At the very least, a doctor. My friend is -- is in desperate need of help!"
Skip grimaced at the dilemma. "Can't you do something for him now?"
Kuryakin shook his head. "Very little."
Stetson was still wary. "Even if we believe you, no one can ride in this weather. Roads are washed out and flash floods can sweep you away like you never existed. No one can go out -- at least until daylight."
"I will go!" Illya snapped. "I am willing to take the risk!"
Murphy returned with old towels, clean rags, antiseptic an aid kit and a basin of hot water. Illya complimented the young man on his efficiency. Murphy, with some embarrassment in front of his cousins, admitted he just used some common sense. As Kuryakin and Skip carefully laid Solo on the floor, Andy returned, soaked and muddy.
"The storm's getting worse," young Travis reported. "The horses are really spooked. "What's going on?" Andy paled and gasped. "Did you shoot him, Lee?"
"He was already shot."
They filled in Andy as Kuryakin ripped the muddy, blood-stained shirt away from Solo's wound. The cousins alternately winced and groaned as the ugly, seeping damage was quickly, expertly cleaned and dressed. The young men had more vocal and visible reactions than the patient. Solo gritted his teeth and silently endured the necessary treatment.
"You're as good as a doctor," Murphy complimented.
"Unfortunately, from too much practice," Kuryakin sighed, worriedly studying his friend. "The bullet has to come out. There are probably internal injuries. Please, let me go for a doctor."
Andy stepped forward. "What if they're telling the truth. We can't let him die."
Skip shook his head. "No one could make it into town."
"Then we should go to Ironhorse's," was Andy's solution. "He knows all about healing, and it's a lot closer than town."
Lee considered the problem as he watched Kuryakin tie the gauze bandage. The dark-haired agent, Solo, was pale white and in pain. If only Uncle Robert was here, he would know what to do. He would know all about this spy stuff, he would know if these guys were telling the truth, he could make all the important decisions. Uncle Robert, unfortunately, was not there, and may not come at all thanks to the storm.
"Napoleon cannot endure a horseback ride. Can we bring this Ironhorse person back here? I could do it, just give me directions."
Skip was still suspicious. "He'd escape -- and with one of Uncle Jake's horses."
"I assure you, I will return," Kuryakin sighed with exasperation. "What must I do to convince you we are the good guys?"
For some reason all the cousins looked to Lee for a decision. Whatever he chose, they would follow. He didn't like the responsibility. He could literally hold this strange man's life in his hands -- both their lives. He didn't like it, but recognized he would have to make a choice and stick with it. What the Colonel often refereed to as accepting responsibility.
"All right. You," he pointed to the blond agent."
"Illya Kuryakin. My friend is Napoleon Solo."
"I told you they were lying," Skip proclaimed.
Andy joined in. "They're spies! They can't even make up decent names!"
Solo shook his head. "I should never leave the explanations to you. He's Russian. I am, unfortunately, a descendant of a family with exotic names. I am, also, as you can see, as red-blooded American as you boys."
Illya shot him a scowl. To the boys, he said, . "Which direction is Ironhorse's?"
"Southeast," Andy supplied. Skip glared at him. "Oops. I shouldn't have given anything away, huh?"
Solo shook his head. "Take the boys. Our pursuers might be back --"
"We will have to take the risk!" Illya snapped, glowering with disapproval. "I won't leave you here by yourself."
Irritated that the adults were clearly no help in providing a solution, Lee demanded they rest and wait until morning. Riding at night was out of the question. With daylight, even in a storm, he and his cousins knew the area well enough to ride over to Ironhorse's. In the darkness, no matter how urgent, it was too dangerous.
The Russian bridled at the decision. The delay would mean his partner's life. He could not allow it. Murphy pointed out there was no choice in the matter.
Andy volunteered for the first watch, with
the shotgun and Winchester propped in the corner next to him and Skip, by the
cabinet. The spies were assigned to stay near the
wall. Skip laid a blanket on the floor beside his cousin. Lee and Murphy left
to sleep in the living room with the dog following them. Wild thunder and rain
continued through the night, with snakes of lightning splitting the sky and
illuminating the windows between inky darkness.
***
Suddenly Andy's mouth was covered by a hand. In the next second the cold barrel of the Winchester was resting under his ear. In an instant he must have dozed off and the prisoners were in control of the weapons. They would all be murdered!
"Please remain quiet and still," Illya commanded in a whisper.
The man was a professional, obviously, and left no room for opposition.
"I have no desire to hurt you, but I must do everything I can to save my friend's life," Illya whispered. "I am taking you with me, to bring back medical aid. Don't try anything foolish."
"No," Lee snapped out from the doorway.
Kuryakin saw Murphy and Lee were just inside the kitchen, the restrained, growling dog only a few feet away. The voices woke Skip, who took in the situation in a glance and remained frozen in place.
Lee continued. "I'll go, I know the way --"
"I've been there more than anyone," Andy interrupted "I could find it for you blindfolded."
