Napoleon Solo was flying as the sole passenger on board the de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver; one of the first all metal bush planes, sturdy and reliable, giving him no pause for concern as they flew over the azure-blue ocean sparking beneath them. He'd paid extra to be the sole occupant, along with the promise of two passengers for the return trip. The pilot seemed honest enough and willing to take the fare under those conditions.
This particular Canadian-made aircraft, converted to a seaplane built in the late 1940's was in fair condition, not like a few others Solo had traveled in on this particular journey. At the moment they were somewhere in the Laccadive Sea, about 430 miles south-west of Ceylon and 250 miles south-west of India.
Their destination was an archipelago called the Maldives, consisting of a double chain of twenty-six atolls oriented north-south. It was mere puddle jumping as his pilot, a local named Rafah Ibrahim Veer called it, though Napoleon wasn't too sure about that.
The American's trip from Ceylon consisted of too many stops and not enough opportunities to enjoy the luscious native, umm... scenery to suit him. Soft drifting waves, clear sandy beaches with palm trees swaying in the gentle warm breeze and beautiful girls enjoying themselves in the surf. Napoleon sighed at the thought, but shook it off, reminding himself of the purpose of this trip.
Solo's task was to retrieve his wayward partner who'd fallen ill after finishing up his assignment of flushing out a T.H.R.U.S.H. satrapy still in it's early stages. Their feathered adversaries were trying to establish themselves with the the fairly new splinter government in that part of the islands chain.
In 1959 the United Suvadive Republic was formed and elected Abdullah Afeef as president, with Hithadhoo chosen as capital of this new republic. It was now 1963 and that government was on shaky grounds; perfect for T.H.R.U.S.H. to step in and exert their influence.
Thanks to Kuryakin outing them as the enemy and a danger to the sovereignty of the fledgling republic, the T.H.R.U.S.H. agents were arrested and incarcerated, to be put on trial for treason. A job well done for the Russian.
It was after his final report Kuryakin made to headquarters that he fell ill with a raging fever. His mysterious illness was seemingly under control now but he needed to be brought home with a little assistance as he was just too weak to travel on his own.
Napoleon Solo was in the vicinity on a quick assignment, and the Old Man gave the okay for him to escort his partner on the return trip to New York.
This trip was taking the American U.N.C.L.E. agent to southernmost atoll of Addu where Illya was waiting for him on the British air base established there in '57. It employed hundreds of locals and was a steady source of income for them. Still there had been a growing unrest and Solo needed to be careful, at least he knew Illya was safe for the moment on the British base. Though the threat from T.H.R.U.S.H. had been eliminated, the political unrest remained. It was a dangerous, unstable situation.
Napoleon was drawn away from his thoughts as the small Maldivian air-taxi's engine suddenly began to sputter.
"Sir, tighten your safety belt," Rafah shouted." We are losing power and…" His sentence went unfinished as the plane took a nosedive into the clear waters below.
If it had been the hand of fate that had intervened, letting the plane settle atop one of the many coral reefs surrounding the islands; Napoleon had no idea, though he was thankful still the same. Maybe the Solo luck was kicking in?
Neither man was injured and Rafah was quickly on the radio, shouting out the coordinates before it died; shorted out by the encroaching salt water. Still they were close enough to the island, as there was a dock visible in the distance.
"We can swim it," Napoleon said, though he cringed upon his own words as he didn't exactly relish the idea of getting into the water. Old fears die hard.
He could swim well enough, but his childhood fear of drowning still haunted him to this day. He could get in the water if he had to...that was if he had to. If he had a choice, he'd pass.
"Not a good thing sir," Veer answered in a clipped British accent," too many sharks frequent these waters."
The plane suddenly shifted and there was a loud crack. One of the pontoons and broken off, pulling away from the fuselage.
"I think we have a ride after all," Solo winked.
The two men tossed a rope, lassoing it before it drifted too far away and after several attempts they finally succeeded. Rafah retrieved a hair of paddles in the rear of the plane that he used to maneuver it in when anchoring near a dock.
Napoleon and the pilot straddled the pontoon, keeping their feet out of the water as they both spotted several fins circling the wreck and following their little makeshift raft, too close for comfort.
One of them suddenly broke the surface of the water, baring its teeth right by the American's leg. The only thing he could quickly do was beat it back with the paddle, careful not to let it be grabbed in its jagged teeth.
It all happened so fast the he didn't think to draw his Special, then again if he shot it, it would have only attracted more sharks.
"See I told you so Mr. was a great white shark sir. Very deadly, even though it was a juvenile."
Below them in the crystal clear waters were several black-tipped sharks swimming through an immense school of fish. Suddenly they disappeared and the young great white reappeared, circling beneath the two men.
