"My first two years in college I was a hot-shot ROTC cadet. I couldn't wait to get through training and fight for my country." A sigh, deep, regretful, and weary with experience, escaped the meditative American. He settled more comfortably on the warm sand, his head leaning on the barrel of the rifle stuck in the beach. "How naive' I was. Foolish."

"Idealistic," Kuryakin corrected. "We have all felt that way. For you it was habitual. I grew cynical much earlier in life than you."

An eyebrow elevated in doubtful speculation. "Even you?" the agent wondered with a hint of wry skepticism.

Kuryakin shrugged. "Why else would I -- or you -- have joined UNCLE?"

Solo shrugged, silently noncommittal.

"Now, continue your story."

There was a moment of hesitation as Solo tottered on the brink of self-revelation. In many ways, he was as private a person as his aloof partner. It was not easy to bare his past -- his soul -- not even to his closest friend. These were hidden secrets, buried skeletons better left behind in the washes, and eddies of a long-ago existence. Never to be forgotten, but to be cast aside with the ashes of the past in favor of building a new and better future. In a detached, quiet voice, Napoleon began the convoluted tale of his past as Ensign Solo. His grandfather, retired Admiral Darius Solo, had pulled rank and had Napoleon assigned to a cushy job commanding a desk at Naval Intelligence in Washington DC. Under the watchful eye of one of the Admiral's friends, Solo was far from the action in Korea. Eager and enthusiastic, the young Solo was befriended by his CO's aide, Oscar Goldman. Goldman was leaving to join a special NI team for an operation in Korea. In defiance of his grandfather, Napoleon volunteered. In Korea he joined a team under the direction of Commander Murray. Lt. Cmdrs Goldman and McGarrett were experienced veterans, friends, and teammates of Murray's. New to field operations had been Ensigns Hart and Solo.

The NI team temporarily joined an infantry company to travel up country. The company was commanded by Col. Morgan, whom Illya had met during a nasty incident years ago ( The Secret Scepter Affair) -- another instance where Solo's past had embroiled Illya and Solo into a messy situation. The Korean NI team was with Morgan's company for four weeks of tough fighting. There, Solo learned about war and combat in a crash course of harsh conditions and hard commanders.

The NI team broke away from the infantry near the 38th parallel and infiltrated enemy lines to go north to rescue POW's being brainwashed by a notorious bald Chinese colonel (Napoleon never got his name) and a Russian general named Karkov. During the trek, one of the Navy Phantoms flying air support was shot down near their position. The pilot, Magnum, (a friend of Oscar's) could not reach American lines alone, so on Goldman's authority, he accompanied the NI team on the mission.

"Fate seems so cyclical, doesn't it?" Solo sighed as he desultorily kicked at the sand.

Now Illya understood why Napoleon had been so shaken about this assignment -- about the meeting with Magnum -- obviously a relative of the Magnum in Korea. Normally the skeptical Russian did not believe in coincidence. However, incidents like this forced him to be a bit more open-minded.

Solo continued with the history encapsulation. The NI team had almost reached the Manchurian border when the two South Korean guides they had brought along suddenly disappeared. The next day the guides' headless bodies were found, the heads on poles nearby. The only difference with the Vietnam experience was that the faces of the victims in Korea had been intact. Then the NI men were captured by Chinese troops.

Kuryakin's mind leaped ahead to the connection Solo was making. Kuryakin speculated that it may not be the same perpetrator, but Solo was adamantly sure that it was the same murderer.

"I came face to face with the devil that day," Solo grated in a harsh whisper. His eyes were dulled by the distance of time and geography, by the shock of reliving a waking nightmare. "An incarnation of evil, Illya." His whisper conveyed a horror forever seared on his memory.

"The Russian general?" Kuryakin prompted quietly.

Solo nodded slowly. "The embodiment of all your worst nightmares. He was a monster of a man -- over six feet and broad -- striking red hair. A giant among the Chinese under his influence. The short fat, bald Chinese colonel was supposed to be in charge, but the Russians were supplying money and weapons and advisors." Solo sighed, his voice shaking as he went on to describe the small POW camp where only US prisoners were kept. All other nationalities were killed, but Americans were singled out for experimental treatments.

"Three POW's were already there . . ." He licked his lips and squeezed his eyes shut as if that could close out the visions that were still so vivid. Sweat beaded on his face. ". . . more dead than alive from torture. The Chinese know how to torture with incomprehensible inhumanity. The Russian -- an advisor -- taught them little refinements. Things THRUSH never dreamed of." He shot a quick glance at Illya, but looked away instantly, unable to maintain eye contact. "Listen to me, I sound like a rookie." He wiped the moisture from his brow. "We've been through so much since then. Memories shouldn't effect me like this. It's the jungle -- the heat. Korea in June . . . ." His voice had faded to a shaky, harsh whisper. With a grimy sleeve he wiped a sheen of sweat and dirt from his eyes. "I think I've said enough."

