The worst of it was over now. Friendly Forces had arrived to finish the job started by the team of UNCLE agents and were rounding up the remaining guerilla fighters who had invaded this formerly peaceful region.
Backed by THRUSH and fueled by the same delusions of world domination that plagued most would be dictators, a single voice had rallied a legion of men who were willing to follow Oscar Baptiste de la Pena into the halls of justice in their small country. Claiming rights they did not have, nor deserve, the army of psuedo-revolutionaries caused just enough trouble to land on Alexander Waverly's radar; he quickly dispatched his team of warriors, led by Napoleon Solo. Men from the largest Western Hemisphere offices were quickly aligned into a force de la Pena had not reckoned on.
Now, standing above the remains of their battle, Solo and his partner Illya Kuryakin surveyed the damage. Surprisingly their people had come out unscathed save a few minor injuries. Kuryakin had a bandana tied around his head, the result of a gash received at the butt end of a rifle. He had nearly been knocked out from the blow, but instead willed himself to remain conscious as he then shot his assailant before the man could ambush Napoleon.
Both men were now breathing a little easier; the Friendly Forces were allies of the small nation and included men from seemingly questionable backgrounds. They were mercenaries with a decidedly different point of view, and purpose. They wouldn't simply fight for money, as was the general inclination of men operating under that title; instead it was a group of men dedicated to helping out those in need, the 'worthy causes'.
The leader of this group, Hans Bjork, was a big man with long blond hair that he wore pulled back into a ponytail. His army of men were gathered from all parts of the world, and their common goal was to stop aggression where innocent victims could not. Amazingly, or perhaps not, Alexander Waverly had not objected to their assistance and was now ordering his own team to step down and allow the Forces to finish the job.
Observing Bjork issuing orders and overseeing the men below him, Solo and Kuryakin were at once relieved and slightly astounded at the turn of events.
"I wouldn't have thought Mr. Waverly would welcome outside help from a group such as this. They are neither sanctioned or even officially recognized by any country, not the UN... It's rather odd." Illya still relied on his Soviet training at times to give him a point of reference in regard to situations such as this. He knew the Forces would never be allowed into anything in which the Kremlin had a say.
"I'm glad they're here, though. I admire them for what they're attempting to do in the world. Most men of their ilk...' Illya cut his eyes at the use of that word. Napoleon continued on...
"Ahem... most men who are considered mercenaries...' a sliver of a smile..."most mercenaries are in it just for the money. Well, maybe the thrill of it, in a perverse sort of way. War is certainly not something I can recommend."
"He commands as though he was born to it, making one wonder what rank he held previously. Do we have any other information on him?" Illya was curious about a man from Scandinavia who would be the head of a group of fighting men here in the Western Hemisphere. Everything about this group defied the norm.
"I think the file on this man, on this group, has been relatively hush hush. I wasn't even aware of them until Mr. Waverly informed me that they were coming in to assist us and then take over the clean up. It seems they enter into a contract with whoever hires them..." That made Illya blink.
"I thought they weren't paid." Napoleon shook his head.
"Wrong phrasing, sorry. They aren't, they just ... show up. Anyway, a contract is signed after the fighting begins, and it allows them free reign to do what seems most expedient and necessary to finishing the opposition." That seemed to bother Illya, his brow furrowed at the idea of being given that much autonomy.
"I wonder why. I mean, is this government surrendering some of its power to this group?" Napoleon hadn't thought of that. Surely Mr. Waverly wouldn't allow anything to interfere with a nation's own power structure.
"Whatever it is, the Old Man approves. It must be necessary, but not in violation of anything that would upset the balance of power."
Below them some of the Force were bringing in a string of prisoners. The UNCLE agents watched as the rebels were ordered to sit and then subjected to a speech by one of the men. It was difficult to understand what he was saying, but the men were all nodding their heads in agreement. Their enthusiasm for rebellion seemed to have dissipated rather quickly.
A warbling sound interrupted the concentration of the agents.
"Solo here."
"Ah, Mr. Solo. And how goes the aftermath of rebellion?" Illya grinned at that. Only Waverly could make a failed rebellion sound like a ruined tea party.
"Well sir, the Force have assumed control of the situation and are setting things in order, it seems. Our team came through without any significant injuries and thankfully no loss of life. Bjork and his men arrived at a point that assured our victory over Oscar de la Pena's little army of rebels."