"That is just about what it will be," Kuryakin said with a nod toward the window. "If there was another way to accomplish what must be done . . ." he shrugged, leaving the rest of the apology unspoken. "I must do what I can for Napoleon."
"Illya the kid," Solo commented quietly. He struggled up on an elbow. "This kind of thing is hell on public relations."
"Go back to sleep, Napoleon, I am organizing a rescue."
Solo shook his head. "This isn't the way --"
"It is the only way I can see." Kuryakin, with the shotgun under one arm and the rifle held against Andy, crossed to the door. "I will leave the shotgun in the barn, you may collect it after we are gone." To Solo he said, "Try to stay alive until my return. I would hate to go to all this trouble for nothing."
Solo gave a nod. "Will do. You'll have to phone for re-enforcements."
"The Ironhorse's don't have a phone," Andy supplied.
"Then you'll have to keep going,"
Solo stated. Kuryakin started to object. "I'll be fine, Illya. You've got to warn White Sands. We'll hold the
"Napoleon, you always use the worst analogies."
"I could have said
"It's not over yet." Kuryakin looked out the window. There was the faintest grey tinge on the eastern horizon. He turned to the nearest young man. "When is dawn?"
"Maybe another hour. Less if the clouds thin out "
Kuryakin pushed the rifle over to Solo. "Try not to shoot anything but bad guys," he advised gruffly.
"Will do."
The Russian hesitated. Solo gestured him away. "Go on. I can take care of myself."
"I have seen little evidence of that since we have been partners," was Kuryakin's semi-serious comment. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
Solo gave a tired nod. "I know,"
he sighed, and settled his head back on the pillow. The
"Maybe we should try to get the drop on them in the barn," Skip suggested.
"And get all of us killed?" Murphy snapped back.
Lee was hopeful. "Maybe he won't hurt Andy. Maybe he's telling the truth."
"He is," Solo assured. "You've got to trust us."
"Not very easy when you have us at gun point," Lee retorted.
"You gave
us no choice. My friend is highly motivated. That makes him trickier than
ever."
***
Once in the barn Illya placed the shotgun safely out of reach and helped the young man with a horse.
"There is no need to prepare two. I will go alone."
"What do you mean?" Andy finished cinching the girth and put down the stirrup. "I thought --"
"That you were my hostage? Only to get me out of the house. I could never endanger a boy --"
"I'm not a kid, you know!"
"A young civilian then." Kuryakin lead the horse out. "We are the good guys. Our actions are supposed to separate us from our opposite numbers."
Heedless of the strictures, Andy saddled another horse. "You'll still need help finding Paul's place."
"I can't take responsibility for you," was the agent's harsh reply.
"What about your partner? He's in bad shape, isn't he?"
Illya's expression darkened. "He would not want me to endanger your life to save his own."
"But you can't stop me if I go along."
The agent rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Americans are a stubborn lot," he muttered. "Cowboy heroics. Why would you do this for us?"
It was a question more complex than Andy was prepared to face. It seemed a dangerous, even foolhardy excursion. These men were total strangers. He couldn't even swear he believed them! So why take the risk? He thought of McCall, back to that summer of danger several years ago when the four cousins had been trapped in a mine shaft and confronted rustlers. There had been plenty of fear and excitement. There had also been a feeling of triumph; overcoming the fear, the risk, to ultimately win against people who were the bad guys.
He was no longer a kid. He understood the
reality of life and death. There was enough drama in the Michaels extended clan
to touch his young mind. Part of him wanted to shrink from that understanding
and retreat to a childhood
"I can help you. It's not as dangerous as you think, you know, I know this country real good."
Andy threw open the barn doors and mounted his horse.
Illya caught his arm. "Thank you."
Andy gave him a nod and urged the reluctant horse outside.
Two horses with riders galloped out of the barn and quickly disappeared into the rainy black of night. The UNCLE agent dropped the rifle to the floor. Stetson quickly stepped over and gingerly slid it away from the wounded man's reach, then handed it to Skip.
"I'm going to get the shotgun. You guys stay here."
Lee rushed into the downpour. Skip and Murph turned back to glare at the spy.
Solo closed his
eyes. "I don't like this any better than you do. Wake me when the cavalry
comes back."
***
Almost an hour later the horses slid across the slick, silty mud leading into the Ironhorse homestead. The sun was an anemic grey spread of light above the eastern hills. It lent subdued light to the dark day.
The wild excursion through the desert was a harrowing experience. Illya decided, and young Travis concurred, that keeping to established routes would be safest. The main road was completely washed out in two places, at one spot impassable by even horseback. Once riding cross-country, terrain looked amazingly different in the dark, in a storm. Andy's directions were off-target at one point. Another delay was being stopped by a gully now widened to a rushing river. They lost precious time finding a shallow spot to cross.
They tethered the horses at a post next to the house. A dark-haired young man carrying a bucket emerged from behind a lean-to near the corral.
"There's Paul!" Andy shouted.
