The phone was already ringing when Dan Williams opened the door of the Hawaii Five-0 offices. Juggling donuts, keys and a briefcase, he dumped his burdens onto the nearest desk and snatched up the phone, already suspecting it was his boss checking up on him.

"Hawaii Five-0, Williams."

"Danny, hi, I know this is early, but is Steve there? I tried him at home, but no answer."

It took a few seconds to place the voice because of the startling displacement of the time and person. Why was Steve’s old friend calling before EightAM on a Thursday morning?

"Napoleon?"

"I didn’t want to appear on your doorstep unannounced this time," the man on the other end admitted. Over the long-distance line the wry tone was clear. "I've learned my lesson."

"I would think so." Dan's agreement was dry. Last time the international spy came to Honolulu he had engaged in some high profile illegal acts and been arrested by McGarrett. The two friends had since patched up the old camaraderie, but the bonds weren’t so reconnected they could take the strain of another spy caper in Steve McGarrett’s home turf. "Steve’s barely forgiven you from the ‘Napoleon of crime’ escapade."

"That’s why I’m knocking on your front door this time. Is Steve around?"

"No, he’s on the Big Island on a case right now. Maybe he’ll be back in time for your arrival. When are you coming in?"

The smile was clear in the tone. "As soon as we get a cab to your office."

Dan shook his head and grinned. These old friends of Steve’s were something else. "Okay. I’ll have the coffee ready. See you soon."

McGarrett’s case came to an early close and he returned to Honolulu by lunchtime. Entering his office he was momentarily startled at finding two worn-out spies lounging in his private office. It had been a few years since Napoleon Solo and partner Illya Kuryakin’s disastrous operation where Napoleon operated as a cat burglar to cover-up an espionage case. From personal experience, Steve knew the stress inherent with a career in covert operations. Still, Napoleon and even the smooth Kuryakin seemed wearisome in body and spirit. Drained, was the word that came instantly to mind. As a cop workaholic, he understood the feeling, yet, somehow never expected to see it in one of his oldest friends. The spy game was Solo's life, but right now it looked like a burden.

Once settled, McGarrett brought a mug of coffee over and joined the agents in the corner of the big office. "So, how long are you in town?"

"Tonight." Solo rubbed his eyes. "We're catching a military flight to Saigon about three tomorrow morning."

Hawaii nabbed a lot of traffic between the mainland and Vietnam. A crossroads of the Pacific, it was the US's major hub in World War II, and again with Vietnam. The UNCLE agents didn't usually make use of US military resources, but since they were going to Vietnam they would probably be involved at some level with the fighting there. McGarrett didn't ask because he didn't need that information. Formerly with Naval Intelligence, he understood the policy of need-to-know. All he was required to understand was that some old friends were in town for a night and for a few hours they could all relax and forget the violence and tension they lived with every day.

"Danny is working on dinner reservations." Illya stretched out, crossing his ankles. "I insisted he find somewhere that will serve that excellent opakapaka at a decent price."

Eyes closed, head leaned back, Napoleon smirked. "Illya is addicted to your native foods. We probably could have changed planes in Guam, but he can't resist a Hawaiian meal."

"Old Russian proverb -- an army lives on its stomach." Kuryakin patted his lean mid-section. Glancing at his partner's recumbent form he took their coffee mugs and volunteered to go for refills. "And I will find out if Danny has been successful."

McGarrett, only partially joking, gave him orders. "My detectives are not tour guides, Illya. Danno has police business to see to, you know." Kuryakin offered a salute and left the office. Studying his friend in repose, McGarrett reminisced on their first meeting years before. Korea. Another 'police action' -- 'undeclared war' -- just like Vietnam. A terrible baptism of fire when they learned that no training could possibly prepare them for the horror of war.

