THE WINGS AFFAIR
By AJ Burfield
PROLOGUE
The young man stomped his feet to clear the mud from his cleats as he walked to home base, an old, chipped bat slung over his shoulder. When he got to the batter's box he planted his feet, digging them in with a determined wiggle, and turned his ball cap backwards. Pulling the bat off his shoulder he checked the tape on the grip with a squeeze, took a firm grasp and loosened up with a swing. Finally, he settled the bat above his shoulder, raised his elbows a bit higher, and turned his eyes to the pitcher, a furrow of concentration on his brow.
It was a fine summer day and the glare made both the batter and pitcher squint. The pitcher, calmly tossing the ball between his hands, saw that his adversary was ready and raised his eyebrow at the catcher. He nodded slightly in response to some cue and brought the ball to his glove as he turned sideways. Hesitating for a moment as he studied the determined batter, he pursed his lips in thought and wound up for the pitch. In a heartbeat the horsehide whipped towards home base.
The batter's swing was strong, but low, and the ball sailed into the foul zone with a faint pop. The pitcher watched it with interest and turned back to the batter, his face neutral as he unconsciously massaged his glove. He accepted the ball from the third baseman with a smirk, and settled into pitching mode again. The batter snuggled down and raised the bat, his eyes icy on the pitcher.
I'll show you, smartass, the pitcher thought as he wound up. It was a fastball that whipped through the air with a wicked drop at the other end; the batter nicked it again for another foul. The pitcher kept his passive expression, but was furious that this particular batter was even managing to touch his pitches. "Beginner's luck," the pitcher growled to himself. Again, the batter readied himself and the pitcher nodded in response to the catcher's signal.
This time it was an evil curve with a nasty backspin. Again, the bat connected, chalking up another foul. Inwardly, the pitcher was furious. Outwardly, the only clue of his rage was the white-knuckle grip on the ball when the fielder got it to him. I'm better than you, and I'm going to make you remember that. The catcher, unable to get the pitcher's eye for his suggestion, was uneasy as he settled in and tried to prepare himself for the unexpected.
The batter raised the bat, his eyes icy determination.
The pitcher wound up slowly with a tight jaw. As he unleashed the sizzling fastball, his upper lip curled into a wolfish grin.
The catcher knew instantly that the ball was too high, but couldn't move fast enough
The batter, however, had amazingly fast reflexes; the bean ball meant for his head practically burned the air as it passed him at eye level, mere inches from his face. The catcher fell backwards trying to snatch the projectile from the air, but the batter somehow managed to keep his feet as he dodged the missile in an impressively adroit backward maneuver.
A shocked silence fell across the sparse onlookers and field; the pitch was an obvious statement of hate, and many there knew the pitcher wasn't the only one with those kinds of thoughts. After a few tense seconds, someone in the stands clapped. Another yelled, "Play ball, all ready!" The team on the bench grumbled among themselves and glared at the pitcher.
Illya Kuryakin merely regarded the pitcher with slightly squinted eyes as he unconsciously rolled the bat in his grip for a moment. Then he quietly re adjusted his cap and stepped back into the batter's box.
As he set his feet and brought up the bat, the catcher said lowly, "You've been warned, you know. He takes this game way too seriously."
The look the Russian tossed his way was edged in humor. "I've had worse thrown at me," he replied calmly.
The catcher shook his head, not sure if he admired the man or just confirmed his insanity.
The pitcher was chuckling to himself, his eyes twinkling evilly as he readied himself for the pitch. Illya didn't react; he kept his face neutral and calmly regarded the man on the mound. The pitcher's face turned from glee to confusion, then to determination as he set his jaw.
Damn Russkie needs to learn a lesson in humility. The pitcher, trying not to show that he was shaken by Illya's unflappable scrutiny, wound up again and unleashed a hard curve ball, low in the strike zone.
Illya's swing was smooth and calculated, and the connection solid. The ball sailed way into the sky, and the Russian was rounding first base and was well towards second when the pitcher realized it was out of range for the fielders.
Incredulous, the pitcher watched the ball disappear as Illya rounded third. Instantly, he was in motion to take his revenge on the small man for making him look bad in front of his teammates.