Now at their long-anticipated destination, Illya went first to the door of the house, pounding on the old, weathered wood. After several assaults, it was clear there would be no response. After greeting Andy, Paul Ironhorse moved to join the agent.
"Grandfather isn't home," he explained. "Come in." He wiped his feet and placed the bucket by the door. "I was just milking the cows."
He lead them into a comfortable, if small living room. A fire had burned to ashes in the fireplace, but the smell of pungent wood filled the house. Strong coffee steamed from a percolator on the stove. The travelers shook water from their ponchos and pulled their dripping hoods down. Paul was startled at the blond man's bruised face and dirty hair.
Swallowing his curiosity, Paul moved the pot off the burner. "I've got coffee here --"
"We have no time for explanations," Illya returned sharply. "A friend of mine is injured. I must find a doctor."
Paul looked to Andy for further
explanation. "It's a long story, Paul. His friend is back at the ranch
with the others. The adults went into
"You need grandfather. He's not here. Firewalker's horse was foaling last night. Grandfather left just before dark. I don't know when he'll be home."
Kuryakin exchanged glances with Andy. "Where is the nearest phone?"
Paul shrugged, looking at his friend. "The
"They're gone on vacation. You'll have to go into Glorieta," Andy said. "If you get out to the highway, Glorieta is almost the same distance."
"Is there a doctor in Glorieta?" Kuryakin asked.
"There's a clinic there, but the doctor only comes in a few times a week." He shrugged. "I don't really know.
"The
"I don't know," Paul admitted. "They're across the gorge. Maybe not."
"Then I will go to this
"But they're not --"
"I will still be able to use the phone." To Andy, he suggested, "You should stay here until the storm lifts. It would be dangerous for you to risk returning alone."
"I could go with Paul --" he stopped.
"No. It was enough of a risk for you to come here with me. For that, I apologize, but it was necessary to help my friend. Please do nothing to endanger yourself now."
Before the stunned Travis could comment, the agent was back into the rain, jogging toward his horse.
"What's going on?"
"I'll explain it all. You won't believe it. I don't think I do!" Andy promised as they watched the mysterious agent stop just as he was reaching for the horse's reins. "Why's he stopping?"
Paul pointed toward the road. "There's a jeep coming."
They watched as the four-wheeler came to a stop and a dark-coated, broad-shouldered man with dark hair emerged. Andy could not believe it!. He was even more surprised when the Russian crossed the yard and shook hands with Robert McCall!
The two agents were talking in fast, clipped half-sentences when they came into the house.
"Andy, my boy," McCall greeted and shook hands with his young relative. "Illya's been filling me in."
"How did you find us?"
"I couldn't make it through to the ranch -- the roads are washed out. I was coming across country and saw two riders. I thought, maybe from the ranch. I guess I was right."
"We must get Napoleon to a doctor."
"Of course. But the project --"
"Comes second," Illya insisted.
"The project,
yes. Not the lives in
Kuryakin nodded his agreement. It was determined
that all would travel in the jeep to the
McCall shut off the engine and leaned on the steering wheel. He knew what they should do next. He knew it was logical, but not what the Russian would want to hear. It was something McCall did not want to voice, but they must face the harsh facts. It did not help for him to mentally remind himself about this being part of the game, one of the liabilities of covert operations. Lives were sometimes lost -- sometimes close lives. It was something one accepted. It was never something easy to live with.
"We've got to go into Glorieta," he finally said. "The phones should be working there."
Illya gave a tight nod.
McCall started the engine and turned the car
toward the town. There was no use offering any advice or comfort. There was
nothing to be said. Luck, good and bad, played with
their lives. This operation seemed to hold its share of the bad; the capture, the loss of communicator pens, the storm. He
would try to salvage what he could of the mission. Of the lives of his friends
-- those Fates he held no control over.
***
The thunder rolled over the house like a jet flying treetop level over the roof. The noise startled everyone awake. The three cousins had their heads on the table, spending their vigil together in the kitchen. Murphy thumbed through an old Boy Scout first aid manual while the others snacked and chatted and dozed. The shotgun was once more propped in the corner. Their guest was in no shape to escape. They sat up and watched the play of fingered light out the windows.
The storm seemed closer, Lee thought. He looked down at the agent, whose intent brown eyes stared at him.
"Makes it hard to sleep, doesn't it?"
Lee nodded. "The storm or the spy on our kitchen floor?"
Napoleon smiled in appreciation of the quip. "Always keep your sense of humor, no matter how serious the circumstances."
Murphy was eyeing the dressing that was tinged with red. "Should I try another bandage or something?"
The agent shook his head. "Best to leave it for now. By the way, I apologize for this sticky wicket we've embroiled you in."
Skip came over to sit on the floor by the agent. "When things get bad, that's what you do, you joke?"
"Sometimes it's all you have to get through desperate times. Aside from a good partner."
Lee would never forget the Russian's intensity. "Yours seems determined."
"We've been through a lot. He doesn't want to train someone new."
The image was confusing to Lee. "He's Russian. The Colonel -- well, aren't the Russian's our enemies?"
