For many folks, this is considered the closest you can get to hell without dying first. To me, it's not exactly paradise but I'll never get any closer to Heaven on Earth.

As a kid, I was always cold. Unlike my contemporaries, the thought of whipping down a snow-covered hill or making a snowman was even worse than fractions – and don't get me started on those! I hated the snow, I hated the ice and I hated the cold. To find me from October to May, you merely had to follow the well worn path to our wood-burning stove. I would be wedged between it and the wall, vainly trying to warm up.

When my high school counselor asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said, "Hot." She pointed out that being hot wasn't exactly a career choice. I told her to watch my dust.

I joined the Army, hoping that I would be sent someplace tropical. Fate had a really unfunny sense of humor and I got stationed in Alaska. To combat the cold and the boredom, I am not what you would call a people person, I studied a lot at my chosen profession – radio operator. I preferred electronics to most people. Even though much of my day was spent communicating with other people, they were often as much loners as I was.

Somehow, I survived and was sitting waiting for a military transport to take me home. It was just me and this old guy.

"Your hitch up?"

I was surprised he talked to me. Most folks stayed to themselves up here. "Yup, I'm going home."

"Where's home."

"New York City."

"Small world. Same here." He extended his hand and introduced himself. "Have any ideas what you are going to do now?"

"To be honest, I don't care as long as it's some place warm where I'll never see snow again."

To be honest, I never expected that sentence to change my life the way it did. Within a month, I was standing on the beach of a tiny island. It housed UNCLE's survival school. I didn't know what to expect or who I would be dealing with. All I knew was the warm, moist breeze on my face and the sense that I belonged here. The years went racing by and I could not have been happier. To others, this was hell and they couldn't wait to leave. To me, it was home and here I was staying.

A word now about Survival School and I'm guessing I can actually tell you this. It's the place where UNCLE sends recruits to separate the wheat from the chaff. Only the best of the best are able to apply for Section Two and this is where (hat happens. Those who might improve with experience are started in Section Three. The ones who just can't cut it at all, well, they either leave UNCLE or head for one of the other sections.

I was getting ready to handle the daily messages from my boss, Mr. Cutter, when my world changed. He's tough on the recruits and no Prince Charming with the staff. He is totally focused upon his work and that's okay by me. I stay in my hut and do my work. At night, I return to my quarters, which I share with the quartermaster, Herbert. I read, listen to a little radio or just go out on the porch and stare at the sky. I love it here. It is always so peaceful and removed from the troubles of the world.

The Communications room is not much, just a desk and chair, the shortwave radio and a file cabinet. There is a fan that sort of circulates the hot air around and I had a small closet in the back with a toilet, sink, and not much else. We work twelve-hour shifts here. Our food is brought to us and we don't leave during our watch. The radio is our lifeline and it is never left unattended. There isn't even a door on the toilet. As much as possible, we never let the board out of our sight. It isn't much, but for twelve hours a day, it is mine.

Anyhow, I dug my desk key out of my pocket and was about to pull out the current code book when a noise at the door made me look over.

The guy standing there was blond and he was wearing a suit as opposed to the jumpsuit or all-blacks of the recruits. He grinned and stuck out a hand. "Oscar, I wondered if you were still here."

"Illya!" I'd become friends with Illya when he went through Survival School. Cutter, for one reason or another, rode him hard and never cut him an inch of slack. For most men, it would cripple them or cause them to quit. It made Illya even more determined to succeed. He and his partner were two of our success stories. "What are you doing here?"

He grimaced. "Refresher course." There was a smear of something black on the cuff of one sleeve and his jacket was wrinkled. He'd just gotten off our transport ship, I was sure of it. "What's going on over on the east side of the complex?"

There had been some construction taking place. It could be a training exercise as much as anything else. While I'd been here, I'd seem numerous buildings erected and then destroyed. Something was always being built here.

In all my years, I'd not heard of any agent being sent back through Survival School on a refresher course. Something else was up, but I played along. "Nothing much, I'm guessing. Getting a little slow on the uptake?"

"According to my superiors." Illya was looking around my little hut and shook his head in pity, I guessed.

I couldn't resist it. I have a pad of paper at the ready and I wrote, Trouble in Paradise?

Illya glanced at it as if he was looking at something else and then half-nodded as I began to doodle all over the words.

Something was up and he was afraid of being overheard. That was interesting. Section Two agents are, by nature, suspicious. "So, how have things been going here?" He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He fumbled it and dropped it. Shaking his head, he retrieved it and I felt rather than saw a note behind slipped into my pocket. He wanted me to know it was there.

"Hot, like always. Isn't it great?" I grinned and Illya shook his head.

"Not really. I think I will go grab a shower before my meeting with Cutter."

"Good idea. I'll see you later and we can catch up."

He nodded and left without another word. A minute later and Craig, a new guy from the mainland walked in.

"Oscar, is that who I think it is?" I didn't like him, although there wasn't really a reason for it. He'd not said anything to make me not like him. It was just one of those things.

"Who? You mean, Illya? Yup, he's here on a refresher course. Guess he's getting close to the cut-off and they want to make sure he's still capable." I gestured him closer and Craig leaned in. "You heard about his left hip. There are some people who are trying to get him tossed for that."