At first Kuryakin was at a loss to offer any comfort. He had demanded this grueling confession and now regretted pushing his friend into revealing these hauntings. It was hurtful for Solo to expose the thinly scarred wounds, and Kuryakin was embarrassed that he had instigated the story. To the Russian, privacy was a vital, necessary part of his existence. Forcing these personal demons from Napoleon filled him with repugnance. "It is a painful memory," he reassured gently. "Your first combat experience, your first war."

"The POW's finally died and the Chinaman lost interest -- he left. Karkov concentrated on us." Solo swallowed hard to moisten his dry, tight throat, then pressed on with a firm resolve. "Commander Murray was chosen because he was our leader. It took him three days to die. He never broke, even though his torture was cruel -- slow . . ."

Kuryakin silently thanked his stars neither of them had to face that kind of brutal combat in their ongoing wars. They had been spies too long and were only good for the covert wars. Then he dismissed the thought as being completely unproductive. Forcing the confession now, while still in danger, had been a mistake, too. Napoleon's nerves were shot -- the echoes from the pat were making things worse. They had to get out of there now. Right now his concern was to straighten out his partner's head and get them back to their rendezvous point.

"Napoleon, it was the first time you had seen someone tortured. It is natural to feel repulsed, even terrified. And the horror never fades, no matter how many atrocities we might see. If it did, we would be less than human. We would be no better than the torturers. That does not mean Karkov is here. The VC are, however, so we must not remain."

The American was still staring at a distant point across the river, but he nodded in silent acknowledgement of his friend's comments of support. Slowly he came to his feet and methodically slung the pack over one shoulder, tipped the rifle on the other shoulder and started walking again. His strides quick and agitated as he plunged downstream in the ankle-deep mud.

Kuryakin joined him and persisted in his interrogation. "What happened?" He thought he knew part of the story. He had met Solo's co-veterans from that war, so he knew the others had come back alive. None of them had returned untouched -- unscared.

"Part of the agony, of course, was the waiting," Solo finally responded, "breaking down our nerves by forcing us to watch our CO tortured. Each day another victim would be picked to be toyed with. The night Murray died we managed to free ourselves -- my first brilliantly engineered escape." The sneer self-derisive. "Then we turned the tables and attacked the camp."

"A bold move." Kuryakin's admiring comment went unnoticed. "The odds were against you." It seemed to have set the pattern for his friend's future career. He had never known Napoleon to hesitate because of odds or impossibilities. Solo's nature, his courage, was unfailing when rescuing someone, mostly him. Solo came to a stop on a sandbar jutting from the bank of the river. The rain had stopped and the clouds had thinned. There was a weak hint of sunlight behind the dark canopy above them.

"Most of the Chinese were killed. Karkov was escaping. I found him -- found him -- and froze. I have seen the enemy -- it is me." The quote a bleak, bitterly whispered condemnation.

Several moments of silence followed the confession. Kuryakin waited as patiently as he could, but finally, his curiosity won out. "He got away."

Solo nodded, blankly staring at some point in infinity. "He was running away and threw a grenade. I shot him. I was sure I hit him. Then the grenade exploded very close to me. When I awoke, Oscar was trying to get me on my feet."

"Karkov?"

"Gone."

"I see," the Russian commented, now easily piecing the story together. "You thought him dead although a body was never found. Now you think he is here."

"Yes. We had to get out of there, didn't have time to stop. Far behind enemy lines -- Magnum had been badly wounded in the fight. So we crossed back to UN territory. Magnum was taken to the nearest MASH unit, but he died." Napoleon sighed hollowly. "He wasn't even part of the operation and he was killed. The cover story was he was killed from his crash. I don't think Oscar really ever recovered."

"Did Napoleon Solo?" Kuryakin probed gently.

The dark-haired agent shrugged. "Thus ended our glorious first mission." The acidity characteristic of a studied, caustic shield he had adopted over the past few years.

He nudged at a rock with the toe of his boot and glanced at the river. Here, the water was deep and wide in two directions. They would have to swim across to get to their pick-up location.

Kuryakin did not acknowledge the raw sarcasm, though not for the first time he worried about this bitter cynicism which Solo seemed to wear like a suit of armor. He decided to try and pierce through the shielding.

"That is why you joined UNCLE, isn't it?" he prodded with astute accuracy. "To make up for what you thought was your failure in Korea."

"WAS a failure," Solo corrected sharply.

Illya tried to lighten the mood. "I'm lucky you talked to me at all when we met considering your history with Russians."

Offering a tight smile, Solo briefly responded to the quip. "One of my better judgements." He sighed. "After today there is no doubt." He leveled a penetrating gaze at his partner. "I'm going to finish it now."

"Karkov? You don't know he's even alive."

"He is. I can feel it. I've felt it since we've been back in `Nam. Since -- since Da Nang."

"In your old age you have become delusional and superstitious," Kuryakin snapped acidly. "You're not going after a phantom."

"Don't try stopping me."