"Politically, yes. Illya and I work for UNCLE, an organization that strives to rise above the ideologies of countries, to a higher level of crime fighting and law enforcement. We've bridged a lot of gaps."
Unwilling to accept the simplistic view of international cooperation, Lee tried to find arguments against the unity. After all, the Colonel had raised him to understand about the Cold War and the evils of Communism. He still believed in those precepts; to never compromise your principles and ideologies just to get along with someone. But Solo and Kuryakin did just that -- ignored their patriotism for a different kind of loyalty. He would have to investigate this, but it was not a concept he was comfortable with. People could be individuals, yes. Could they be trusted? He wouldn't bet on it. Yet, his instincts told him there was no question Kuryakin would be back for his partner. Maybe there were some loyalties that transcended everything.
"You were telling us the truth, weren't you?" Murphy asked, moving to sit near Lee. "You're the good guys?"
"We do our best. It must seem a bit blurred when my friend has the bad grace to hold you at gun point."
Lee found he could generously excuse the actions which, a few hours ago, were frightening. "We didn't cooperate exactly."
"No. You four showed a lot of courage. What made you believe our wild story?"
Murphy shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe that Andy went with your partner." The others looked at him. "Well, if Andy wanted to, he could out ride anyone in this country. He'd have been back here a long time ago if he didn't take your partner to Ironhorse's."
"You story's pretty fantastic for a lie," Skip added.
The veteran agent scanned the youthful
faces. Their innocent lives were abruptly interrupted by a
nasty slice of a dangerous part of life. If they weren't
lucky, things could get worse. For the sake of the young men, he hoped the
enemy spies were trying to complete the sabotage mission and not track the
UNCLE agents. He was confident that Goldman and McCall could stop Rolf at White
Sands. He hoped. He didn't want the danger to seep
over to the third part of the team in
The only hopeful thought he could manage was the surprising grit displayed by the young men. They would need to call on their courage if worse came to worse. He may not be able to help them soon.
"Just don't believe every stranger who bleeds all over your kitchen." There was no response to his grotesque, sardonic comments. He shook his head. "Don't mind me. I always get delirious after I'm shot." That quip did not help their nerves at all. "Sorry. Just ignore me."
Murphy grabbed the glass of water he kept nearby and gave the agent another drink. He adopted the responsibility of taking care of the wounded man in these last hours. He was appalled at his easy acceptance of the irreverent sarcasm creeping into his thoughts. The man's black humor was rubbing off.
"Anything else we can do?"
Solo shook his head, then changed his mind. "Yes. In case -- things turn -- sour -- you must promise something."
"What?" they all asked warily.
"First, you must make your safety first priority. We have, possibly, placed you in harms way. If I can't help you, you must help yourselves. Promise?"
The three nodded.
"Secondly, find out if Illya makes it to White Sands. It's very important."
"Why," Lee wondered.
"It's better that you don't know," Solo cautioned. "There's an agent we're supposed to meet there. He'll know what to do. Just promise that you'll do that for me."
"We will."
"Good," the agent sighed. He patted Lee on the shoulder. "You never know how things will turn out, as you can see. Who would have guessed we'd be spending -- what is today? Friday? Good Friday so soon?" He closed his eyes and settled against the blanket. "Not much good in it, is there?"
The three cousins quietly settled back at the table and alternated their attention between the wounded man and the violent storm outside. There was the faintest hint of dawn at the center of the darkness in the east. They whispered quiet hopes that the storm would pass come daylight. None of them were optimistic.
The dog raced into the room, barking frantically, scratching at the door. Thunder cracked like a cannon shot, rattling the cupboards. The echo took several seconds to fade and finally die. In that instant the silhouette of a man was outlined against the door window and the light gray sky. The bright light splashed across the kitchen, then faded, the room bathed in the eerie glow of the candles.
"Down!" Lee hissed.
Everyone fell to the floor and watched with captive breaths as the knob jiggled.
"Give me the shotgun," Solo whispered, alert and sitting up.
Lee hesitated.
"I have a little more experience don't you agreed? I'm still capable of getting off a few straight shots."
Lee handed him the weapon.
"Douse the candles and get in the other room. Keep the dog with you."
The lock on the door snapped and the rain-soaked man entered the room.
"Freeze!" Solo ordered as he clicked back the hammer.
The form turned, clearly displaying a pistol in the left hand. In the faint light of a lightning flash, Solo recognized the man as one of the enemy agents. The pistol discharged an instant before the UNCLE man pulled both triggers of the shotgun.
The stranger was blown out of the doorway, prone and still in the mud, rain pelting off his dark figure.
"Everyone all right?" Napoleon called.
"Fine," Skip answered for them all. He was the first into the room. "Who is it?"
The dog growled and barked at the inert form. Andy took the hound away to lock him in another room.
"One of the bad guys," Solo identified. "Close the door -- carefully, don't allow yourself to be seen. Put a chair against it." He glanced at Lee, who was crouching next to him. "Get all the ammo you can find for this." To Murphy he said, "Go double-check all the doors and windows -- carefully. Anything even slightly amiss, hightail it back here. Got it?"
