THE 43 YEARS LATER AFFAIR
By: Dan Bivens
Chapter 1
"I Prefer the Old Ways Best"
"Is it true?" U.N.C.L.E. Agent 23 asked of U.N.C.L.E. Agent 18 in a hushed, tense tone of voice.
"Yeah", Agent 18 replied with a note of disrespectful disdain. "We've done fine these past couple of decades, why the hell are they coming back? I didn't even know they were still alive!"
Just then, as the outer blast-proof doors, leading into U.N.C.L.E. headquarters' heart, promptly opened, the two gentlemen who have been the subject of such quiet contemplation entered for the first time in decades.
"Welcome Mr. Solo...Mr. Kuryakin", said a lovely and quite shapely woman in business-style attire, holding two upside-down triangle badges designated for those who are considered guests.
Taking said badges in hand, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, both looking quite handsome and fit for men "their age", smiled politely.
"Thank you", Illya said while clipping his guest badge to the pocket of a stylish suit's coat, "you're too kind."
"Yes", Napoleon chimed in with a beaming smile that was purposely crooked as if the passage of years had been utterly inconsequential to them both, "and quite beautiful, too."
Her own polite smile now faltering, followed by a hard glare within her otherwise bedroom eyes, she indicated her own official badge which held the number "1" and added sufficient credence to her pointed declaration, "Uh, Mr. Solo...this is 2007 and I am current head of the New York U.N.C.L.E. Not a glorified 'receptionist'."
While Illya was definitely amused, Napoleon's formerly cocky expression became one of sudden consolation, though not one of complete capitulation.
"Well", he said while audibly clearing his throat, "I suppose things have changed since I was last here. Uh, congratulations Miss..."
"Ms", she quickly corrected, a half-grin of sudden superiority flashing across her quite conversely beautiful countenance, "Hall...Allison Hall. Now...if you two would follow me into the control room...my office...we can discuss the matter that's brought both of you here today."
Even as Ms. Allison Hall, New York U.N.C.L.E. head, turned smartly on fashionably heeled shoes, that Napoleon couldn't help but notice made her legs look especially sexy and did much the same to her, uh, derrière. Both he and Illya noted that the gathering of oh-so-young male and female agents seemed to be eyeing them as if they'd just been excavated out of some archeological dig.
As far as Illya was concerned, it was as he expected it to be. After all, the two of them had not been active since before the final fall of the last governmental remnants of the Soviet Union. He had believed, from what he'd heard filtering out through those few "old timers" still a part of the New York-based organization, that even THRUSH, itself, had become a thing of the past. He, more so than Napoleon it seemed, was much more curious as to just what could have happened in this new age to require such as them to report once again into this hidden-from-the-world top-secret establishment.
For Napoleon, well, he was still too busy admiring the young woman whom time and circumstances had elevated far beyond the "glorified receptionists"; he'd consider the reasons, clearly not good, later.
Besides, Napoleon thought to himself while still wearing a sexually appreciative smirk of a smile, Ms. Hall will let us know the name of this new game soon enough.
"Please", Ms. Hall finally said while gesturing toward two ultra-modern chairs and then allowing that same hand to tap a touch-sensitive pad of colorful flashing squares, "be seated, gentlemen."
As expected, the heavy metal door soundlessly closed with a barely audible click of what Illya logically perceived to be a new magnetic locking mechanism; then Ms. Hall took her seat on the other side of the oval metal table.
"Well, Mr. Solo...Mr. Kuryakin", she began with discernible strain in her voice, highlighted by the forced smile on her undeniably lovely features, "I suppose you'd like to find out why U.N.C.L.E. has called you out of, uh..."
"Retirement?" Illya interjected with a playful half-grin and a twinkle in his blue eyes that immediately called attention to the seemingly impossible fact that neither his mostly-blonde hair or his incredibly unlined face had known the passage of time.
Illya's single-word response brought a reproachful scowl from Ms. Hall, followed by a curt nod, "Yes, Mr. Kuryakin. At any rate, an old enemy has resurfaced that you, Mr. Solo, know very well and you, Mr. Kuryakin, had referenced with HQ computers in order to help advise Mr. Solo...even though your contribution to the affair went virtually unnoticed at the time. My much-belated apologies."
Napoleon and Illya looked at one another with a flood of silent questions flashing through their ageless eyes and across their untouched-by-time faces. God only knows how many such opponents from their combined career as U.N.C.L.E. agents such could tentatively describe. Their curiosity, thankfully, would swiftly be assuaged.