"Very good. Yes, Friendly Force is a unique and welcome group of dedicated men. Not your regular band of mercenaries; but I assume you know that by now." Waverly seemed somehow proud of these men. Now Napoleon was wondering just what the connection might be between his boss and Bjork.
"Yes sir, that seems to be the case. Our clean up here is in process and we should be ready to depart in the next twenty-four hours."
"Very well. Report in before you leave, I have a short detour for both you and Mr. Kuryakin. I hope you brought a change of clothes. Carry on, gentlemen. Out."
That caused the two friends to exchange curious expressions.
"I wonder what our detour is." Illya had been in hopes of a quiet flight back to New York and then at least twenty hours of sleep. His head was hurting a little from that bashing he had taken.
"I don't know, but apparently he isn't going to tell us until we're en route. Okay then, we better get this place sorted out and then prepare for whatever it is we're doing next."
It was a long day for everyone involved, but by the next morning the rightful powers were in place, the Friendly Force now part of the rebuilding process and committed to remaining for at least three months. As Napoleon bid the other team members goodbye he heaved a sigh. He was tired. Previous to this mission he and Illya had been on the chase to apprehend a wiley THRUSH scientist, and both of them were battered and bruised from too many encounters with the enemy. Looking at Illya made him grimace in sympathetic pain. Not only was that bandana staunching the blood flow on his scalp, he was still recovering from a severe beating at the hands of some ill tempered THRUSH guards during a brief stay in an unsavory cell.
Yes, a sigh for yet another mission on the heels of their two month ordeal. A break would be nice, but Mr. Waverly had plans for them: in the case of Solo and Kuryakin, their next mission.
As it turned out, the trip was not only by plane but continued on via a boat. A steam powered vessel complete with paddlewheel and two decks. Napoleon and Illya flew into Miami and then took a smaller twin engine UNCLE plane to Memphis, Tennessee. It was there that they boarded the old steamboat, a relic of sorts that was privately owned and operated by a fellow named Chicken Bob. Illya never got used to the strange array of nicknames in America, and had certainly never encountered anyone named for a bird; well, no one he wanted to spend time with anyway.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen, and welcome aboard my boat, the River Vixen." Chicken Bob was an old man by most standards, with white hair and beard, a ruddy complexion that bespoke his time on the river and possibly with a bottle in his hand.
"Good afternoon, uh... sir." Napoleon wasn't sure how to address the man, something that was soon addressed.
"Now, you boys just call me Chicken. I'm not, of course, but that's what my friends and a few of my enemies call me." If were at all possible, the man slightly resembled Santa Claus.
"Well, thank you ... Chicken. I'm pleased that you consider us friends. I am Napoleon Solo, and this is my partner Illya Kuryakin." Illya nodded his head in agreement while Napoleon courted the man with his smile and good manners.
"So, Chicken... I am assuming that you and Mr. Waverly are ... um.. acquainted." Chicken smiled and revealed a toothy grin beneath the moustache.
"Yessir, ol' Alex and me go waaay back, too far to count I reckon. He's one hell of a man, I tell you that." Illya was amazed. Never in a hundred years would he have thought this man would be found among Waverly's crowd. Then again, the Old Man seemed to know everyone.
"Ol' Alex used to visit me back on the plantation, before I took to the river. That life just wasn't for me, you understand. I have no affection for the limitations of land and wealth." Chicken took on a wistful expression, making the two agents wonder even more about a man with what they now conjectured was a privileged upbringing, and his current station as a riverboat captain.
"I wonder that you took on this job. It seems ..." Illya couldn't come up with a word for it. Even in his most socialist imaginings, for a man to leave his inherited home for the wilds of the Mississippi River seemed slightly unhinged.
Chicken Bob saw the look in the blond's eyes and read his mind. Something that the two UNCLE men would find a disconcerting characteristic in the days to come.
"I am a man of considerable means, Mr. Kuryakin. During the war, being not fit for duty according to the War Department, AI was privileged to fund certain activities, mostly covert. That is how I came to be acquainted with Alex. When it was all just a matter of hangin' our flags all over Europe, the River began to call to me. This boat, sirs, is my Mistress. She comforts me and carries me on my journeys, and once in a while I have opportunity, such as now, to help out an old friend."