"Got it."
Skip secured the door and peaked out at the yard. There was no sign of anyone else. No movement at all. He stayed at the post awaiting further instructions. Lee carried two boxes of shells and stacked them on the floor.
Solo handed him the gun. "Load it. Are there any other weapons?"
Lee shook his head. "I don't know --" He pointed at the agent. "Your neck is bleeding."
He wiped at it with the back of his hand. Now he could feel blood trickle down his collar. "I'm just one big pincushion this trip," he sighed. "I don't think it's bad."
"All secure," Murphy reported.
Lee told him of the agent's wound. Despite Solo's protests, Murphy set about cleaning and bandaging the bleeding skin. With the attitude of an expert, Murphy declared the wound was not too serious, the bullet furrowing a shallow slice through the fleshy part of the neck. He even dug the bullet out of the wall and pocketed the souvenir.
Lee returned with a box containing a .22 target pistol, with shells, belonging to JJ.
In the gray morning light, Solo told each young man to take a turn at loading the weapon and snapping off the safety. By the time weak sunlight filtered through the clouds, he was more confident about his companions abilities.
"Still no sign of anyone else?"
"No," Murphy confirmed, now the window look-out.
"I'm afraid, I have an unpleasant task for you three. You'll have to move the body out of sight. The barn would be best. Then I want you to find the vehicle this man drove. Get the keys out of his pocket and get out of here."
"But we --"
"Don't argue, Lee!" was Solo's sharp interruption. He grimaced at the pain caused by the outburst. "This could mean your lives, damnit! Can you drive?" Stetson gave a tight nod. "Go to the nearest neighbors and phone White Sands."
All three started to protest, but Solo overrode them. "Only go to people you can trust absolutely. Now, help me up. I'll guard you as you move the body."
"You shouldn't move," Murphy cautioned. "Every time you do it could cause more internal --"
"Please, Murphy --"
"There could be irreparable damage --"
"Thank you, Murphy, but someone's got to be a guard. It will take three of you to move a dead -- excuse the term -- weight. I can't help, therefore, I will be the guard. Let's get to it," he commanded briskly.
The young men seemed to display more agony over the move than the agent. Stoically gritting his teeth, Solo was silent as they eased him to his feet. His face was a terrible shade of grey by the time they supported him to the door. He'd bitten his lip so hard it bled.
"Check first," he cautioned, his voice tight, breathless.
They assured him all was clear. Then they dashed into the rain and struggled to drag the body to the barn. Strength spent, Solo's knees buckled and he slid to the floor. The boys returned after a long time, their own expressions tight, their faces pale. He suspected one or all had thrown-up from the grisly task.
Lee opened his fist and displayed a set of keys.
"Once more, I apologize," Napoleon told them when they had dried off. "Did you find the car?"
"A truck, behind the barn."
"Did you check for others?"
Skip related their search of the area and mentioned that Murphy even checked for footprints. They assured the agent Murphy was the eagle-eye of the group and could be counted on to notice details.
"Do you really expect more enemy agents?" Lee asked.
"Maybe," Solo replied soberly. He directed them to help him to one of the kitchen chairs. "That was one of our jailers. Only one other man survived," he said as he leaned back and caught his breath. "The man who was here earlier -- yesterday. Despite Illya's paranoia, I don't think there were others in the area. These guys were here for a mission. Rolf is probably trying to accomplish his mission at White Sands. That's why I think it'll be safe to let you go to your friend's place. But that's only a guess. They could have completed the mission at White Sands and returned to eliminate Illya and me."
"If the other spy is nearby --"
"I'll cover you," Solo assured Stetson.
"What about you? After we're gone --"
"I can take care of myself. Get your gear together. I'll go with you out to the barn."
Lee carried the shotgun and pistol, while, Skip and Murphy supported the wounded agent as he came to his feet, only to collapse to his knees between them.
Solo shook his head. "No more strength," he said between gritted teeth. "You'll have to leave me here. Prop me in the corner there." Lee was about to refuse, but Solo overrode him. "No choice. Take your chance and leave. Go on. You've got a higher priority."
"What?"
"Your cousins are depending on you. I know you won't let them down."
No he wouldn't. He didn't expect to have to make this kind of decision, either. He felt if he abandoned this agent, Solo would die. All this mysterious secret stuff seemed a poor reason for a man's death. He wondered how anyone could face death with such calm acceptance. Courage, was the word that came to mind. In the face of this kind of bravery, he could do nothing less than fulfill his own duty. His cousins and Solo were depending on him.
Against Solo's arguments, the cousins left the .22 pistol with the agent. Murphy did his best to staunch the side wound and slow the bleeding. They wrapped Solo with blankets and propped a pillow against the wall. He was amused at the fussing. Danger was a powerful bonding agent. He was sorry to admit he would probably not live to see these young men again. They were going to turn out well. He would have liked to seen them, maybe even recruit -- no -- not into this nasty business. They deserved better.