"Gentlemen", Ms. Hall continued with a curious combination of authority and always-present sensuality, even as a manicured finger tapped another flashing colored touch-sensitive square on the oval, metal table's sleek top; which, in turn, activated a moveable wall, like the agents-from-the-past recalled Mr. Waverly doing all those years ago. Only now a sizeable plasma screen was revealed where once there was only a normal-sized, for the 1960s, television screen. Instantly, there was a high-definition, digitally perfect series of images starting with...
"I presume you gentlemen remember this now-destroyed THRUSH-controlled establishment?" Ms. Hall asked with a staid smirk, as if she were purposely testing the memories of two elder ex-agents to make certain time had not taken its toil upon the remaining neurons of their aging brains.
It was Illya who spoke first with a tone that defied adequate dissection, "Of course...United Global Chemical Corporation."
"Tentatively referred to as the Vulcan Chemical Corporation", chimed in Napoleon, proving that his mind was as sharp at Illya's, as was his memory, "it was where Andrew Vulcan, then chief of THRUSH, tried to..."
"He's back!" interrupted Ms. Hall, impatient and anxious to move past the U.N.C.L.E. history lesson. Wanting to get to the heart of a present situation that had arisen in recent days and which warranted the reactivation of agents she, personally, considered to be so far beyond their prime that they could actually be considered deliberate liabilities.
"But", Illya said after he and Napoleon swiftly exchanged perplexed glances that lasted all of two seconds yet seemed to last fully half-an-hour, "that's not possible, Ms. Hall."
"I was there when the place blew and", began Napoleon with a frustrated scowl that seemed to say Young lady, you may now be head of U.N.C.L.E., but I was out there doing my job as an agent before your father even liked girls.
"I'm familiar with the incident, Mr. Solo", Ms. Hall snappishly said, then promptly tapped yet another touch-sensitive control. Which instantly altered the images, thus leaving no doubt as to the truth of the present over the assumptions of the past.
It was the unmistakable image, crisp and clear as though being viewed through a window rather than via a plasma-TV, of Andrew Vulcan: heavily scarred and decrepit beyond the four decades that had elapsed. One of the first THRUSH bigwigs that Napoleon Solo, U.N.C.L.E. Agent 11, had taken on in a, no pun intended, solo mission affair.
"How...?" Napoleon finally managed, even as Illya leaned forward, forearms resting upon his knees, to more closely study the visual of the man both had believed dead.
"That doesn't really matter, Mr. Solo", Ms. Hall said with a barely audible sigh of impatience. "All that does matter is that he's back and the political powers-that-be want you two to stop what U.N.C.L.E. Intel has pegged to be the first great attempt at 'world domination', as laughable as that sounds in this day and age, through a decidedly diabolical means that THRUSH does have at its ready disposal."
"THRUSH?" puzzled Napoleon.
Sitting back once again, Illya added, "But THRUSH collapsed within a few years after the total collapse of communism in my motherland of Russia. Wasn't it?"
Heaving yet another sigh, more audible than the last, of unfettered frustration, Ms. Hall tapped yet another colored flashing square within the tabletop's touch-sensitive panel while fully turning toward the next high-definition digital views on the plasma screen behind her.
Images of what were quite obviously THRUSH agents, still wearing jumpsuits and berets, with the familiar thrush-bird patches, flashed by in a slow-but-steady progression similar to an old-fashioned slideshow.
"As you can see, gentlemen", Ms. Hall intoned in a lecture-like style, "THRUSH never 'died', but grew more technically proficient with the passage of years. Lest you two have forgotten, THRUSH has always stood for Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity. And, quite logically, as the world around them grew more and more technically advanced, so, too, did they. So much so that, apparently, Andrew Vulcan has been spared and, now, has once again assumed his old position as undisputed chief of THRUSH. An organization that has, clearly, survived the fall of the Soviet Union as well as other dramatic global changes."
As that part of the plasma screen slideshow passed, Illya asked a logical question with an easy expression. One telling any outside observer that he was not only taking it all in, but was most likely committing it to a memory that was as near photographic as one could come.
"What is THRUSH up to now?"
Short, to the point, analytical. Same old Illya.
In answer, Ms. Hall half-turned and tapped one last flashing colored touch-sensitive square. The plasma screen's HD display now showed a veritable montage of images. One after the other of jumpsuit-and-beret wearing THRUSH minions going about almost robotic patrol about the exterior of an otherwise innocuous structure; followed just as quickly by a steady stream of sketches, schematics, and more.