Ah.
Chicken escorted the men to their rooms and assured them that dinner would be on the table directly at noon. Illya was immediately comforted at the knowledge of their meal, understanding that dinner at midday indicated a full table. He knew that much about the South.
True to his word, Chicken provided a sumptuous table for his guests. Bidding the men to start, he was proud to offer them a good meal and the hospitality for which he was known. By no means did he shirk his moniker, but instead presented the agents with a platter of fried chicken that made Illya's heart sing. There was a big bowl of mashed potatoes with an accompanying bowl of white gravy (a gravy boat would not have been sufficient). Corn on the cob, fried okra, sliced tomatoes and a platter of biscuits made the Russian nearly dizzy. Another bowl was filled with mounds of butter, something that was promptly lathered onto the waiting buttermilk biscuits. All of this was accompanied by a pitcher of brewed and sweetened iced tea. As Illya took his first bite he was certain that it was melting, quite literally, in his mouth.
Chicken took great delight in watching his guests 'dig in'. The little fella, Illya, he recognized as someone who had seen lack in his life. Napoleon was more reserved; urbane was the word that came to mind. Whereas Illya took delight in what was offered, Napoleon was aware of the rituals of fine dining and all that it required of him. He would have gladly imitated his friend if not for his inherent inability to simply 'cut loose' over a plate of chicken and biscuits.
Illya spotted something else that made him reserve some space for dessert: some type of fruit and crust concoction that he would later learn was called a cobbler. In this case a blackberry cobbler. He was childlike in his delight. Napoleon was once again reminded that his friend could eat twice as much as a normal human being and never gain weight. That thought marred his enjoyment just a tad.
The Captain saw all of this, mentally cataloguing the disparate reactions to a table heavily laden with good, Southern food. He knew it meant more than just a man's eating habits; it probably reflected how they did their jobs.
After the meal the Captain handed Napoleon a note, apparently a reason for this journey down the River. There was a destination named, but not a mission. And while the need to travel by riverboat was unknown and perhaps unimportant, the place they were heading was as indigenous to the South as the meal they had been served.
"Where is this place we're heading for, Chicken?" Napoleon was ready to get on with this mission. He was full and already calculating how many hours of exercise would be required to burn off the heavy meal. Illya looked like he was ready for a nap, the result not only of the meal but the still throbbing gash in his scalp. The on-site medic had been unable to convince him to have stitches, necessitating that bandana for several hours until the bleeding stopped. Now he had the usual headache from such encounters, slightly abated by the excellent meal he had just consumed.
"South, my friend. All the way down to the Atchafalaya Swamp. We'll travel all the way down t'Lousiana where I'm gonna let y'all off the boat. Alex has his reasons, but I don't know what they are."
Illya was apprehensive, he didn't like swamps. He didn't like alligators or other swampy things. His head hurt a little more at the thought of it all.
Napoleon was considering the mysterious way in which this was playing out. The American was startled out of his speculations when the Russian had to repeat a question.
"What? I'm sorry Illya, what did you say ?"
"I asked you whether or not you had heard anything from Mr. Waverly."
"Uh, no. No I have not heard anything else. Nope." Illya looked at his friend and wondered why he was acting this way. Americans were a funny lot.
Chicken was amused. Alex had himself two fine agents in these two, he could see that. Friends. Two men could sharpen each other with their respective abilities and intelligence, but they also brought comfort in a profession such as theirs. It was his only regret on the River, but he took his comfort from the steady rhythm of the paddlewheel and the sound of the water as it flowed past.
"You fellas might as well enjoy the trip. We'll be there by tomorrow evening, so relax and take in the sights of River."
Chicken bade them good afternoon and set about his own work. His crew would be in need of some direction and he had his books to consult.
Napoleon and Illya spent the late afternoon discussing the mission they had just finished, speculating a little about what lay ahead. The easy motion of the boat as it glided through the water finally lulled the Russian to sleep. His friend allowed him that luxury and slipped out of the chaise he had taken and walked to his stateroom. He would contact Headquarters and see if there was something additional to ferret out about this mission.
Both men returned to the dining room for a late night supper of more Southern staples.
"Catfish? Aren't they..."
"Scavengers of the rivers, absolutely." Chicken passed the overflowing platter of fried fish while he admitted to the less than flattering description of their fare.