"We'll be back for you," Lee promised.
Napoleon gave a nod. "Just take care of yourselves. Be careful. And remember -- make sure you contact White Sands."
"What do you want us to tell Illya?" Murphy asked.
There was too much to say, words he could never relay. He wouldn't burden these boys, or his partner, with some melodramatic final phrase of profound philosophy. Illya would remember the best of their partnership -- no, Illya would never forgive him. Illya would be angry he had given up.
A smile twitched at his lips. "I'll tell him when he gets here."
"Okay," Skip hesitantly accepted.
"I'm very proud of you boys. Now get out of here."
They muttered thanks and filed out the door. Lee held it open for a moment. He wanted to say more, but could not find the words. With a nod of farewell he closed the door.
Solo listened for the sound of the truck. He
heard only the pounding of the rain. Soon the prattling rattle of drops lulled
him to a dazed, drifting plane of semi-consciousness. He heard the pistol
clatter to the floor. The cascading rivulets of water on the door window
blurred to an opaque veil and he closed his eyes against the unfocused world.
***
"Oscar, there's an urgent phone call for you," Dr. Wright relayed to the director in the flight control room.
Goldman raced to a private office, sank into the chair, and sighed with relief when he heard the voice of Robert McCall. The bad news relayed on the crackling phone line was disheartening and he sagged against the desk.
"Rolf is here? At White Sands? How could he breach security?"
"He's gotten to someone on your staff," Kuryakin answered. "He has some kind of fake ID."
"What does he look like?"
"He's tall and Aryan, but is known to disguise his appearance. You must shut down the project," Kuryakin warned.
"We can't," Oscar snapped back. "We're in the middle of a test --"
"You're showing him the whole project, Oscar!" McCall shouted back. "Pull the bloody plug!"
"Do you know how much we lose if I shut this down now? I'm on satellite link with Charles and JJ! It will endanger the SOG team! Three Congressmen are here! Control will be here anytime! If this fails, you know he'll take it right out of my hands, Robert. And the good it could do those troops in Vietnam --"
"Oscar --"
"This test is vital!"
"Pull a plug somewhere!" McCall barked back. "Buy some time till we can get there and ID Rolf!"
"He'll be spooked by the delay." Illya muttered several foreign comments. "We'll lose him," was Illya's savagely bitter observation. "We have already lost too much."
"What do you mean by that?" Oscar shouted.
"Napoleon's badly wounded. We need an airlift to the nearest hospital."
Oscar shook his head and leaned his forehead into his palm. One disaster after another it seemed. They worked so hard on this . . .. Now Napoleon down -- maybe dying. Stetson, Devlin and JJ Michaels, were in the bush on the front line. They could easily be killed during this test. It would be meaningless if they could not salvage something. He could accept defeat if he had to, but would not tolerate the waste. He was, however, not about to give up now. They were so close. He had to pull this off somehow.
"All right, give me the location, and your number. I'll send two choppers and a medic, whatever I can find on the base."
"We can go in with Napoleon's chopper," Illya offered.
Goldman shook his head. "No, it'll take too much time. I'll send a chopper for each group. You get back as soon as you can. I can't stall for long. I've got to hold up the whole project until you can get here."
"Just don't let anyone do anything
until I'm there," McCall warned.
***
The storm in the north was still violent and thick. The choppers were forced to land in Glorieta and landed just outside of town. The doctor was willing to try to make it across country in a jeep. McCall volunteered to drive him, against the vociferous protests of the Russian.
"Illya, I know the country. I can get there with the jeep in one piece along with the doctor. That's our goal, right?"
"I should be the one to return."
"I promise to bring Napoleon back with his shield, not on it. Now, you go see what you can salvage for friend Oscar, right?"
The Russian still resisted.
A pick-up truck skidded onto the muddy
shoulder of the road. Lee, Murphy and Skip piled out of the muddy truck. Andy
leaped from the shelter of the chopper and waved at his cousins. After a quick
explanation, McCall decided to relent and allow the UNCLE agent to return to
his partner with the young men as guides. He would fly back to White Sands and
see what he could salvage of the mission. This was an important project for him
as well as Goldman -- more important to McCall. The lives of his friends, JJ,
Charles Stetson, Brian Devlin included, might depend on the success of this
scientific effort.
***
The door opened. Solo reached for the weapon, knowing he could never seize it in time to save his life. The blur-man stepped into the kitchen and stopped in front of him.
A hand covered his and gently took the weapon from his grip. "Napoleon, I'm on your side."
"Illya?"
The Russian knelt beside his friend while the doctor did a quick study of the situation. It was grim indeed, but Illya shelved his darkest comments to the back of his thoughts. No use spouting dreary pessimism now.
"Can you help him?"
The medic beamed back a confident grin.
"Sure. All he's suffering from is shock, blood
loss and infection. I've just graduated from the
medical school of butchery in South Vietnam. This guys a piece of cake."