"From sources both bribed and obtained at the cost of lives, we now know that THRUSH's latest attempt at 'world domination' comes in a form heralded in by the 'resurrected' Andrew Vulcan in the form of a directed energy system that you gentlemen might've called, in your day, a 'death ray'. Capable of being instantly deployed by accessing unofficial uplinks to our own satellite systems and redirecting it with pinpoint accuracy to whatever geological target they desire."
"What you're describing, Ms. Hall", began Illya, still giving off the impression he was as effectively logical as he was boyishly beautiful, "is the virtual obliteration of millions with the touch of a button. An attack which no country in the free world..."
"Could defend against", Ms. Hall finished without so much as turning to face the Russian-born ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent. "Precisely the problem, Mr. Kuryakin. Now, again from a variety of sources, we know this building, the newest THRUSH headquarters where the directed energy device and uplink are located, is...here."
Now the HD slideshow presentation stopped with a satellite's down-angled view of a forsaken section of Canada, just north of the Continental United States... north of the state of Minnesota. Then the view sharpened quickly and rapidly until it displayed the actual aerial view of the THRUSH HQ site seen earlier in views so close that actual location-identification would've been essentially impossible.
Finally, there was a fairly detailed aerial view of a Minnesota town labeled "Arnessen, MN"; in particular, the view duly denoted what appeared to be lakeside wharves.
"We've arranged a private U.N.C.L.E. jet to fly you two to this location in upstate Minnesota", Ms. Hall stated succinctly, while finally fully turning toward Napoleon and Illya. "Whereby you two will rent or otherwise lease a boat capable of taking you across to the Canadian shores where you'll then do whatever you must to get to the new THRUSH headquarters...and destroy it as well as seeing to it that Andrew Vulcan, this time, stays dead."
She lets her mission orders hang in the air and unabashedly observes Napoleon and Illya share a silent instant that spoke volumes over how much their years of experience as active U.N.C.L.E. operatives, apparently, still seemed to hold tight even after decades of relative inactivity.
"Any questions, gentlemen?"
"Just one", Napoleon said after a tentatively tense few seconds of syrupy silence, as the cocky, crooked smile returned to his otherwise still-handsome face. "Ever considered a more vibrant shade of lipstick, Ms. Hall? It'd really compliment their natural fullness, I think."
Illya rolled his eyes, but still managed an amused smile which he clandestinely covered with one hand while propping one elbow on the ultra-modern chair's arm, even as Ms. Hall heaved a loud sigh of exasperation while simultaneously standing and gesturing toward the now-unlocked and automatically-opening metal door leading out.
"Please report to Section 8 for weapons and equipment."
Just before the two stepped through the open doorway, Napoleon half-turned back toward his exquisitely lovely superior and mischievously asked, "Oh, uh, Ms. Hall, does this mean Illya and I have been re-activated as U.N.C.L.E. agents?"
By way of a wordless response to the ludicrous query, Ms. Hall tapped the final flashing colored touch-sensitive square which caused the heavy metal door to close and, in so doing, pragmatically pushing Napoleon and Illya out.
They were met by the foremost U.N.C.L.E. receptionist/ secretary who replaced their guest badges with upside-down triangle, color-coded, badges with their old numbers, "11" for Napoleon and "2" for Illya, who then innocently asked, "Shall I show you two agents to Section 8's armament and..."
"No", Illya stiffly interjected, ending the decidedly maladroit moment before Napoleon said something urbane-yet-rude, "thank you. I doubt that it's been moved."
Moments later, Napoleon and Illya stepped into that region officially designated as Section 8 and colloquially called "the Lab".
"G'day to ya, mates", a broad-shouldered, square-jawed Aussie, with appropriately ponderous accent, with the appropriately color-coded Section 8 mix emblazoned with the U.N.C.L.E. number "24" on the upside-down triangle badge. "Name's Eric Alexander...I'm in charge o' Section 8 and I'm the man who's gonna see to it ya've got what ya need for yer mission, 'kay."
Though Napoleon instantly liked the big Aussie, Illya found him a little too brash, a little too loud; not at all like the men who used to tend to such field operation needs "back in the day".
"Hello, Mr. Alexander", nodded the half-grinning Napoleon with an overtly friendly tone, "and this is..."