"Still, fried up and served with all of this...' he waived his arm over the abundant table,
"I don't think y'all are gonna be disappointed." He nodded in the direction of both men while picking up another bowl and passing it to Napoleon.
"What are these?" Small round balls of something that looked like crusty golf balls were mounded up, another fried confection.
"Hushpuppies. Southern delight, my friend. Just take a bite..."
Illya did, and it was as promised. Crunchy and flavorful, it was cornmeal as he had never experienced it.
Napoleon found himself likewise charmed by both the company and the food. He doubted that he would ever eat this way again, certainly not in the ambiance provided by an old steamboat churning its way down the Mississippi.
Dessert was to every man's liking; Chicken brought out a bottle of Kentucky bourbon, its amber hue catching the light of the kerosene lamp that was illuminating the paneled room.
"Gentlemen,' he began as he poured each of them a proper amount of the evening's libation.
"I toast you and your adventure. May you have great success, whatever that may require. To your health." The three men raised their glasses and swallowed down the bourbon. Chicken let out a whoop as it finished, grinning through the white moustache at the sheer pleasure of his drink.
:~~~:
Next morning was another grand meal. If it were possible, Napoleon thought Illya was gaining weight aboard the River Vixen. That gave him a wicked sense of satisfaction, and the image of his reed thin partner suddenly bulging out of his staid black clothing.
"What are you smiling about?" The voice was Illya's, but Napoleon feigned innocence.
"What, me? Oh, nothing. Just enjoying the journey." That made Illya smirk, sometimes a smile was a smile, and sometimes it was ... something else.
"Well, I for one am going to enjoy breakfast. I think I like this Southern way of eating, it suits me." Again, Solo could see the future.
The table was once again bursting at the seams with platters of food, urns full of chicory infused coffee and pitchers of juice. Since their journey was nearing the mouth of the river, foods inspired by the region met the hungry guests.
"Ah, beignets..." Illya practically inhaled one as he savored the creamy texture beneath the crusty, sugar coated outside layer.
"More fried food. Is there anything in the South that isn't fried?" Napoleon couldn't help but wonder if anyone ever braised or baked south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
"Mr. Solo, you are bound to be well pleased that we have not fried your eggs this morning." And with that a platter of plump scrambled eggs were passed to Napoleon. They smelled of butter, and he could have sworn they were infused with air, being light and fluffy like clouds.
'I'm waxing poetic about eggs now. It's time to go home.' His thoughts betrayed a softening in his resistance to literal Southern comforts. He willingly accepted some 'country ham', a salty meat that he resisted until it was fitted between the buttery biscuits that Chicken insisted he eat. Streaked gravy, that inimitable sauce that is made from the drippings of ham and, for this meal, flavored with coffee, sent Illya into a gastronomical fit of ecstasy. He decided that should he marry, it must be to a Southern belle who could cook like this. He might find happiness with a woman who could make biscuits and gravy.
Napoleon savored his meal as well. He had eaten in some of the finest restaurants, in the best cities of the world. There was something about this though, the company and the journey itself on this boat... it all added to the meals and the mood. He wondered why Mr. Waverly had decided to send them, literally, down the river with this eccentric man. Why a river boat?
Why a swamp? They had yet to reach their destination and for some reason Napoleon had a niggling suspicion that at the end of this journey would be something other than what they expected. It was all a mystery, albeit one that had turned into a pleasurable journey in a manner of travel reminiscent of another century.
His reverie was interrupted by a question from his friend, directed to Chicken it seemed.
"What is this juice, Captain? It is quite delicious." Illya was sipping at a delicate looking juice in his crystal goblet.
"That, my boy, is scupadine, or as it is properly called, scuppernong. You ought to taste a scuppernong wine, now that is precious and rare."
"Napoleon, you must try this." Illya poured a glassful for his friend, grinning and thoroughly pleased with the morning's fare.
The Captain and his guests sipped scupadine juice and had second helpings of the biscuits, now topped with blackberry jam. If Illya should believe in the divine he decided it might begin here, on this boat and eating Chicken's delicious food. He wondered how Mr. Waverly had decided to let them travel this way, and what the swampy Atchafalaya held in store for them. He felt relaxed and surprisingly at ease. Whether that was because of the good Captain's own sense of well being and contentment, or the lull of the waters beneath them as the River Vixen steamed her ways towards the Gulf, he couldn't say. All he knew was that for the first time in a very long time, his Russian soul felt satisfied.