Solo, older, starting to show a little grey in the dark, neat hair had aged outwardly very well over the decades. Still as fit and immaculate as a rich tennis pro or a Wall Street executive, his sophisticated demeanor no longer disguised the saturated fatigue. On the inside, the cynicism and hardness had evolved to become a natural part of his personality. Since he'd seen Napoleon a few years before, the spy had changed. Older, yes, they were all worn from the stresses of their jobs. Solo qualified as wearied -- depleted -- all the way down to his soul. "Do you ever have premonitions, Steve?"

The quiet question took him off guard, and the pragmatic cop nearly scoffed at the thought. Knowing this was a philosophical, not literal inquiry; he worded his response carefully. "I listen to my instincts -- my hunches -- if that's what you mean." Sitting up, Napoleon leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at McGarrett. "Why did you leave NI?"

Gesturing around the room, the policeman admitted, "I got a better offer." That was not the answer his old friend was looking for. "It was time to get out of intelligence operations. After Korea . . . ." They both knew what they had shared in Korea and it had scarred them for years. They had reacted differently to the terrors of war. McGarrett left NI to head up Hawaii Five-0. Solo had left NI and escalated his covert activities by joining the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

Solo stared at some point of infinity outside. "I've been to Vietnam before -- before the heavy fighting started. This time --" he shook his head, his brown eyes dark with hidden phantoms as he stared out the lanai doors at the beautiful Hawaiian sky. "Now I'm old -- for a spy. I'm tired and old and not sure what I'm doing being a spy anymore." Quietly, he elaborated. "I'm not scared. I'm spooked. Maybe that's just semantics -- a way to deny the fear."

Steve's subdued voice communicated his empathy. "Afraid of what?" Solo shrugged. "Death? You face that every day."

Shaking his head, Napoleon shrugged. "Maybe I'm just looking for a reason to keep going."

"I can't give you that. It's something that has to come from inside. If it's not there anymore, maybe you should get out. When I felt that way, I resigned from the Navy. Maybe it’s time for you to move on with life. You've given UNCLE a lot of years. Try something new."

"Maybe that's what I'm afraid of. What else would I do? And how can I let down Illya? He's my partner. I don’t want to lose him -- he's the only family I have."

Steve understood all of that -- how lines could be blurred and the office became your home. The people you worked with so intently, so arduously, became your family. The detectives and staff of Hawaii Five-0 were closer to him than his own flesh and blood relations. And the job -- it had transformed into his life some years ago and he had never regretted it. At some point in the dozen or so years he had headed up the unit, the fight for justice became his foremost interest in life. Just as Napoleon and Illya dedicated their lives to international order and law enforcement, McGarrett pushed away the normal hours, the possibility of a normal family life, for the focus on the work. Steve didn't regret the decision and still in his forties, had plenty of time to find a wife and family if he ever met the right woman. Like his espionage friends, however, he suspected that would never happen. Perhaps, though, Napoleon was reaching a limit. As a soldier in Korea, as a spy, he had seen enough death to last forever. If so, Napoleon had outlived his usefulness as an agent. In his business, that meant his life, and Illya's were at risk.

"What are you going to do?"

Solo rubbed his hands through his thick, dark hair. His chiseled chin clenched in a determined set. "Finish this assignment. Then I'm going to sit down and have a long talk with my partner." He flashed a humorless smile. "Maybe I'll retire to beautiful Hawaii."

"Maybe." McGarrett's doubt was enough skepticism for both of them. Solo could no sooner stop being a spy than McGarrett could stop being a cop.

Vietnam -- April, 1975

The Huey skimmed over the matted jungle floor at such a speed the greens and browns of the vegetation, the rice paddies, the villages, sometimes blurred. Captain Myron Goldman moved away from the open door to crouch next to the Naval Intelligence Lieutenant sitting in the co-pilot's seat.

"How good were those two trackers you sent with the spooks?"

The roar of the rotors made normal conversation impossible inside the steel bird. All the men wore headsets to communicate, but Goldman hunched near the Lieutenant for a face-to-face exchange.

