THE 43 YEARS AFTER AFFAIR
Chapter 2
"Open...Channel D?"
Having shared a company car to JFK Airport, where U.N.C.L.E. meticulously maintained its private jet, Napoleon and Illya now sat in the pressurized opulence of a Learjet-style aircraft flying at an altitude of at least 40,000 feet at sustained speeds exceeding 600 miles-per-hour.
Napoleon was neatly nursing his second single-malt whiskey, while Illya stared intently out one of the oval windows in deep contemplative thought.
"Come now, Illya", Napoleon Solo scolded in a friendly fashion, smirk securely planted upon his somehow younger-than-before face, "I know that look. What's going through that sharp little Russian mind of yours?"
Finally reacting to his friend and fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent, Illya Kuryakin looked directly into Napoleon's incredibly composed countenance and replied, "Doesn't it trouble you in the least that we're about to face two enemies that, until a few hours ago, we both firmly believed were dead and buried. Literally as well as figuratively?"
Casually setting aside the nearly empty glass that had twice held single-malt whiskey within its cut crystal confines, Napoleon leaned forward. Then he said in a matter-of-fact tone, "The only thing that troubles me at this point, Illya, is whether or not we'll want to return to retired life after getting a taste of U.N.C.L.E. operative work again."
Though Illya didn't reply aloud, it was obvious to Napoleon that the twinkle in his colleague's blue eyes definitely indicated that he, too, pondered that self-same thing.
Meanwhile, nestled in the half-frozen greenery of a Canadian area far removed from prying eyes: THRUSH headquarters went about activities not too far removed from those more puerile days of secret agent activities, as its resurrected chieftain contemplated the immediate future.
"How much longer", the heavily scarred remnant of Andrew Vulcan wondered aloud, "until we can strike our first target?"
His lieutenant, a much younger, handsome man by the name of Darien Driscoll, knew better than to do naught but answer with prompt respect for he who was their first, best leader.
"According to the most recent estimations regarding our ability to adequately uplink our weaponized laser system...eight hours, twenty-nine minutes."
Lumbering about the ostensibly legitimate office of a revised United Global Chemical Corporation, now officially, on paper at least, called GlobeChem Corporation, his legs partially cybernetic in order to make damaged muscles work and his formerly broken back board straight because of surgically implanted support flex-rods. Andrew Vulcan grumbled, "Hours...I've waited decades for this moment. New York City shall be the first to feel THRUSH's wrath...my wrath."
"Forgive me for asking, Mr. Vulcan", Darien Driscoll bravely related after keeping such to himself for so long since THRUSH medical engineers and surgeons brought the cold-blooded THRUSH chief back from the brink of indisputable death without becoming a virtual invalid in the process, "but why New York City? Wouldn't it make more political sense to destroy Washington, DC first?"
Rounding his agonized circuit within the offices of a feigned alliance of legitimacy, wincing from the constant sensation of suffering, Andrew Vulcan's haggard visage formed a seditious scowl.
"You are young, Mr. Driscoll, so I shall let such ignorance pass...this time...but do not fool yourself into thinking that the country...indeed, the world...is run by pontificating politicians supposedly elected by the imbecilic masses. It is, and always has been, such secret organizations as U.N.C.L.E. that, as they say, 'make the world go around'."
"Yes sir, Mr. Vulcan", Darien Driscoll said nervously, knowing better than to push the issue any further.
As if to pound his point home, Andrew Vulcan finished by stating with a sneer, "Once U.N.C.L.E., in New York City... along with the city...has been obliterated...the rest of the world...along with the other four or five U.N.C.L.E. sites...shall fall quite quickly."
Andrew Vulcan then shuffled/limped/lumbered across the elegant expanse of the offices to peer into the reflective surface of a makeshift mirror.
Reaching up to his aged, scarred countenance, once so majestically aristocratically handsome, he allowed tremulous fingers to tactfully touch the disfigured facial features; allowed them to scurry along the contours of a prominent nose of nobility.
Though now only a physical ghost of what he used to be, 43 long years ago, before Napoleon Solo forced his hand in a plot to let a prominent African official die in an "accidental" explosion, which nearly caused him to die in the resulting destruction…
Andrew Vulcan wished it were possible to track down Napoleon Solo and personally see to it his death was agonizingly slow. But he knew that, since the ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent's last known location was still in the generalized region of New York City, he would, unfortunately, be granted an expeditious death along with millions more.
A fate not shared by Andrew Vulcan, whose near-death and subsequent surgical resurrection was fraught with profound pain unlike anything, anyone, short of those condemned to the fires of Hell, could or should experience.
"If there is a God or Devil", madly murmured Andrew Vulcan with deleterious desire and harmful hope, "bring Napoleon Solo to me. Grant me the vengeance I deserve."
At the same instant that Andrew Vulcan was making such a sinisterly selfish wish, the recipient of his repugnance, and that person's partner, had deplaned in an out-of-the-way confidential airfield and, then, took a prearranged rental car first toward and then through the town of Arnessen, Minnesota.
"Ever used one of these GPS things before, Illya?" Napoleon Solo asked contritely of the Russian-born U.N.C.L.E. agent currently behind the wheel and, in answer, gesturing toward a crisply displayed screen-map gently guiding them along the proper highways and byways.
"Basically", Illya Kuryakin responded reservedly, "I have kept up with the latest in computer technologies, you know."
"Yes, well", Napoleon commented while quickly clearing his throat, "I have enough trouble operating my DVD player at home. Guess we made a good decision letting you drive."
"Apparently so, Napoleon."
Napoleon wasn't certain, but it seemed to him that a cocksure sarcastic grin furtively flashed across Illya's younger-than-his-years features. Ah, well, Napoleon thought to himself with an internalized sigh, he's got his areas of expertise and I have mine. At least mine wears perfume and dresses sensuously...if I'm lucky. Which I usually am.
Illya then, after several seconds of bloated silence, glanced toward Napoleon and soberly suggested, "Perhaps, Napoleon, now would be a good time for you to contact U.N.C.L.E. headquarters and advise them of our progress."
"Progress?" Napoleon needled, then, a smirking smile flashing across his face, as he promptly pulled the pen communicator from the inside pocket of his still wrinkle-free suit's coat. First, tugging on the pen's top in order to engage the roughly two inch antenna, next tugging outward on the tip of the "ink pen" in order to remove, and then flip over and reinsert, the smallish microphone-speaker composite. Slightly-yet-swiftly twisting the clip-band and, finally...
"Open Channel D, open Channel D", the reactivated U.N.C.L.E. agent whose formerly black hair now held more than its share of gray.
After an unusually long moment of irritating static, a youthful female's voice precariously replied, "Uh, s-sorry. Open...Channel D?"
Napoleon and Illya simultaneously turned to look at one another with expressions of almost comical counteraction to a response that clearly called forth the fact that more time had passed during their retirement than they had cared to consider.
END OF CHAPTER 2