The two paddled faster, finally reaching the dock, and abandoning the pontoon as they climbed onto it.
They needed to find transportation and after walking only a few hundred feet, a car appeared. Solo was able to convince the local into driving him to the air base; leaving Rafah Veer to wait for help with what was left of his plane.
"I'll send help Rafah," he shook the man's hand.
A few miles away from the base the good Samaritan's car, something from the late 40's the American reconned, began to overheat.
The driver pulled over to the side of the primitive road, lifting the hood; his efforts allowing a gush of steam to escape.
Napoleon sighed his frustration and had no choice but to hoof it at this point, though the driver warned him of roving bands of thugs and to be careful.
"Great," he muttered to himself, "what else could go wrong?" Illya better appreciate the effort he was going through to bring the Russian home.
Just outside the airbase the American encountered a group of protesters, picketing against what they called British occupation; the English government did pay somewhere in the amount of 2000 pounds a year to rent the land, and employed locals who might otherwise be out of work.
"Still it was their country, and their sovereignty was their right after all," Napoleon thought sympathetically, for the most part, until one of the protesters clouted him on the head with their sign.
He went down to his knees, landing in a mud puddle, and as he hiked himself up there was the sound of a rip as his trouser leg somehow caught on rock somewhere in the muck.
"What else?" Napoleon moaned silently to himself.
He resisted the urge to draw his weapon as he slowly rose. The protesters began surrounding him, chanting "British go home! British go home!"
"I'm an American!" He shouted, but the crowd was so loud the couldn't hear a word he said.
Military police quickly appeared to rescue the agent who was looking quite dirty and bedraggled from his misadventures.
Napoleon wondered if his luck had abandoned him on a rescue that should have been easy by all accounts.
After identifying himself the the guards, luckily still having his ID, Passport, communicator; he temporarily surrendered his Special.
Napoleon at last made it to the base Commander's office.
"My dear chap, I'm afraid to tell you your compatriot Mr. Kuryakin was rather impatient to leave and he arranged passage out on one of our cargo planes. I believe it's on the runway as we speak, boarding now."
"Commander, my water-taxi met with a bit of a mishap up the coast, would it be at all possible to help the fellow out. His name is Veer."
"Rafah Veer? Most certainly Mr. Solo. Mr. Veer is well known to me. Quite and honest chap. He wasn't injured was he?"
"No, but I'm afraid his plane was."
"Consider it done Mr. Solo. Now you better hurry if you're going to catch that transport. Cheers."
Napoleon gave his thanks and was pointed in the right direction and after retrieving his weapon, he ran. He managed to make it to the cargo plane just as they were preparing to move away the boarding stairs. He dashed up, flashing his ID.
Looking down through the hold he spotted his partner sitting on one of the side benches surrounded by cargo netting. Illya's eyes were closed and his arms rested comfortably crossed on his chest
"What gives partner mine?"
"Napoleon?" One tired blue eye opened, followed by the other. Kuryakin was drawn and pale but looked none the worse for wear.
"I was coming to get you, so what are you doing on this plane may I ask?"
"I was tired of waiting, and since there was no sign of you; I decided to be a bit proactive."
"Always looking to escape medical wherever you are, huh?"
Somehow, knowings his partner's habits when it came to being in a hospital bed, this little move on Illya's part was forgivable. Hell, no Section II agent wanted to spend much time in a hospital. Napoleon smiled at that thought, well maybe he didn't mind as longs as there were pretty nurses tending to his every need.
"I suppose so," Illya broke an uneasy smile. He still wasn't well and knew this stunt was pushing his limits. "I apologize for not waiting. Did you have a difficult time getting here?" He eyed his partner's dirty suit, something completely out of place for Napoleon Solo.
The American shook his head. Why bother telling the truth in this case? Illya simply looked too washed out to be engaged in being lectured.
"No, it was clear sailing all the way," he lied, topping it with one of his famous smiles; though he suspected the condition of his clothing was a dead giveaway to the contrary. Still Illya said nothing about his partner's attire.
"Good, I would not have wanted you to have gone through any trouble on my account." He closed his eyes, letting his head drop back.
Napoleon scooched up next to him, suddenly finding Illya's head leaning on his shoulder.
He sighed; there wouldn't be any problems or puddle jumping in order to get home, at least that was what the American hoped as the plane began to taxi.
"I'm here tovarisch, you just rest."
One blue eye opened again. "That was what I was planning, if you could just be quiet please? I have a terrible headache."
Napoleon could have given him some sort of pithy comeback, but he refrained, instead choosing to simply smile.
"Thank you my friend," Illya whispered.