"Very good." Thomas Magnum responded with a shout through the headset. "They were Vietnamese. A few of the last die-hards working with us."

"Everyone's running scared," the pilot Calvin, added. "They know we're pulling out and we can't take all of `em with us. It's not healthy for them to be too friendly with the Americans, now."

"Nothing's healthy in `Nam." That was the gunner, Rick Wright cracking another snide remark.

"Amen to that," muttered Army Sergeant Anderson, who was leaning by Wright, next to the door.

Back to business, Goldman spoke to Magnum again. "Well, someone messed up. Your NI team never made their rendezvous. Sending two spooks in after them -- well, it doesn't look good."

"I wanted to be with the ground team." Magnum's reply was bitter. "Someone higher up wants me in Da Nang. But I could still come with you."

The young Captain's sunburned face creased with a grin. "Wouldn't that drowned us in too much alphabet soup? NI, SOG, UNCLE, OSI?"

"NI's my alphabet -- my guys are in trouble down there. I should be in on this."

Goldman gestured toward Anderson, his fellow Special Operations Group member in the jump seat. "We can handle it. Command wanted the recon low-key."

"Dangerous going into hostile country now," Calvin warned. "You boys be careful. Be a shame to go home without you at this late date."

"Don't worry about us." Goldman shot a brief glance at his colleague. "The Sarge and I promised we'd both leave this lousy country together. Right, Zeke?"

"Right on, Cap. Gonna run fishing boats out of the Northwest."

Goldman laughed and shook his head. "Well, I don't know about that. I just know I'm not going back to New York. Nothin' left for me there."

"I hear that," Anderson concurred. "Same reason I won't be seein' Boise again. Old war horses like us, we can't go back to where we were before the war. No use in tryin'."

"So you're not staying in the Army?" Magnum asked. Goldman shook his head. "No reason to stay with the war over." Almost too himself, he muttered, "Don't know why I stayed this long."

It was a cliche', a throwaway line spoken by every soldier in Southeast Asia who had reenlisted after his first tour of duty. There were many reasons why men extended their time, their luck, in the war-zone. For most, it was a complex combination of varied rationales: no where to go in the 'real world’, no family commitments, or a compulsion to duty which bade them to pass on their knowledge to others in the hope that more young men would return home alive and well.

For Goldman and Anderson, it was a combination of all those reasons, and one more. Somewhere during their years of service together in the same unit, they had worked themselves into a team. They had saved each other's lives too many times to keep track. They would not leave for safety -- for home -- without the other.

"I'm married," Magnum told them. "Have to stay in the Navy. I need the job."

"You can request Pearl," Wright shouted with a smile. "We'll buy a night club in Waikiki." Wright warmed to his idea. "And TC's gonna run a chopper service for the tourists. Yeah, Hawaii's the place to be. No more cold Chicago winters for me."

Magnum turned his attention back to the mission. "Call if you need back-up. Anything could have happened to my NI team, or the spook team."

"The spooks are UNCLE. They should be good," Anderson supplied.

Magnum shook his head, not accepting the sergeant's confidence. "The spooks didn't belong."

"Yeah." Wright chimed in with an instant agreement. "They might know the back alleys of Istanbul, or something, but they don't belong in `Nam."

The men fell silent as they watched the landscape zoom past. A myriad of memories and impressions scattered through their thoughts as they pondered their past and future in an alien country which had continually rejected their kind. Independently, all came to the same conclusion.

"No one belongs in `Nam," Zeke Anderson supplied. They fell silent again, all mentally agreeing with that solemn truth.

In the last hour the rain had decreased from a torrential downpour to a light drizzle. Huge jungle plants glistened with scattered droplets on wide, green leaves. The humidity was at steam-bath proportions from the sultry heat and continual precipitation.