Craig regarded me solemnly and nodded. "I'd thought his reinstatement was a done deal."

"Not yet." The paper was burning a hole in my pocket, but I kept my face neutral. "Guess we'll find out."

The guy left and I released the breath I'd been holding. Alarms were going off in my head. Suddenly I wanted to talk to Illya again. There was something not right about Craig and Illya would know what to do.

For some reason, I still couldn't bring myself to pull the note out of my pocket. It was weird. Suddenly my bright sunny little spot seemed downright cold and inhospitable.

Shaking my head to clear it, I returned to my work. I unlocked my drawer and reached in for the old codebook. This would be the last time for this particular code. It was being replaced tomorrow. It was always fun to start with a new book. It gave my job some variety. I pulled it out and slid the drawer shut. The new one would stay there until tomorrow. I couldn't run the risk of getting stuff mixed up.

Then I felt something cold just beneath my ear and I sat very still.

"Don't move or even think. I will be taking that." I didn't recognize the voice and he was wearing a ski mask. Where do you find a ski mask in the tropics? It would be funny if there wasn't a gun pointed at my head.

"Um, okay, if you want." The only stuff being sent now with this code would be routine messages. Anything important would be held until tomorrow. "You aren't going to get away with it, you know."

"Who's going to stop me? A bunch of agent wanna-bees? What a-"

I never did find out what it would be, Illya's fist caught him in the kidney and dropped him where he was standing.

The hooded man dropped and I leapt from my chair to the other side of room – a whole five steps away.

Illya knelt and rolled the guy over, pulling off the hood. I didn't have to look. I knew it was Craig… except it wasn't.

"Oscar, who is this?" The man was a stranger to me and I knew everyone on the island.

"No idea." I gave the guy a wide berth and clicked on the intercom switch, intending to call Cutter.

"No so fast, Kuryakin." This time it was Craig.

"Hello, Fedoseev." Illya didn't seem surprised." I thought I sensed something when I arrived."

Illya hadn't had time to move from his crouched position and Craig… um, Fedoseev, or whoever… lashed out and kicked Illya square in his left hip. It sent Illya across the floor and into a fetal position.

I took a step, but a Walther was suddenly pointing at my stomach. "You should not move, Oscar. I will be more than happy to shoot you." He glared at the stranger. "Get up, you fool. Take the book and go." He didn't need to say more. The guy was gone in a flash.

"What about us?"

"Well, you, Oscar, will be of some use to us and I suspect that after a little brainwashing, you will be as happy serving THRUSH as UNCLE. That's the good news."

"And the bad news?"

"There isn't any, well, unless your name is Illya Kuryakin, traitor to the USSR and weak, sniveling waste of humanity."

"We had the misfortunate of serving together in the Navy," Illya murmured, still not moving. His attention seemed focused on a spot near the door. "Will you at least give me the dignity of standing up before you kill me?"

"Why not? For old time's sake, get up."

"Oscar, could you give me a hand?"

I hesitated until I saw Craig nod. "Go; give the weakling what he deserves."

I reached down, intending to help Illya up, but suddenly I was yanked downward and heard Illya shout, "Now!"

Above our head was a flurry of bullets and I watched, half fascinated and half disgusted, as Craig's body danced and swayed in the gunfire. Blood exploded from his body, showering us, and I felt Illya shield me as a fresh volley started.

Then it was quiet and I felt Illya's grip on me lessen. Still I didn't move until I heard Cutter barking, "What the hell are you waiting for?"

I sat up and stared at the shambles that had been my communications room. The place was riddled, including our precious radio.

My mouth moved as I beheld the mess that was our lifeline to the outside world. Without this, we were completely isolated. "Oh, Mr. Cutter… I'm… I'm…"

"What are you babbling about, Mr. Griffin?"

"You didn't read the note I gave you, did you?" Illya was brushing off his suit, although there wasn't much that could be done to save it.

"I sort of got busy."

"Mr. Kuryakin accompanied the new equipment here. It is being installed in the new communication complex as I speak."

"Communications… complex?"

"If you read staff bulletins instead of tossing them." Cutter snapped his fingers and two recruits dragged Craig out of the room.

"Don't worry," Illya said as I dug the note out of my pocket. I brought you some new toys was written on it.

"Why were you being so secretive?"

"Cutter didn't want my being here to be suspect. You know how the recruits get. They see me and they start attacking bushes." Illya winced and rubbed his hip. "Why would Fedoseev kick me in my left hip?"

"I told him it was your bad one."

"Oh, well , I suppose I should be happy that you got the wrong one."

"No, I didn't. I told him that on purpose. You don't hang out with agents for this long without picking up a thing or two.

So, that's the end of my bit of excitement. The new communications room is very secure and even air conditioned. No one just pops in on me any longer and we no longer are required to never leave the room. I can use regular facilities and dine in the mess hall with the others. Still I missed my little hut until I sweet talked Cutter into letting me have it. I outfitted it with a narrow cot and put a door on the toilet. At night, I can listen to the surf and the rustle of the palm fronds. It's not much, but it's my little slice of heaven in some people's idea of hell