Napoleon woke first with a moan; his hand went straight to the back of his head were he felt a sizable lump.
Looking around in the dim light, he spotting Illya laying in a heap not far from him.
Solo crawled over on his hands and knees, and reaching out...ignoring the first rule to never touch a sleeping, or unconscious UNCLE agent; he shook Illya by the arm.
What happened next, he should have expected. Illya sat up like a shot, and came out swinging. Napoleon managed to avoid being hit and grabbed the Russian's wrists to stop his attack.
"Illya it's me!"
"Oh sorry, you can let go now."
Napoleon sat down beside him, gathering his thoughts.
"Do you have as big a lump on your head like I do tovarisch?"
Illya ran his fingers through his hair, with them coming back a bit sticky. "Yes, and blood as well. What happened?"
"The last thing I remember was us heading along the Waitan to meet our contact at the 'lover's wall' and then wham…being hit on the head from behind."
"That is my recollection as well. I suspect due to the way my stomach is feeling and from the movement we are experiencing at present, that we are in the hold of a ship."
"So we were shanghaied...in Shanghai?" Napoleon quipped
"Very good gentlemen," a voice spoke with a distinct Aussie accent from the darkness. The only thing they could see was the red glow of a burning cigarette.
"You're on the cargo ship Hanjin."
"And you are?"
"Name's Paden, Jack Paden. Like you, I was brought aboard against my will but that was over a year ago. Now I'm a regular member of the crew and draw pay, good pay at that."
"And our destination?"Napoleon asked.
"We're heading to Singapore with a layover, two ports in Thailand, then on to Hong Kong. Then possibly one of three ports in China...Xingang, Dalian or Quingdao. From there we ship to Yokahama Japan or possibly Kobe. And just maybe a port of call on the U.S. West Coast. We transit the Panama Canal, a likely stop in Central America. Then to Houston Texas, New Orleans, Philadelphia then transatlantic to Antwerp, Hamburg, and Genoa. It'll take us just a little over 120 days, plus the layover time in Singapore. Sadly you'll never see land again boys, that is unless the Captain decides to sell you off to some interested party."
"I don't think so,"Napoleon countered.
"Sorry but you don't have any choice in the matter." The man finally stepped from the shadows, into the dim light while jangling leg irons in his hands. Behind him stood two guards, each carrying rifles.
"Oh and put these on, your suits won't cut it here mates."
He tossed two pair of dungarees to the floor, along with shirts, work boots and a couple of knit caps.
"Captain Emmett has your ID, guns and all the other crap you two were carrying... said you're some sort of secret agents."
"Something like that," Illya finally spoke up.
"Oh yeah that's right, you're the Russkie. You'll be happy to know there's quite a few of your people working on board, mostly in the engine room. One is our cook but he's not that good...say can either of you blokes cook?"
"Yes," Napoleon answered."I'm quite a good cook if I say so myself. He hoped that might open a door or two for him.
"Good, that's your job then. A new cook will do us good and the food better be just that. Now you?" He eyed Kuryakin.
"Why they took you, I'll never know. Runts like you ain't good for much but dying. I guess we can make you the new Steward to the Captain. The last one, poor bugger, didn't last long as he pissed off the Skipper one two many times."
"What happened to him?" Illya asked.
Paden put his thumb to his throat and ran it across; that was the universal symbol and no further explanation was needed. "A messy business, throat cutting, but that was the Captain's choice. Now me, I would have just thrown the drongo over the side and fed him live to the sharks."
"Peachy," Napoleon mumbled.
Solo and Kuryakin watched in silence as the leg irons were put on them. There was nothing they could do for the moment, not until the got the lay of the land so to speak.
Together the agents were led topside, and as their eyes adjusted to the light they saw a few other poor souls who'd been waylaid as well. They too were wearing leg irons while swabbing the deck with mops and buckets.
Two Orientals, one Filipino, and a muscular man, who upon hearing him speak, was obviously German; all looked up at them.
"Back to work ye mongrels!" Paden shouted
Solo cast a wary glance to his partner.
Illya was beginning to show more signs of being seasick and that concerned the American. Would they toss him overboard given he'd be weak from being ill?