Two men crouched near a large plant with thick fronds, waiting in silence for the ever-diminishing rain to finally cease. The dark-haired man in jungle camouflage nervously fingered his M-16 as he scrutinized the vine-encroached footpath ahead. The sound of moving leaves had alerted them to danger and they watched in tense anticipation for a sign of the enemy.

The slighter man with blond hair was the first to spot the intruder. His mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile as he released a relieved breath.

"There is our sneaky enemy," Illya Kuryakin whispered as he nudged his companion.

A huge cobra slithered from a tree and across the path, ignoring the two Human intruders who had encroached on his world.

Napoleon Solo sighed and rose to his feet, still tense. He carefully scanned the jungle for any sign of more imminent danger, or a trace of something out of place, but he could spot nothing unusual. Nothing abnormal, but the jungle itself was an alien world where they were physically and ethically invaders. The roar of jets broke through the indigenous sounds as a squadron of US NAVY fighters streaked across the sky just under the cloud cover. Solo could catch a glimpse of them through the thick ceiling of trees and thinning clouds. Moments later the ground shook, followed by the sounds of explosions as the bombs hit their assigned targets only a few miles away.

"The fighting is closer today." Kuryakin's observation was off-handed. "We must quicken our pace. We have covered little ground since dawn."

Solo merely shrugged a silent agreement as he unslung the machete from his backpack and started hacking a clearer path along the meager trail.

It was their third day in the jungles along the ever-shifting line of battle between the overpowering North Vietnamese and the retreating American/South Vietnamese forces. Each mile into the treacherous enemy-held country had brought a more sullen mood to Solo's disposition, each near-miss with a Viet Con patrol brought greater tension to the senior agent. Uncharacteristically, his attitude was as dark as the overcast Asian sky. He hated the mission, hated the hot jungle, and only his strong sense of duty and reason overruled the powerful sense of dread which shadowed his conscience on this fearful mission. The previous morning he had almost quit -- a drastic measure (true evidence of his raw nerves) he would have never considered in normal circumstances. Nothing, however, was normal in Vietnam.

Just before yesterday's dawn, Illya had nudged him awake with the unhappy discovery that their two Vietnamese guides were gone along with most of the equipment. Only the gear the UNCLE agents had slept on in their bundled backpacks had been saved.

The disappearance had further unraveled the taut nerves of the usually cool Solo. He would never have voiced it to Kuryakin, but he had a premonition, a hunch, that disaster and ominous tragedy were just around the corner. As if his luck had finally run out. To voice those dreads out loud would earn him only disapproval and denial from the Russian.

He had, of course, lived with the possibility of death before. This time, though, he felt the tide of bad luck would very likely spread from himself, to his partner. He found, after all these years of taking risks, that he was more reluctant than ever before to risk the life of his best friend.

The vague feeling of unease had started at the inception of the mission when they had been pulled from their mission in Peru. They were to drop the investigation of a smuggling ring and proceed immediately to Saigon, then Da Nang. There, they were briefed by a Naval Intelligence team: Two UNCLE agents, Komi and McGill, had been investigating smuggling operations in Vietnam.

Without explanation, the two agents had suddenly left for occupied hostile territory with a US Naval Intelligence unit. NI could not afford to send in more personnel, so they requested UNCLE send agents to bring back the NI team as well as McGill and Komi. The original NI/UNCLE team had infiltrated behind enemy held territory, on the trail of POW's, including the brother of Ted McGill, the UNCLE agent. McGill and Komi were skilled agents, but were also staunch partners. Neither Solo nor Kuryakin had to ask why Komi and McGill had both abandoned their normal duties. Nor did they question the motivations which would force the decision to rescue a brother. The bond between brothers and partners sometimes superceded obligations to duty.