"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin", finished Eric Alexander with a beaming grin and twinkling green eyes as if he were literally encountering his childhood hero. "A real pleasure, mate. I've sort'a patterned m'self after ya. Uh, no offense, Mr. Solo."
"None taken", replied a reticent and still smiling Napoleon, a bit amused at how uncomfortable this hero-worship from a man clearly in his thirties was to a visibly ageless Agent Kuryakin.
Ever polite, however, Illya managed, "Uh, yes, thank you for the, uh, compliment, Mr. Alexander. May we get on with it?"
"Hm?" Eric the Aussie hummed with genuine momentary bewilderment, then quickly said, "Oh, yeah. Sorry, mate. 'kay, what we need to do is outfit you lads with the best we have to offer in firearms...now our agents today mostly swear by the Glock 18C, which I can show you here..."
Illya and Napoleon watched with the practiced patience that polite society always seemed to demand even from men of action, though their expressions decried their true feelings regarding the weapon: a Glock 18 outfitted with an extra-long clip of 9mm Parabellum ammo; a specially threaded barrel for the fitting of either the flash suppressor, already on the model currently being handled by Eric, or easily outfitted with the ever-useful, in any decade, silencer extension. All the while the Aussie's heavily accented voice droned on and on regarding the 18C version of the semi-automatic handgun he treated with the expected pride one would imagine a member of "the Lab".
"With all due respect, Mr. Alexander", Illya finally intervened with just enough affability in his timbre to cloak the look of lament in his blue eyes, "we prefer the Walther P-38s that we used originally."
"Assuming, of course", chimed in Napoleon with a trivial tilt of his head and a facetious expression to match his satirical tone, "that they've at least been properly maintained since then."
"Walther P-38s?" puzzled the Aussie in charge of U.N.C.L.E. weapons and equipment, while inquisitively eyeing the two out-of-retirement agents as if awaiting some sort of punch-line to an ancient and out of style joke.
But none was forthcoming. So Eric put away the Glock 18Cs while mumbling, just barely loud enough to be heard by Napoleon and Illya, "We have Smith-and-Wesson 4040PDs, Beretta PX4 40s, Heckler-Koch P7s, Desert Eagle Auto-Mags, not to mention add-ons for carbine-like functions, but, no, they want those old Walther P38s..."
Illya and Napoleon could scarcely restrain bemused smirks even as the disillusioned Aussie came back with the requested weapons, "Here ya go, mates...straight outta the hist'ry books o' U.N.C.L.E."
Napoleon and Illya took the two black Walther P38s, with flash suppressor nose and went through the expected inspection motions of clip ejection, slide-cocking, and so forth to adequately exam said weapons before officially signing off on taking their possession.
"Looks good", Napoleon nodded.
"And the add-ons?" Illya requested a split-second after.
Eric Alexander rapidly retrieved the specially designed transport packs with the tooled-to-fit additions needed to turn a handgun into a carbine: barrel extension, fixed metal stock, telescopic scope, and, of course, extra long ammo clips. Next to them Eric lay the soft leather shoulder holsters in which the Walther P38s could be carried clandestinely beneath their suits' coats while in the field, along with extra short and long ammo clips.
"Hm", hummed Illya virtually to himself, "nice to see we get to use nothing but real bullets now, instead of those damnable knockout projectiles."
At last, both Illya and Napoleon proceeded to slip off their coats and, then, slipping on the shoulder holsters. One arm through the primary part, which carried the pistol, the other through the snugly supporting around-the-shoulder strap. Then taking care to secure the anchor strap, leading down from the leather holster's body, to the shiny leather belts worn about the waistbands of their tailored dress pants.
Eric the Aussie then brought forward a few 21st Century devices currently carried by all U.N.C.L.E. agents in 2007.
"'kay, now, mates, lets get down to yer PDAs, which have GPS positioning software, a'course, and provide excellent communications with..."
"Uh", interrupted Napoleon with a second slanted smile gracing his handsome-in-spite-of-age facial features, "just see if you can locate our old pen communicators, Mr. Alexander. I'm sure you have them on hand for 'historical' reasons."
Green eyes going wide, the broad-shouldered, square-jawed Aussie stammered, "B-but they can't do the things a PDA cell can do..."
"Eric", Illya conclusively sighed, somewhat sternly, in order to put an abrupt end to any contention, even as both he and Napoleon put their suits' coats back on, "just get them. Napoleon and I...well, let's just say, Napoleon and I prefer the old ways best."
END OF CHAPTER 1