***
It was simple enough for Goldman to delay the test. No one knew where to pull the plug better than the director of the project. He did some minor damage to outside cables and blamed it on the storm. No one suspected a thing. The Vietnam liaisons were told to stand by. The congressmen took a coffee break. Oscar took the time to survey the control room. Everyone looked familiar, technicians he worked with on this project for several weeks. Most he knew by name, all by sight. No one looked suspicious. Momentarily he doubted the validity of McCall's and Kuryakin's fears. Instantly he swept aside the questions. The field situation was desperate. Veterans like Solo, Kuryakin and McCall would not both be wrong about a foreign spy.
By the time he made a full circuit of the room, stopped for coffee, and returned to his master control monitor, the repairs were completed. He turned to look at the clock. Robert McCall was standing beside him.
"Spot him yet?"
"No."
"Let me circle the room," McCall suggested. "Do your stand-by checks."
McCall had taken the time to change into a clean flight suit so he didn't look like he was dragged through most of the mud of New Mexico. No one would have suspected this morning's adventure, or his casual stroll was actually a tense spy-hunt. McCall was good at his job.
One mustached technician left his post and sauntered to the observation room where coffee and snacks were kept. The congressmen loaded plates of goodies, and sat down at a table to watch the test.
For a moment McCall was afraid Rolf, the bogus technician, would take a few high-level hostages. Robert strolled the control room, feigning disinterest in the spy. The technician slipped out of the observation room, and McCall rushed out after him. The hallway was empty, but McCall could hear fast footsteps heading toward the elevators to go up to the ground floor of the building. McCall raced in the opposite direction, running up back stairs. He hoped to head off the spy before he left the building.
The mustached technician briskly left the elevator and headed toward the reception area. As he passed the double doors of a conference suite, he was snatched from behind and dragged into a room, punched in the face, then thrown to the floor. McCall stood above him, a pistol aimed at the man's forehead.
"Hello, Rolf. It's been too long." McCall snatched off the fake mustache and stared at the East German spy with all the malevolence he felt for this evil man.
"McCall," Rolf breathed. "Not long enough."
"Not for you. Too soon for me." Rolf edged up on his elbows.
"Careful," McCall cautioned.
"A little nervous, McCall? Afraid of me still?"
"A little fear is a good way to stay alive," was the even reply. He would not give in to the intimated memories of Rolf's savage murders of Agency operatives. Rolf and his partners, Durkin and Kobal, were infamous in Western spy circles. "But I don't instill any fear in you, do I?"
"No, McCall. You've spent too much time with your American friends. You're soft. Like Solo. You called him in on this, didn't you? He's dead because of you, McCall."
Robert refused to be baited. "Where are the other ducklings? Huey and Dewey?" Rolf was silent. "Kobal and Durkin? Meeting you at the airport in Santa Fe?"
Rolf laughed. "They wouldn't waste their time on you and your stupid project here, McCall. They can take it out in Vietnam." Rolf eased up to sit against the wall. He wiped the blood from his nose. He pointed to his shirt pocket. "A handkerchief," he identified.
McCall shot him in the head. The German's head flung back against the wall, then the body slumped to the floor. Blood smeared along the cream colored paint.
The door burst in, Oscar Goldman and several armed AP's rushed into the room. McCall knelt and cautiously pulled a handkerchief from the bloody pocket. Inside the cloth was a tiny electronic chip about the size of a fingernail. Also in the pocket was a fountain pen.
"Are you all right?" Oscar asked.
"I bloody well am now." He pointed to the pen. "If he would have gotten this in my face, I wouldn't be here to answer that." He handed the chip over to Goldman. "I suggest you replace this at the station where Rolf was working. Do it before you run the test, old man. I think everything will go just fine now."
Goldman patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks, Robert. Good work."
"It was a pleasure," he admitted as he looked at the dead spy.
"By the way, I just heard from Illya. The storm cleared enough to airlift Napoleon to the hospital."
"He's alive?"
"For now. I've got work to do. You want to come?
"Absolutely." He paused at the door to instruct the AP's.
"Clean up the mess, will you boys? We've got better things to do."
***
A grim, grimy delegation lined the hall of the small waiting room at the hospital. Illya Kuryakin leaned against a wall in isolated silence. Andy, Skip and Paul sat in the corner on the floor and played a lethargic game of war with a deck of cards. Lee and Murphy sat in two of the four chairs and quietly talked.
"No word yet I guess?" Oscar asked Illya as he and McCall arrived.
The UNCLE agent shook his head. "Still in surgery."
McCall patted his arm. "Keep the faith, Illya." He walked over to chat with the boys, glad to see they were no worse for the amazing ordeal. "I've talked to JJ. He said to say hello to you all."
"How is he?" Andy asked.
"Is he fighting in the war?" Skip wanted to know.
"He's hating jungle life and trying not be eaten alive by insects," McCall related. He turned to Lee. "I talked to the Colonel, as well. He's fine and sends his regards. He's very proud of you -- all of you, for your bravery in this incident."
"You told him!" Lee was amazed at the amount of bravery the admission must have taken.