Solo had been to Vietnam several times, the first, on a mission in '64, when the country was a different world than what it was in '75. War had transformed everything for the worse. Now the native populous looked at Caucasians with a trace of fear mingled with hopelessness. American forces were pulling out and most of the Vietnamese knew they were trading the horrors of war for the terrors of communist captivity and retribution. For the poverty-stricken peasants, they would no longer be caught in the buffer zone of fighting factions, but neither would the North Vietnamese offer them any hope from their hard life. Personally, for Solo, things had gone wrong since their arrival in Da Nang. The Vietnam War was a tragic, profitless waste of lives and resources, which, like every war, like Korea, left scars which could never heal. Napoleon had spent most of his tour in Korea on covert operations -- behind enemy lines and on his own -- experience that prepared him well for his career in UNCLE. He had bitter memories from his first combat experience and preferred the intrigue of spy vs. spy.

Their contact in Da Nang had been a Naval Intelligence officer, Lieutenant Thomas Magnum. The young man was the son of an officer Solo had been assigned to rescue in Korea, a pilot who had never come home. Solo had not mentioned this to young Magnum, unwilling to stir anymore traumatic memories to life.

During the coordination briefings, Solo had come to know Lt. Magnum personally. The young man was no longer just a file history, just another officer. Magnum was a sharp operative with skill, guts, and heart. He wanted his men and himself to leave this God-forsaken country alive. He wanted to start a new life with his Vietnamese wife in the real world. He was a man any father could be proud of. And for the first time in many years, Solo felt the stabbing pain of guilt over that botched mission in Korea, when he had failed to bring Magnum senior out alive.

Kuryakin and Solo's days in the jungle had been spent dodging Viet Con patrols and US air strikes. The guides had been nervous and on edge the whole trip, and their disappearance confirmed their abject fear of death, or worse, capture, by the Viet Con. Since the guide's desertion, Solo and Kuryakin had skulked the hostile jungle, grimly determined to finish their thankless task. In only one more day they would rendezvous with Magnum's team.

Conversation had deteriorated to almost nonexistence. Both men were too tense to waste their breath on nonessential dialogue.

The clogged path widened just ahead and Solo came to a sudden stop. He was not sure what had alerted him; the strange new sounds coming from a few meters ahead, a near invisible booby-trap, the rare cessation of rain, the faint, unpleasant odor of something he finally defined as dried blood.

He put out his left hand to stop Illya, then nodded ahead. Both gripped their rifles, ready to fire, as they took slow, careful steps around the curve in the trail. They edged up to the clearing together and both stopped in their tracks. The horrific images were seen in a few quick glances. It took several stunned minutes for the grotesque scene to register on their numbed minds.

The guides' bodies were lashed to separate trees in the foreground of the clearing. In the background, were the bodies of McGill, Komi, and three men in the tattered, remnant gray- camouflage used by NI operatives. The tremendous amount of blood, on the shredded, tortured bodies, plus the scavengers feeding on the mangled flesh, made it difficult to believe the figures were even human. The victims heads had been skewered to poles which ringed the edge of the small clearing in a macabre circle of carnage. The left side of each face had been sheered away.

Solo dropped his rifle, gasped, staggered back, and would have fallen if the startled Kuryakin had not caught him. They had witnessed too many gruesome, horrifying scenes of torture during their careers, but this massacre was sickening to any sane mind. Still, Solo's reaction was alarming, his face pasty-white, completely drained of color.

"Napoleon, what -- ?"

Solo shook his head and would have collapsed, but Kuryakin's hold was too firm to break. "Napoleon, what is it?"

"The devil."

The Russian was momentarily nonplussed. The almost fancifully dramatic response was completely alien to Solo, as alien as the tremor in the hoarse voice. Illya had noticed Solo's slow withdrawal into uncommunicative brooding since the beginning of the mission. Napoleon had come face to face with a part of his past when he had started this mission, when he had met Lieutenant Magnum.

Since then, Napoleon's tension had increased with every step they took into the jungle, but this bloodbath seemed to shatter the control which was a hallmark of the urbane Solo. Why the extreme reaction? Jungle fever and insanity were dismissed. The only answer left was that Solo was truly convinced some kind of personal demon was here.