Just before he tagged home Illya saw the incoming attacker and launched himself to slide in, hoping to score before the confrontation. The pitcher connected with the sliding agent right on top of home base and they rolled aside in a cloud of dust and swinging fists.
Illya's teammates didn't waste any time in joining the fray, with the fielders close behind. The spectators cheered; some even joined the donnybrook. It was a memorable Sunday afternoon for many.
ACT I: "You're Going Back To College, Mr. Kuryakin."
Napoleon Solo, Chief Enforcement Agent of U.N.C.L.E., New York, dropped into his office chair on this Monday morning with a sigh and carefully set down his mug of coffee. He glanced at this watch - 10 minutes until his meeting with Mr. Waverly, and there was no sign of his tow-headed partner. With a mental shrug he flipped open the report in front of him for a quick scan.
Just then the office door opened and in walked his partner, Illya Kuryakin, his hand in the motion of removing his sunglasses. When he saw his dark-haired partner, he hesitated for just a hairsbreadth then completed the act a bit more slowly, tucking the glasses in his coat pocket.
Napoleon's glance up turned into a double take and the snide comment about being late died on his tongue. His partner had a black eye! Solo felt the corner of his mouth turning into a grin.
Illya, ducking his head, moved towards his desk and set down the small stack of books and magazines he carried in with him.
Solo made a show of looking at his watch, leaning back in his chair, and putting his hands behind his head as he watched his partner's every move with amusement. He raised an eyebrow as the Russian moved to his desk; was that a slight limp, too?
"Well, good morning," Solo said cheerfully.
Illya grunted a reply and plopped into his chair, beginning to leaf through the stack of items he'd brought.
"Rough weekend?" Solo queried innocently.
Illya shot him with a glance. "No rougher than usual."
There was a heartbeat of silence.
"Extra curricular activities get out of hand?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle." Illya continued to leaf through the books, as inscrutable as ever.
Solo opened his mouth again, shut it, and then returned to reviewing the report on his desk. "You aren't going to tell me what happened, are you?"
Illya turned to his partner to reply but was cut off by the intercom. "Mr. Solo, Mr. Waverly wants to make sure you bring the Onofre documents with you," a charming female voice crooned.
"Will do, Marie, I have them right here," he patted the file in front of him. In a seductive tone he added, "I'll see you soon!"
The girl on the intercom was professional enough not to giggle, but her tone belied her feelings. "Anytime, Napoleon." Solo grinned.
Illya snorted, continuing to scan his books. "Probably tonight over dinner, correct?"
"Why, how'd you guess?" He stood and buttoned his jacket. "Come on, Joe Louis Junior, Waverly's waiting." He picked up the file and waited at the door for his partner to join him, and they both entered the hall and walked side-by-side to their boss's office.
When they entered the large office they found their boss leaning back in his chair at the head of the table, enjoying his pipe. "Gentlemen," he said without looking directly at them. "Please have a seat. Mr. Solo? Did you go over that file that was on your desk?" The head of U.N.C.L.E., New York, waited until the men were seated before giving them a glance. As Solo began to speak, he saw his boss also give the dour Russian a double take; in his peripheral vision he saw his partner sink down a little lower in his seat.
"Yes sir, I did. It looks like California will be getting a new source of electricity within the next couple of years."
"Yes, Mr. Solo, the nuclear power plant in San Diego is well on its way to being completed and licensed as planned."
This caused Illya to sit up, his interest piqued. "San Onofre? Unit 1?"
"You know about this power plant?" Waverly inquired.
"Only what I've read in physics and science journals. I understand how the plants are designed and run, but I haven't been following the building schedules."
"Mr. Solo has all the information you will need, which really isn't much. We have received some alarming intelligence in the past month about Thrush's interest in this particular plant."
This caused Solo to sit up. "Why would Thrush be interested in a power plant?"
"Our question exactly, Mr. Solo," Waverly seconded, relighting his pipe. "And if you think about it, the implications are staggering. Thrush could control the entire power grid of the Southwest as a result, or worse yet, get their hands on the radioactive fuel. They may be selling the plans to another government for the same reasons. We don't know.
"It seems that the U.N.C.L.E. office in Los Angeles stumbled across a Thrush courier in possession of classified documents relating to the site. Some deeper investigation as to where the documents came from have revealed that someone related to the design team is leaking these documents to Thrush. The problem is, the suspects are clever in covering their tracks. Thrush isn't even sure who is supplying the information; they only dealt with the courier. We need to find out who is releasing this information and stop it. The only thing we're sure of is the location of the drops."