"I could hardly keep it from him."
Oscar came over and introduced himself. "McCall's version was just a bit edited."
"As will be our story to your relatives."
"Oh yeah!" Andy breathed. "Grandma and Grandpa. They must be worried sick."
"No, it's been taken care of," Goldman assured. "We contacted the sheriff. He notified your family that you came into town with Robert, since the electricity and phones were out at the ranch."
"And all evidence of intruders has been erased," McCall added. "They won't know anything happened."
"How did you manage that?" Andy wondered.
"You mean we should keep this a secret," Skip translated. He was beginning to get the drift of this government stuff.
"It would be a big help," Oscar admitted. "And in return, I'll arrange for a tour of the base for you four."
"Great!" Murphy agreed.
"And another ride in a helicopter?" Skip hoped. His eyes were bright with the prospect of another thrill ride better than anything ever offered at Disneyland. "Do you think I can sit in the cockpit?"
Goldman gave a brief nod. "I'll see to it."
"Wow," Skip shouted, then covered his mouth. "Sorry," he apologized quietly. "You must be pretty important, you and McCall."
"We know the right strings to pull," McCall responded.
The operating room doors opened and a doctor in blood-smeared surgical greens joined them. Illya straightened, his fists clenched beside him.
"Your friend lost more blood than I thought possible," was the physician's initial statement.
The words paled the UNCLE agent's already wan face. "Is he alive?"
"I don't know how, but he is alive and it looks like he'll stay that way." Kuryakin released a long sigh and the others murmured comments of relief. "He'll be here for a while. We've got to get rid of his infection and we're still pumping him with blood. Next week he can walk out of here if all goes well." The doctor congratulated the young men for their first aid skills. The cousins patted Murphy on the back and the doctor shook his hand. "There was some internal damage, but nothing I couldn't sew back together. He's in post-op. You can see him this evening."
The doctor left. McCall told the boys
they needed to get back to the ranch. Goldman was needed
back at the control room. Kuryakin opted to stay at the hospital. The adults
shook hands and dispersed, used to the brief encounters with associates that
never lasted long. They were in a common business where assignments were often
urgent and at the far quarters of the world.
***
The four teenage boys did a commendable job of entering the room with a minimum of noise. Still, Solo was jolted from his doze and smiled when the four whispered not-so-quiet apologies.
"Don't worry," he assured, "I don't mind a little noise. I didn't think I'd hear anything but angel's wings."
"Angels?" Kuryakin asked from the doorway. "As usual, Napoleon, you have an elevated opinion of yourself, even in eternity."
Solo scowled at his partner and turned back to the cousins. "I've heard Oscar gave you a tour of the base?"
"It was great!" Murphy nearly shouted, then covered his mouth. "Sorry."
"We rode in a helicopter, too!" Skip added.
"And Uncle Jake thinks McCall arranged it all for us just as a favor," Andy explained. "It's been great for everyone."
Napoleon turned to the silent Stetson. After finding out the boy's last name, he didn't mention his acquaintance with the Colonel. Their relationship was professional and cloaked in secrecy. No need to let the lad in on more than he should know. Still, he knew from McCall's cryptic comments that the Stetson uncle and nephew were not close.
"You've all done a commendable job, all of you," he congratulated, bringing his gaze to rest on Lee last. "I wish we could pass that along to your families. All I can offer is my thanks."
"Can't you tell us anything more?" Murphy questioned. "I hate unsolved puzzles."
"You know more than you should," Illya commented darkly. "Fortunately, the enemies who could be a threat to you are no longer a problem."
The boys looked at the agents, and each other, with expressions mixed with surprise and disturbance. They probably guessed what Illya's euphemism meant.
"All we can offer you is our thanks. And if you ever need character references, let us know."
McCall entered the room and greeted the agents. A frequent visitor in the last few days to report on UNCLE's investment, this time he reported on the mission and the status of the spy ring. He mentioned none of the real details with the boys in the room. McCall did issue a stern warning that Solo was not to try and recruit the teens into any kind of service for UNCLE. The boys murmured comments of disappointment, but both agents swore they would never cross McCall on that breach of trust.
The boys shook hands with the agents and McCall escorted them out. They probably would never see the young men again, would never have occasion to meet the normal teens under normal circumstances. They did not lead normal lives. Each agent muttered terse comments of regret that they were part of a transitional moment; observing the youths pass, in the space of a night, from childhood to maturity under ugly and trying circumstances. It robbed them of young innocence. Perhaps, if they were lucky, it would instill in them a strength they could lean on in their future years. It was a hope the agents strove to believe, a hope that made it easier to live with the damage they caused to four innocent lives.
Sadly, they would never reap the rewards
that might come with this crossing of paths. They predicted someday these young
men would be strong, confident men who could make a positive difference in the
world. So often they saw the harsh, deadly side of
life. It would be something to see -- gratifying to know they were a part of
something really good in the lives of others. Such
were the unfulfilled dreams of men living in the covert operations of
espionage.
THE END