Always the tidy professional, Kuryakin stepped to the bodies of the Vietnamese, whom he judged to be dead since the day before. There were no recent tracks. Satisfied there was no immediate danger, he pulled his partner back along another trail. He continually scanned the sloshy mud path, the eerie jungle and sinister shadows, alert for any danger. They broke through to a strip of sand along a narrow tributary of a river. Solo still seemed dazed, but finally focused on Kuryakin.

"He's here." His whisper, his voice hoarse from shock.

"You're not making sense, Napoleon." Kuryakin reason was gently. "What are you talking about?"

"I wish I was deranged -- mad. The alternative is much worse."

The response held a familiar conviction, but the brown eyes were darkened with a brand of fear Kuryakin had never seen before in his stalwart friend. It frightened the Russian, and a foreboding chill snaked down his spine. The mere thought of Solo being pushed over the edge by anything, was so incomprehensible for the shaken Russian, he instantly dismissed it as impossible.

"Would you pull yourself together and tell me what's wrong?" Illya snapped harshly, a reaction from his own anxiety.

The dark-haired agent took a long, deep breath. "A recurring nightmare." His reply cryptic, his voice quietly distant. He shrugged out of his pack and took out several extra ammo clips for both the rifle and his UNCLE special. Then he handed the pack to his companion. "Take this and get back to the rendezvous," was his brisk instruction. "If you're careful you can make the target. . . . "

"Are you insane?" Kuryakin interrupted bitingly as he grabbed Solo's arm in a crushing grip. "You unquestionably have jungle fever if you think I will leave you alone in the middle of hostile country!" Solo tugged away, but Illya would not relinquish the grip.

"This is an old and vicious debt I have to settle on my own, Illya. You can't be part of it."

"I am already part of it," Kuryakin insisted. "Being your partner gives me the dubious distinction of involvement in all your foolish escapades! You know nothing you say will make me leave without you. It is ridiculous that you even mentioned it."

There was still stubborn defiance in the brown eyes and Illya tried another tack. "You obviously know things I do not. For the sake of both our lives, Napoleon, you must explain everything." Steel-voiced, there was no room for negotiation. "From the beginning."

For a beat Solo stared at his partner, the vacillation flickering on his face. He looked away to stare at the mesmerizing flow of the river and calmed his jumbled thoughts. Kuryakin's stern rebuke and stalwart reassurance had re-centered his frayed nerves, helped him gain a perspective on his shocking discovery. It also reminded him that he was not alone now. Anything he did would irrevocably include Illya. A debt to the dead and buried could not overshadow his obligations to his closest friend. If for no other reason than Illya, he would have to temper his impulsive lust for revenge.

Finally, he released a long sigh and nodded. "It's a long story." The comment hesitant and uncharacteristically uncertain.

"We have a long walk ahead and I'm a good listener." Kuryakin's reassurance was like cool water to a fevered brow.

Solo grinned sheepishly. "I feel like I'm confessing, or something."

"This happened before we met -- before UNCLE, didn't it?" Illya prompted. Like most veterans of combat, his partner rarely talked about personal experiences with the horrors of war. From a few stray comments, Illya had surmised Solo's Korean tour had been both a formative and a traumatic education. It was a time that had honed his courage and skill to a cutting edge which he had used so effectively for UNCLE. Almost wistfully, Illya wished Solo had not been forced to face whatever horrors he was about to relive, because the pain was so obviously a yet-unhealed scar. But perhaps this "confession" would help purge some of the lingering spectres.

"Yes. Korea. It's uncanny -- almost supernatural, the way things have gone on this mission. The war -- meeting Magnum -- now . . . " his voice trailed off as he again struggled for the courage to put his horrific memories into words. "A war never ends, Illya. How can a war end when you can never really bury it, or run away from it. You have to learn to cope with it."

"Yes, I know."