Peden saw it too as well as Solo's look of concern.
"Don't worry mate, everyone gets a bit of the heaves now and then, we won't toss him for that. I figure in your line of work, the two of you are pretty tough bastards despite appearances, and smart too. So I'm warning ye now, no funny business or ye will go over the side, leg irons and all. You mob are easily enough replaced when we make port in Singapore."
Napoleon and Illya fell in line with their new jobs, minding their P's and Q's all the while taking note of the routines and schedules on board. As the weeks passed, they developed a good feel for the way things went on the Hanjin
Solo had it easier as cooking for a crew of thirty or so men gave him pause to recall his army days in Korea. He managed well enough in his new role, producing meals that were far better than the last man who'd been banished to the boiler room.
It had become a matter of using the right spice combinations, and not overcooking things. Piece of cake….he even managed to bake a few of those along with fresh bread. The crew quickly developed a liking for the American.
Illya on the other hand was at the beck and call of the Captain who liked his whisky, and expected the Russian to do his bidding at the snap of a finger, day or night.
It was Illya's responsibility to keep the Captain's quarters clean and organized, see to his laundry being done, and tote his meals if the man so desired to eat in his cabin.
Captain Emmett was a slob, in the worst sense of the word and nothing Kuryakin did seemed to suit the man. The Skipper's displeasure was usually manifested with a cuff to Illya's head, forcing the Russian to restrain himself and not simply kill the man.
When Illya had finally seen to the Captain's needs he was permitted some time to himself, and the first thing hw did was head to the mess for his own supper.
Dinner tonight was Hungarian goulash with tender beef, potatoes, carrots and noodles in a rich brown gravy. There were biscuits, and green beans on the side as well as chocolate cake for dessert. It was a lot of calories but the men on this boat needed them to work the gruelling schedule given to them.
The first thing Napoleon saw was the bruise that was blossoming in Illya's left cheekbone. He handed his partner some ginger tablets he'd managed to get from the ship's doctor.
Though Kuryakin had finally gotten his sea legs, periodically the seasickness would rear its green head and knock the Russian for a loop.
"What happened," Napoleon whispered as he slowly put the food on Illya's tray.
"I did not move fast enough to pour the Captain his third glass of whisky. Mind you, he drinks it by the tumbler full."
"Where is he now?"
"Passed out in his bunk. I was finally able to get a look at the charts. We are definitely heading to Kobe for our next port of call, and then to the States."
Illya stopped as he saw one of the regular crewmen coming their way.
"I will tell you after supper." Illya trundled off, his chains clanking as he walked to the nearest table.
Sitting there were a number of his countrymen, all wearing shackles as well.
Illya had been gaining their trust, though it came slowly at first. He knew if he and Napoleon were going to try anything, they would need help.
He nodded his greeting, "Comrades," he spoke in Russian.
Illya tucked into his food, and as he expected the food was quite good. Napoleon was taking his role as cook quite seriously, yet he knew his partner was formulating a plan for them to escape.
Minutes later Solo, carrying his own dinner, sat down beside his partner.
"Do not worry Comrades," Illya continued in Russian."This is my friend Napoleon and together we are going to get us all off this ship."
"Illya, do you think you are the first to try it?" A big man named Feodor asked. "The last fool they whipped until he was senseless and then threw him overboard."
"We are no fools Comrade," Illya said."We are agents of the U.N.C.L.E. and ( he looked at Solo) are formulating a plan. I just need to know that you are with us."
"I have heard of this UNCLE," a bald man named Vadik said. "You are really agent?"
"Da," Illya nodded.
Illya had gained their trust little by little but now he needed it more than ever. He looked into their eyes, staring them down until they relented.
"We are with you Comrade Kuryakin," Feodor whispered.
"Good."
Illya had no sooner finished talking when Paden suddenly appeared. "The Captain wants you, and just as a word of warning...he's in a very bad mood."
Illya looked longingly at his unfinished dinner; he grabbed a biscuit and took that with him.
"I'll save you some tovarisch," Solo whispered as Illya rose.
