THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR
Chapter 8
"…a heavy debt has, at long last, been paid"
By the time Napoleon Solo, jaw aching, mouth bloodied, head fuzzy, regained consciousness, Illya and Yelena were propped against the far wall of what, apparently, was a furniture-free room doubling as a their temporary detention cell.
"Are you all right, Comrade Solo?" asked Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia, agent of the Russian U.N.C.L.E. in Moscow, with more than idle concern in her nebulously bewitching green eyes.
Realizing that he, like them, no longer had his hands secured behind his back, even though the redness caused by the too-tight PlastiCuffs was easily seen and felt as…
"No permanent harm done," Napoleon finally said while rubbing his wrists and wriggling his jaw before glancing down at the drying blood and brain matter still on his casual shirt. "That's obviously more than I can say for Mr. Dmitrij Zhamanklov."
"Yes," Illya Kuryakin said by way of deadpan humor. "I think it is safe to say, Dmitrij lost his head."
Just as both Napoleon and Yelena shot scalding looks at the Russian-born U.N.C.L.E. agent, Illya apologetically said, "Sorry. Guess I'm getting a little…antsy."
"Yeah, well," said Napoleon as he got to his feet, "obviously we need to figure out a way to get out of here before Darien Driscoll makes use of that plutonium for their little suitcase Nukes."
"I thought you'd never ask," said a smirking Illya as he, too, stood, with Yelena joining them both a split-second later.
Then, as a perplexed Yelena watched and as Napoleon smiled in a good-thinking-old-friend! fashion, Illya twisted the heel of one supposedly off-the-rack shoes which, in turn, removed its entire sole within which the blonde-haired, blue-eyed agent carried…
"Pentaeruthritol tetranitrate," said Illya as if such perfectly explained the flexible red cord with added putty-like texture inside.
"Primacord Three," groaned Napoleon to the sexy Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent by way of further explanation, then, to Illya, "Why do you always have to complicate things?"
Illya shrugged, then proceeded to attach the sticky side of the red-colored Primacord along the locked side of the featureless, metal door.
Next, reaching down into the sock of his shoeless foot, Illya fished out a thin, curved, Piezo super-compact lighter. Which he promptly ignited so it's jetting blue flame made easy contact with one end of the Primacord Three in order to …
BOOM!
So powerful, as well as precise, was the mini-explosion that it not only obliterated the inner part of the metal door, destroying its locking system, but also thrust open the door with such outward force that it sent the jumpsuit-and-beret wearing THRUSH guard crashing face-first onto the gleaming floor.
Napoleon was quick to rush out ahead of Yelena in a protective fashion, through the thick Primacord smoke, whose acrid smell signaled freedom to the U.N.C.L.E. agents, and, then, relieved the unconscious THRUSH thug of his Heckler-and-Koch XM8 assault rifle.
"Time to go, kiddies," Napoleon said as Illya reassembled his shoe and tugged it back on. "We wouldn't want to disappoint our Uncles."
With that quip left hanging, the three U.N.C.L.E. operatives promptly left in order to find both THRUSH operatives as well as the plutonium and any existing suitcase Nukes.
As well as, Napoleon and Illya silently hoped, locating and killing a certain scarred THRUSH chieftain who'd taken over after Andrew Vulcan's final demise.
"How much longer?" asked a very impatient Darien Driscoll via the intercom of the observation room separated from the in-use plutonium via unbreakable, lead-lined Plexiglas.
The nuclear technicians, all wearing protective suits and hoods, continued to put the finishing touches on several suitcase Nukes which had each been outfitted with enough weapons-grade plutonium to grant them extremely destructive potentials.
The tech in charge, Dr. Vince Cortland, his voice muffled by his protective suit's heavy hood, answered, "Another ten or fifteen minutes, sir, and then we'll have some six cases capable of obliterating six major cities anywhere in the world."
"Let us hope, Dr. Cortland," challenged Darien, "that your estimation is correct. I do not intend to be…disappointed."
From the tone of voice and the expression on the half of Darien's face that was not scarred, Dr. Cortland knew what would happen should he "disappoint" the newest chief of THRUSH, as he stammered, "Y-yes, s-sir."