Solo glanced up and was grateful for the compassion, even empathy, he saw in his friend's frank blue eyes. He reached over and touched the Russian's arm. "Yes, you do. I don't have to remind someone who's seen the face of war just as graphically as I have. You were fighting Nazi's in Russia when you were just a child."

"We have all had our baptisms of fire."

"So you want the whole sordid story?"

"From the beginning," Kuryakin insisted.

Drops of sweat coursed down his face; tracing a mud-line along the creases at his eye, leaving a trail of slick grime through his three-day stubble. Captain Myron Goldman only obliquely noted the heat; the humidity, the stinging insects, the jungle odors and sounds that were Vietnam. His mind was focused on a more heightened awareness. Using the five senses to a maximum degree, he listened, sniffed, and watched for any sign which could forewarn trouble. Beyond that, was a honed sixth sense acute from experience; from multi-tours in the jungle, from those who would never leave Vietnam, from plain dumb luck. Mostly he was sharpened by an innate instinct to survive -- to leave this mad hellhole of a country with his men and himself intact.

A dark shape appeared through the tall grass and Goldman tightened his grip on the M-16 raised to fire. His trigger finger relaxed as he recognized the familiar form of Sergeant Zeke Anderson emerging from the foliage.

"Clear, Cap," was Anderson's curt whisper.

With a nod, Goldman acknowledged the intelligence and nodded to the sergeant, who then slipped back into the tropical grass just ahead of Goldman. Anderson had been in country long enough to sense, as his sergeant must have, that some slight abrasion had unsettled the normalcy of the tropic jungle. Some indefinable, infinitesimal gut instinct was sending out subtle warnings. The silent, single-file line of the two green/gray camouflaged men snaked through the grass until Anderson held up a fist in a silent signal to halt. Goldman crept up beside the veteran NCO.

"Somethin's not right, Cap."

The Captain, who had come to Southeast Asia as a young, naive' lieutenant, gave a nod. He recognized the subtly altered aroma of the plant-matted wilds. With a weary-worn expression subconsciously stealing across his face, he grimaced.

"Death." Whispered back with a sigh.

Anderson's eyes flicked toward the clearing barely discernable through the tall, thick grass. He glanced back at his commander. "The NI/UNCLE team or Solo and Kuryakin?"

Goldman shrugged. He and Anderson were crack veterans of Special Operations Group, the special branch of the Army designated for covert missions. Often they had been called in to support CIA, UNCLE, or Navy SEAL missions. This time they were bringing their experience and instincts with them to find either or both of the errant groups.

Working with Intelligence, they understood the invisible and convoluted trails of the covert network which extended beyond regular SOG channels. `Spooks' operated beyond and through all normal levels of the armed services and cooperation with the various affiliations of shadow-warriors was never questioned. He knew these agents were important -- most highly trained spooks were technically expendable, but almost impossible to replace. Myron understood the intelligence game -- it was in his blood. His uncle had often been a valuable ace to SOG operations. Also, his uncle was a friend of Solo and Kuryakin's -- from some distant point in the misty past where all good warriors seemed to have emerged. Myron was glad to utilize some of the skills garnered from Uncle Oscar, who had learned a bag full of tricks in his career which had started in Korea.

From their concealed viewpoint they surveyed the clearing and the unspeakable carnage in shocked silence. They had seen death in a variety of forms. They had seen the aftermath of a village massacre and the bloody, mangled residue of human's tortured to death. Anderson and Goldman knew the results of enemy capture and torture from first-hand knowledge. They had never seen anything like these decapitated bodies.

Goldman swallowed the bile which clogged in his throat. He waited until the threat of sickness was past. Forcibly moving beyond the obvious horror, he slipped back into the automatic routine of soldier mentality.

"Check the parameter, Zeke."

The sergeant silently moved to skulk the edges of the clearing, alert for signs of the enemy, sharp-eyed for booby- traps. The VC loved to wire deadly explosives to the bodies of GI's. It was a trick which had claimed too many young soldiers who were intent on giving proper respect to the remains of a fellow combatant. Assured that there were no traps, Anderson stepped around the area looking for traces of the monsters who had done this outrage.