Solo and Illya looked at each other and waited for the other shoe to drop. "And where was that?" Solo finally inquired.
"The area around San Diego State University in San Diego, California. There are large physics and engineering communities surrounding the campus, and there are many possible sources of this information. The only other clue we have is the courier who delivered the documents to the captured Thrush agent. Their code word was 'Delts'. We've traced that word to a fraternity on campus: Delta Tau Delta."
"How can you be so sure about that connection?" Illya queried.
Waverly chuckled. "It seems that the courier noticed a symbol on the jacket of the young man he got the papers from. It has turned out to be the symbol for the fraternity."
"The Delts?" Solo repeated as Illya raised an eyebrow. The older agent continued. "A fraternity usually has a trait, something all the members have in common. What is the Delts common thread?"
"Pardon? Oh, sports." Waverly replied, distracted, as he ruffled through the file and slipping out several papers.
Solo smiled. "So the Delts are the campus jocks."
Illya frowned. " 'Jocks'?"
Solo chuckled at his partner's lost expression. "Yeah. Jocks. As in part of the safety equipment they wear?" All he got was a blank look from the blond agent. "The athletic supporter, but not the Booster Club?" Still there was no indication of understanding from his friend. Solo waved to his crotch area and started, "It's a slang term for a jock st.."
"Yes, we get the picture, Mr. Solo," Waverly interjected as Illya's face suddenly showed understanding and he even blushed a little as he immediately returned his attention to their boss.
"So you're going back to college, Mr. Kuryakin, to infiltrate the Delts. You, Mr. Solo, will be his outside contact and back up." He handed Illya his papers.
"Why aren't the Los Angeles or San Diego offices handling this?" Solo asked, even though his expression was that of pleasure.
"Because they don't have anyone youthful appearing enough with a strong scientific background, especially in physics. Mr. Kuryakin is the best choice in the North American region."
"So Illya's going to be a jock?" Solo couldn't help but grin hugely, much to his partner's chagrin. "This will be fun to watch! What's his sport?"
"Baseball," Illya said without lifting his head from the documents. "That's why I was told to enroll in an adult city league, wasn't it?" He glanced at Mr. Waverly, who nodded in acknowledgement.
"And how are you liking the all-American sport, Mr. Kuryakin? My scouts say you play quite well."
Illya unconsciously touched his black eye. "The game has interesting strategy, but the differences of opinion can be painful."
Solo gaped. "You got that playing baseball? I wasn't aware it was a contact sport; well, the way most people play, anyway. Why didn't you tell me you were on a team?"
Illya frowned at his partner. "And have you comment on my every play? I hardly think that would have been conducive to my learning the game."
"Well I see you were properly introduced to what, the bean ball?" Solo guessed, waving his finger at Illya's face.
"This wasn't from the bean ball. It was the result of a controversial decision."
Solo opened his mouth, eager to find out more, but Waverly cut him off. "Gentlemen, please! You can discuss Mr. Kuryakin's training techniques on your flight to San Diego." He handed them their tickets, and gave Solo a fat file. "This is what we have on the faculty members and current members of Delta Tau Delta. The individuals with the most relevant scientific background are on the top. Any questions?"
"Where are we staying in San Diego?" Solo asked. "That nice place on the beach?"
"Mr. Kuryakin will be in the fraternity house. You, Mr. Solo, will be.."
"In a sorority house?" Solo asked innocently, his partner rolling his eyes.
"Hardly, Mr. Solo. In fact, we managed to get you on-campus housing and a position on campus that would allow you access to all areas."
The dark haired agent's eyebrow peaked. "In administration?"
"No, in maintenance. A custodian, to be exact."
Solo glanced irritably at his partner's snicker.
"And remember the importance of this mission, gentlemen. Thrush in control of a nuclear power plant is enough to give any of us nightmares. Please keep that in mind as you face certain..distractions..inherent with an assignment like this."
"Like co-eds," Illya quipped at his partner.
"And cheerleaders!" Solo added perkily, smiling again.
It was Waverly's turn to roll his eyes. "You are dismissed, gentlemen."