Kuryakin mentally scanned possible methods to prevent Solo from this elaborate suicide. Reason was impossible. A knock-down, drag-out fight would accomplish nothing but approximately equal injuries to them both, and Kuryakin wanted to avoid as much pain as possible. He had almost decided on a sleep-dart -- though he did not relish dragging an unconscious partner across hostile jungle, when they were both alerted by the drift of voices upwind.

Both agents pulled their pistols and fell to the ground. Neither dared to breath as they listened to the rustle of plants, the metallic clink of equipment, and the faint chattering of voices in a Vietnamese dialect.

The senior agent looked to his more learned friend for a translation. In hand language, Kuryakin signed that the Chinese ANDVC troops were searching for them. As silently as possible, the UNCLE men grabbed their gear and retreated into some tall grass along the muddy riverbank.

Just as they hit the cover brush there was a shout. A moment later the agents were under fire. They returned a blind spray of bullets as they stumbled backwards into the water. Solo allowed the Russian to slip past while he withdrew a golf-ball sized bomb from a voluminous pocket in his vest. About to toss the explosive at a knot of soldiers, a face in the bushes arrested him. Just for a second he had stared into the disfigured face of a massive, nearly bald red-headed man. It was the haunting image of a spectre he thought long dead, except to the visitations of his nightmares. Then the face was quickly gone, almost as if it was an illusion. Solo knew that face was too frightening real.

A hail of bullets snapped Solo from his shock, but almost too late. A red-hot pain tore into his side and dropped him to the shallow water as he threw the bomb.

The explosive was off target and the knot of VC rushed forward. The black-pajamaed enemies were cut down in a stream of automatic fire coming from the other side of the riverbank.

"Swim for it!" An American voice screamed at them. "Hurry!"

Solo plunged into the deep water. Kuryakin grabbed him by the shirt and assisted him. Bullets pinged nearby, but it was a sloppy counter-attack. The Americans had the VC outgunned this time.

"What were you waiting for?" the Russian yelled over the gunfire.

Solo glanced back at the rapidly receding jungle-line. There in the thickness of the wilderness, an enemy of two decades lurked in the undergrowth. His lust for vengeance warred with the instinct for Illya's, and his own survival. They were hopelessly outnumbered, far behind enemy lines, their odds for survival were already drastically lowered by his injury. He could not go back, of course, but the knowledge was a bitter reality.

They staggered onto the opposite shore and were immediately dragged into the tall grass by two soldiers. They scrambled a few yards from the bank, into the cover of thick trees. Solo was clutching his side and blood was flowing profusely from between his fingers. A soldier came up and wrapped a quick bandage over the wound. It was crude and temporary. They would have to return to a base quickly.

"You well enough to make it about a klick overland?" The young captain who addressed Solo crouched next to the two prone, dripping agents. Kuryakin noted the two soldiers were also dripping wet.

"Nothing serious." The bravado was contradicted when Solo winced as the bandage was taped in place. "Where'd you come from?"

"We hoped to intercept you ahead of the VC patrol. We've been sent to make sure you get out of here ASAP. Captain Goldman and Sergeant Anderson, SOG."

As if seeing the young soldier for the first time, Napoleon stared at the young officer with disturbed foreknowledge. "Myron Goldman?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I know your uncle, don't I? No pun intended."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Solo," he affirmed, a grin on his weather-creased face. "Uncle Oscar's asked me to see you safely out of Vietnam."

"Amazingly small world," Illya sarcastically quipped. Maybe Napoleon's ideas about cycles and Fate had some merit after all. This whole situation was beginning to be a bit too spooky. No pun intended. "And I thought the cavalry didn't come to the rescue these days."

"Just got to call the right cavalry, sir." That cocky reply was from Anderson. "Lucky for you, we're it."

In spite of himself, Illya smiled at the arrogant attitude of the man who was almost as young as the CO. There was a battle-maturity etched deeply on these soldiers and Kuryakin felt safe in their experienced hands. He glanced at his partner.

"I'll make it," Solo promised.

Kuryakin's expression clearly revealed his doubt. The captain tossed a reassuring look at him. "We don't have much choice. We'll help."

Goldman and Kuryakin pulled Solo to his feet. Napoleon leaned on his friend.

The sergeant was nervously urging them on. "We'd best be on the move before Charlie comes calling."

The party slowly made their way through the thickly matted grass of the jungle floor.

"I saw Karkov," Solo explained through clenched teeth as he came to a stop. Sweat dripped from his face; his body hot from the wound, from the humid heat, from the weakness and shock brought on by a serious injury.

For a terrible moment Kuryakin thought Solo was delusional. Then he thought Solo would do something insane and suicidal, such as going after the imagined Russian. Then he realized his friend had already given up the hope of capturing the rogue spy. He could clearly read the anger and frustration in the brown eyes. There was also a vivid, visible hatred there which was unusual to the normally cool Solo.

His tone was sympathetic. "We will have another opportunity, Napoleon. His time will come."

Solo gave a curt nod. "No choice."

He started walking again, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other until they made the pick-up point. The pain in his side kept him from thinking too much about the pain inside, the knowledge that he was here with a second generation of colleagues and he had failed them, too.