His hate and revulsion were bubbling just under the lid of his tight control. If he saw a VC step out of the jungle this minute, he'd want to rip the man apart piece by piece in retribution of this horror. He'd want to, but he wouldn't. He had been in these jungles since 1965 -- a lifetime ago -- and had learned early that the savage lust for revenge was just another kind of lack of control. Anyone who did not have complete control of his actions in Vietnam was a man who went home in a body bag. He'd seen it too many times to fall into that self-made trap. It was okay to hate. It was okay to hurt. He could use that hate, that pain, to keep him sharp. He could teach that self-control to the young boys who came into this jungle as green as the trees. If he was really good and very lucky, he could save kid's lives. That was why he stayed, why he refused promotion to officer status. He was not here for the collar bars, or the medals, or the merits on his record. He was here to teach, to save lives. To save a specific life. As long as his captain stayed, he would stick it out, too.

Years ago, Vietnam had changed from a tour of duty to a tour of survival. He had tried to go back into the world. Divorced, then engaged to a doctor of psychology. For a few years he had been shipped back Stateside to train others headed for 'Nam. By then, he'd learned too much to go stateside and sit on a sofa and watch the war from a TV screen. Finally he came back where he could do the most good. He could not abide a life of comfort while his friends were here with their lives on the line.

He glanced to the center of the clearing. Goldman was checking each body and performing the rather sentimental duty of checking for dog tags. Just like his CO to think of that. Nervousness speeding his course, he crossed past the two beheaded Vietnamese and beat Goldman to the last body in line. Since the Commanding Officer's first tour, Anderson had taken on the personal responsibility of watching the back of the then Lieutenant Goldman. Early on, the two had meshed in a bond which went beyond the officer/nco relationship. They had forged a friendship galvanized with the heat of all the ugliness, desperation, dependence, hate, and love that came with war.

Goldman had been back to the US for a while, too, but had come back for extended his tours with SOG. When Anderson returned he had committed to stay with Goldman. They had been through deaths, medals, capture, and betrayal together. He didn't trust his CO in the hands of anyone else.

The NI fatigues on three of the men categorized them as covert operations just like Team Viking. They would not have dog tags, but Goldman would want to make sure. The Cap would want the families to know these men were dead, not MIA.

"Careful, Cap," Anderson warned.

Goldman nodded. "Already checked `em." He grimaced as he swatted away carrion insects and checked under the blood- caked shirts for dog tags. He shook a negative. "No ID Same with the others," he motioned to two bodies toward the back of the group. "The first UNCLE team?"

"Guess so."

"Glad it's not Solo and Kuryakin. I'd hate to tell Uncle Oscar his friends ended up like this."

Anderson pointed to where he had been exploring. "Tracks of two clumsy men in a hurry. Headed south."

"UNCLE?"

"That's what I'm thinkin'. Not long ago, either."

"Then they're still alive."

"More than those two poor boys in the front. Musta been the Vietnamese guides."

Goldman hefted his rifle butt onto a hip. "We won't find out sticking around here." He glanced at the corpses, revulsion rippling his expressive features. "I thought I'd seen everything in Vietnam."

"I hope to hell we have now."

"Why -- why --?" He couldn't even form the obvious question.

He could not fathom the degree of barbarism which could cause these monstrous murders. But then, he had never understood the VC mind, even when he had been their captive. No American COULD ever understand. That was why they had lost the war. That was why they couldn't leave this stinking country soon enough.

"Let's follow the trail. At least they're headed in the right direction."

"As long as they don't come across some stray VC. These city spooks," he harrumphed, "they don't know nothin' `bout staying alive in the jungle."

"I know, I know. That's why they pay us," Goldman sighed as he followed Anderson into the thick matting of trees.

...Continued