Unlike most THRUSH personnel, technicians and thugs, who had various twisted motives for doing what they did, Dr. Vince Cortland's reasons were solely for money and lots of it.
How could Dr. Cortland know that, before the second half of his multi-million dollars in blood money could be deposited into Swiss bank accounts, Darien would order a jumpsuit-and-beret goon to execute the head tech with a 5.56 NATO round to the head?
"I think it's time to tend to our 'guests'," Darien said without looking at the XM8-carrying goons standing with him in the protected observation room. Goons who would, still, obediently carry out any order Darien Driscoll issued.
No matter how unclear or indirect.
Darien's half-scarred face grinned deviously as he recalled how he'd gotten such a simplistically larcenous idea from reading, years before, one of the many books penned by Ian Fleming.
"Who says life can't imitate art?" he muttered under his breath as he fantasized how six major cities, such as New York or Washington D.C. or Moscow, could be the unknowing recipients of suitcase Nukes which, with either the touch of a remote satellite-linked detonation device or a built-in timer reaching "zero", would be wiped out by the unleashing of energies rivaling that of six miniature suns.
At that moment, cautiously snaking their way through the interconnecting corridors of yet another subterranean THRUSH headquarters, the XM8-carrying Napoleon Solo led Illya Kuryakin and Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia, both as yet unarmed, in search of the operational heart of this underground installation.
Once found…
"Remember," Napoleon reminded them, "we not only need to take out Darien Driscoll and as many of his THRUSH goons as possible, we also need to secure or destroy any plutonium or finished suitcase Nukes."
"Da," said Yelena's Russian-accented voice, "but it vould be better if Comrade Kuryakin and I also had veapons. No?"
"Yelena has a point, Napoleon," Illya said as Napoleon stopped and turned.
"Okay," he finally heaved, "but let's make it quick. I don't wanna miss the party."
"Don't look now," said Illya warningly, "but 'the party' is about to find us."
Having effectively disabled a THRUSH operative and having extracted information before snapping his neck, the three U.N.C.L.E. agents from opposite sides of the globe made their way into an unguarded room wherein the shoulder-holstered Walther P38s, pen communicators, and add-on packs had been placed.
"All right," said Napoleon softly after he and Illya quickly altered their handguns into carbines, while handing the XM8 to Yelena. "Now let's go find that Andrew Vulcan wannabe…and those suitcase Nukes."
"Let us hope, Comrade Solo, that the guard did not lie to us before…"
"He didn't lie about where to find our weapons and communication devices," cut in Illya. "I think it's likely the rest of what he told us is factual as well."
"Only one way to find out, my Russian friends," said Napoleon with a terse sigh, while leading the way back into the corridor. "Let's go save Democracy."
"Da," said Yelena with a sharp nod. After all, Russia was now in the throes of that self-same form of government. Just not as successfully.
"Make certain the self-destruct explosives have enough lead time to give us ample opportunity to get out of Aqtau with the Nukes," said Darien Driscoll as he led the armed guards away from where THRUSH technicians had nearly completed six suitcase-sized nuclear devices. "That way, we'll not only destroy any evidence of our presence here, but those troublesome U.N.C.L.E. agents will be, literally, dead and buried."
"I wouldn't count on that, Mr. Driscoll," said Illya playfully, as he and Napoleon, armed with fully converted U.N.C.L.E. carbines, along with Yelena, armed with Heckler-and-Koch XM8, took cover within doorways situated along the way.
"Kill them!" shouted Darien even as he dashed away, leaving his armed THRUSH thugs to fend off the escaped U.N.C.L.E. agents.
"Why does that sound so familiar to me?" rhetorically asked Napoleon as all three quickly opened fire before being fired upon. The two U.N.C.L.E. carbines, set to full auto mode, firing like machineguns, while the lovely agent from the Moscow HQ opened up with the XM8.
Before the THRUSH goons could get off even a single shot, the hail of bullets, 9mm Parabellum as well as 5.56 NATO rounds, tore through their jumpsuit covered bodies, in order to send them down to allow their life's blood to coat the formerly gleaming floor.
Meantime, reaching the elevator which would take him into the aboveground multi-purpose building within the Russian city of Aqtau, Kazakhstan…
"There he is!" shouted Yelena as she opened fire.