The next morning Illya again appeared in the mess, this time sporting a swollen lower lip and a black eye.
As Solo piled the food on his partner's plate he opened his mouth to comment.
"Do not say anything Napoleon. Just know that Captain Emmett will be part of the plan."
"Illya we need to talk."
"I know...later. Once I bring the Captain his breakfast we will be able to do so. Meet me at his cabin in a half hour."
"But won't he be there?"
"Yes, but I stole something from the doctor's apothecary last night and am going to slip it to the Captain. It will knock him out for at least three hours."
Solo arrived at the Captain's quarters, giving his coded knock. Illya opened the door and beckoned him inside.
"I need you to keep a watch while I try to open the ship's safe. I suspect our communicators and other belongings are in there."
Putting his ear to the safe, he listened and felt with his fingers as the tumbler clicked. Illya had it open in no time and there as expected were their weapons, identification, and most importantly their communicators.
Now the conundrum, what to take and what to leave. Once the Captain came to he might check the safe and see things were missing if they took it all.
"Here put this in there and give me one communicator." Solo held out a silver pen. "I purloined it from the first mate when he wasn't looking. I had a funny feeling I should grab it."
Illya handed him the communicator, quickly closed the safe and spun the tumbler; he was sure to leave it in the exact position in which he found it.
"Napoleon, what are you going to do?" He asked.
"Call in the cavalry, or more correctly...the navy."
When Captain Emmett woke he was in the foulest of moods ever. Somehow he knew Illya had slipped him something and had the Russian bound. He began to beat Kuryakin within an inch of his life when he heard a loud boom, and the ship came to a stop.
"What the devil?" He dropped the near unconscious agent on the floor and got on the com, calling the bridge.
"Why has the ship stopped?" He bellowed.
"Captain, there's been an explosion in the engine room! Sabotage! We've extinguished the fire, but the engines will need repairs," Paden reported.
Emmett threw down the microphone. Enraged now, he grabbed Illya by his hair and dragged him out to the corridor and dragged him by his arm up to the bridge.
"Call all hands on deck!" He bellowed to the crewman on the bridge.
The man nervously picked up the microphone, making the announcement, "All hands on deck immediately as per the Captain. All hands on deck!"
Emmett grabbed the microphone outside the bridge overlooking the main deck.
"I know what you Goddamn Russkies were up to and I have who I think is your ringleader!"
Like lifting a ragdoll, he grabbed Illya and flung him upside down over the railing, holding him by the chains of his leg irons.
"This one's first, then I'll have the rest of you filth shot if you try anything like this again!"
"I don't think so,"Napoleon shouted back to him. "I suggest you not let go of my friend."
"Ha! And what if I do? What are you going to do about it...you have no weapons!"
"Well, not me personally, but they do." Napoleon pointed out to the water and sitting beside the cargo ship was a United States submarine. Temporarily mounted on the conning tower was a .50 caliber machine gun, and pouring out of another hatched were armed sailors.
"So if you hurt my friend Captain Emmett, you will most certainly die." Napoleon watched as the man lifted Illya and set him down on the deck.
The Hanjin was boarded and the crew took its turn being locked in irons while all the men who had been shanghaied were finally freed.
They were joined shortly thereafter by the INS Vikrant, a light aircraft carrier belonging to the Indian Navy that happened to be on maneuvers the area.
They took the prisoners and the men who had been freed while Solo and Kuryakin were taken on board the submarine that was heading to Hawaii.
From there, once Illya's injuries had been treated, they'd return to New York.
Before Illya was carried off on a stretcher from the Hanjin, Feodor, Vadik and the other Russians said their goodbyes to their comrade. They thanked him for keeping his promise of freedom to them. Lastly they shook Napoleon's hand in gratitude, though Feodor, spoke in Russian.
"Ne plokho dlya Amerikantsa."
"Spasibo," Napoleon grinned.
"Da, not bad for an American," Illya repeated, though his words were a bit muffled from the bandages covering his face and head. The pain killers that had been administered, though Kuryakin protested their use, were beginning to work their magic.
"You too tovarisch," Napoleon said as he accompanied his partner on board the sub.