The miles were closing in on the pair of agents, their eventual dissent into the mires of the swamp a lingering curiosity. Neither man dreaded it, adventure was always something to be anticipated; mainly they were each wondering about Mr. Waverly's assignment and his choice to have them travel down the river in the old steamboat.
There would be one last meal together for the three men, now forever bonded because of the journey they had shared, the table of abundance that had been set before them. Napoleon had begun to feel the absence of stress. It was a different sensation from being relaxed. It was the absolute absence of whatever normally plagued an agent of the U.N.C.L.E. The hum of the engine and the lapping of the water against her wooden frame had made him forget, at times, what he did for a living. After such a long and embattled mission prior to the just completed business in Central America, this river trip was like sinking into a perfectly heated pool and just floating.
And that's when Napoleon knew why they were on this river boat.
Lunch, or dinner as Chicken preferred it to be called, was yet another feast. By now Illya was setting his watch in anticipation of these gatherings, his stomach attuned to the expectation of great things to eat.
Once again he would not be disappointed. On the table was the familiar platter, this time piled high with the fattest pork chops he had ever laid eyes on. A cast iron skillet was poised atop a study privet, golden cornbread peeking over the edge. Illya sat down and, by all appearances, was slightly in awe of the spread before him.
"Dig in boys, don't stand on ceremony." Chicken Bob loved playing host to these boys, Alex's boys. The job they did was mostly unacknowledged and the danger they courted was often met by injury or worse. These two, Alex's top two men, had needed this river trip, probably more than even they realized.
By now Napoleon was thoroughly enjoying himself. He had figured out why they were here, was silently grateful to his boss for giving them this little holiday. It wouldn't last, but for at least for the two days they had spent on the river there had been peaceful, blissful rest. Illya knew as well, preferring to not make mention of it. He was content here, and the less he considered the eventual end of it the more content he would remain.
In the meantime the Russian piled his plate with the chops and cornbread, purple hull peas that looked like black eyed peas but tasted better. Once again there was a bowl full of sliced tomatoes, and another filled with sliced cucumbers and onions drowned in white vinegar and sugar.
Napoleon watched his partner gratefully. This break, this little holiday, had removed the grim realities of their profession.
"Ah, I cannot eat another bite. Chicken you have ruined me for anything less than the table you've set before us. Thank you." Illya wondered at the conspiracy between the two old men, at their collusion in sending him and Napoleon down the River on this journey. He felt better than he had in ... he couldn't remember feeling better. Or more whole. It would be difficult to leave this old boat and step onto solid ground once again.
"Boys, it has been my pleasure...' the boat slowed and began to sound its bells announcing that it would be pulling up to the dock soon. Chicken rose from his seat and saluted his guests.
"...and my honor. You are soldiers in a war that is mostly unknown, but to those of us who do know you are held in our highest esteem." With that he made his way towards the wheelhouse, prepared to steer his boat alongside the dock so that Napoleon and Illya could disembark; their journey was not yet complete.
"Well tovarisch, I guess our next stop is the swamp." Illya took a deep breath, mentally preparing for their next part of this unusual journey.
"I suppose it is unavoidable my friend. However, I would gladly continue on this boat for a few more days." His expression was wistful, the tone of Illya's voice somber. Napoleon wondered at the impact of this trip on his reticent partner. For himself... life was better for it.
The men gathered their belongings and made it to the gangplank just as the boat was pulling in to its spot. They waited for the Captain to come down and see them off, a reluctant sentimentality in their lingering.
Napoleon happened to turn towards shore and spotted a familiar silhouette within a big black sedan.
"Illya..." He nudged the blond, indicating the car.
"Is that...?"
"I think so."
"What is he doing here?"
"I think he's here to pick us up."
Chicken Bob watched from his wheelhouse as the two young men headed towards the car in which Alexander was waiting. This gift to his men, which would go without mention for as long as they knew one another, had been to give them back some sense of themselves. Not as agents, but as men.
The trip down the Mississippi would remain with Napoleon and Illya as a precious sojourn of peace and contentment amidst the turmoil and drama of their lives.
And for Illya, it would foster a love of biscuits and muskadine wine.