Illya and Napoleon followed suit but, much to their disappointment, all the bullets merely impacted with the closing bulletproof/bomb-proof elevator door.
"Damn!" said a sorely disappointed Napoleon, while lowering his U.N.C.L.E. carbine's smoking barrel extension.
"He's getting avay!" said Yelena angrily, even as Illya spoke up like the rational U.N.C.L.E. operative he always was.
"We'd best get to the surface as quickly as possible. Even if we do not catch Mr. Driscoll, we'll at least be able to clear the area of innocent citizens before he remotely triggers the explosives in this underground complex."
No sooner had the three U.N.C.L.E. agents cleared said area than…
BRRRRRROOOOOOOOMMMMMM!
"Well," said Napoleon Solo in an attempt to lighten the frustration over not capturing or killing Darien Driscoll, "at least, when they change the city's population total, they won't have to lower it."
Still weary from all that had happened, Illya Kuryakin and Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia could do naught but exchange eye-rolling looks.
Having finished reporting in via their pen communicators, now converted back into their default mode as two ink pens…
"Well, Yelena, can we drop you somewhere before Illya and I head back to the States?" asked Napoleon with a look of romantic promise, after he, Illya, and Yelena reached the parked ex-Soviet military jeep.
With a sexually charged smile, Yelena regrettably replied, "I only vish I could, Comrade Solo, but…I, too, have reported in and have been ordered to remain for retrieval. But, should you come this vay again…"
"I can't think of a better reason to come back," said Napoleon, hazel eyes gleaming and smile widening.
Having already climbed into the jeep and started its old engine, Illya said, "Let's go, Napoleon."
"Well," said Napoleon as he left Yelena with a genteel continental kiss upon the knuckles of one delicate, for a trained U.N.C.L.E. agent, hand, "until we meet again, mon aimé…"
Even as the two older U.N.C.L.E. agents disappeared around the street's corner in the ex-Soviet jeep, Yelena couldn't help but feel a wave of warmth course through her shapely form, as her heart beat just a bit faster and a smile appeared.
Yes, Napoleon…until we meet again.
Then, just as suddenly, the smile disappeared along with the warmth, as Yelena's face took on a decidedly icy look.
"Where are we going, Illya?" asked Napoleon with a scowl as his friend and fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent steered the jeep away from the point of egress from the little Slavic seaport city.
"I told you, Napoleon," said Illya with darkening affectation to match his tense tone, "before I leave, I intend to kill the man responsible for my father's death. Former KGB Fifth Chief Directorate Vladmir Sorkenvek."
"Illya," sighed Napoleon, "I thought we had an understanding. I can't let you go 'rogue', so I took it upon myself to…"
The ex-KGB Fifth Chief Directorate, a very old, very sick man living in what, in America, would've been considered squalor. Wondering why he had not ended his formerly important life long before the indignities of advancing age.
Just then, a light-but-solid knocking caused Vladmir, coughing violently, to shakily get to his feet while shuffling toward his filthy apartment's door, calling in Russian, "Coming…coming…!"
Throwing open the locks with one tremulous liver-spotted old hand, the aged man focused his fading vision just enough to see a lovely young dark-haired lady with green eyes standing in the hallway.
"Vladmir Sorkenvek?" she asked coldly.
"Da?" said Vladmir ignorantly as, so swiftly he didn't even have time to gasp…
Pft!
…the old man, responsible for the deaths of many otherwise innocent Russian men, dropped dead to a worn floor whereupon brain matter and blood had been blown out via a well-placed 9mm bullet from a silencer-fitted Walther P38.
"Thank you for this antiquated weapon and this opportunity, Comrade Solo," Yelena said aloud, in Russian, to no one while feeling a sense of sorrow finally lifted from her narrow shoulders. "I have now executed the man who had not only been responsible, from what you told me, for Comrade Kuryakin's father's death, but the death of my beloved grandfather as well. Otherwise I would not have known where to find the man from whom a heavy debt has, at long last, been paid."
With that, after pocketing the former official handgun of U.N.C.L.E. agents from four decades past in her wintry coat, a self-gratified Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia calmly walked away.
She could only hope that, when Napoleon explained to Illya that he'd told her where to find the man who, ironically, had tragic ties to both Russian-born U.N.C.L.E. agents, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed operative would not resent him for it.
END