The small army camp outside of Saigon was a miniature example of the chaos engulfing the rest of South Vietnam. Four days had elapsed since the flight from the north country. The grueling trek through the thick jungles had been slowed by Solo's wound and more heavy rains. They had been picked up by Magnum's NI team, then all returned to the ever-retreating American lines where utter confusion reigned. This small group was on the outskirts of the main evacuation points.

The long rumored pull out of US forces had finally begun on an unofficial level. Troops were evacuating the country and leaving behind a near-panicked populous. Those close to the US military knew the collapse of the South Vietnamese government was imminent.

Solo and Kuryakin's privileged status had brought them quickly out of the jungles to this last camp. They could have been placed anywhere in the country, or on any plane or ship out of the area. Solo had chosen this collapsing camp as a temporary base.

Solo shuffled along the muddy road to his temporary quarters, avoiding the speeding jeeps that careened through the camp. The wounded were almost all evacuated, and now the rest of the troops were leaving in an orderly, but steady stream. Solo had done everything in his power to manipulate his position at the edge of hostile territory. Safety held no interest in the shadow of his overwhelming obsession to find Karkov.

In fleeting moments of objectivity, Napoleon wondered if he had been pushed over the edge because of Karkov, or from the entry into Vietnam. There seemed little question in his own mind that he was, indeed, past the brink of reason. Was his lust for vengeance clouding his perception of the very real tragedies around him? Or were the traumas of war pushing him deeper into this obsession as a defense against what he was seeing? How could anyone be expected to maintain a grip on sanity when surrounded by the heartbreak here?

There was fear and accusation of betrayal in the faces of the Vietnamese. The tear-filled eyes of the Amerasian children who would probably never see their GI fathers again was agonizing. There was hopelessness in the faces of the wounded who were now going home to an empty future. A constant parade of the haunted -- men of listless gaits who had seen more brutality, felt more fear and pain, than anyone should ever feel. All of them were victims who could never be truly at peace again. For them, this would be the war that would never end.

Solo understood those emotions. Korea had shaken him. Now, he doubted if he had ever really recovered from the trauma of his war. Most specifically, of his mission in Manchuria.

Napoleon stood in the doorway of the officer's hooch and with tired eyes scanned the camp for a familiar blond head. He was disappointed when he could not find his friend. Not surprising. Kuryakin was off brooding; had not spoken to him since Solo revealed the plan to infiltrate in-country to search for Karkov. His stubborn obsession had alienated even his closest friend and Solo hoped he could bridge the chasm and regain Illya's trust. It wouldn't be easy.

"Solo!"

Goldman and Anderson jogged up to the agent, grim expressions forewarning their mission. He knew the source of young Goldman's anger before the officer spoke.

"We talked about going back in after this Russian character, Solo. We never discussed my uncle coming in with us."

Solo stepped back into the hot room which offered little relief from the unforgiving humidity and heat of the tropics. "My superior, Waverly, is considering making this an UNCLE operation. Oscar is part of this. When he heard who I was after, nothing could keep him away."

Goldman grabbed a chair, straddled it, his arms leaning on the back. It was a defiant gesture. Positioned next to the door, it was a strategic move, almost a symbolic dare for Solo to try anything. Equally foreboding, was Anderson, who stood on the other side of the door, arms crossed. The two GI's would not be leaving, nor would they let the agent leave, until they had a satisfactory story from Napoleon.

"You told my superiors there was a communist agent operating with the North Vietnamese," Goldman volleyed. "So what? The Chinese have been holding hands with the NVA just like the Russians! What does that have to do with my uncle?"

Solo sat on the bed and carefully stretched his legs, trying not to put too much pressure on his side stitches. "Oscar wants to be here personally."

"Why are we being pulled out?" he gestured to Anderson and himself.

Napoleon shrugged. "Your uncle doesn't want you on the mission. It's not a healthy prospect."

"You mean you're operating on your own?" Anderson asked.

The dark eyes shielded a lot, Solo ruminated as he studied the sergeant. What Anderson never bothered to hide was disapproval or disagreement. The sergeant didn't like spies, or didn't like him, or possibly just didn't like the underhanded tricks tied up with this operation. Perhaps he objected to the old-timers coming out here and risking lives for vengeance from the past. Maybe more basic than that; the simple fear of a last mission, a last risk to himself and his friend when they were so close to going home free. "Soon we'll have all the red tape cleared. It doesn't really matter whose operation it is."

"Well, I don't like it!" Goldman snapped back.

"It stinks," was the sergeant's comment.

He could counter any argument with clear logic on why Karkov had to be pursued and killed. It had grudgingly worked with Waverly. It had worked with SOG command. He didn't think it was going to fly past Anderson for the same reasons it had not convinced Kuryakin. For the same reasons Solo and Oscar Goldman HAD to go out there. It was personal.

"Red tape isn't what's worrying you, is it, sergeant?"

Anderson shook his head. "No, sir. Seems to me you're taking risks when there's no need to. The war's over. Your war's been over a long time. One Red Communist Russian spy is not worth our lives."

"You're exempt. Oscar has already --"

"Yeah, we know," Goldman interrupted. "Even more than my dad, who was a general, the OSI boss has connections everywhere. He's pulled more strings again so we can evac tomorrow. Do you really think I'd let him go into the jungle without me?"

Anderson flicked a quick glance at his CO, then the eyes came back to stare at Solo. "Without us."

"Now, wait a minute, Zeke. I don't want you back in the bush --"

"Now, Cap, you know I go where you go, official or not. We promised we'd get out of this war together. Whether that's sooner or later, it don't matter none."

Giving in to the inevitable, the captain let it go with a shrug of surrender.

Solo inwardly sighed. Partners could certainly complicate things. Teams -- commitments -- there was the real danger of this mission. Too many personal ties had tangled them all together until nothing could be separated into individuality again. It was all bunched into a mess of friendships, old and new. Oscar would not let him go alone. Myron would not let his uncle go alone. Anderson would not let his captain down. In the end, Illya would probably not stay behind, either. The dominoes kept falling right down the line and Solo couldn't see the end of the trail. He just hoped it was not leading them all down to destruction. This had started as a right to correct a terrible, personal wrong. It could end with more wrongs than he would ever make right again.

"You'll have to discuss this with Oscar."

"I will," Myron assured. "Let's go pack, Zeke. And we better go light," he advised as he shrugged out the door. "These old guys haven't been seriously in-country for a long time. We'll have them to worry about, too."

"Old guys?" Napoleon muttered, insulted. He was hardly over forty!

Solo slogged through the muddy jeep trails toward the helipad, hoping Lieutenant Magnum would be there. Solo wanted the young NI officer, and the team, to accompany him into the jungle. If he told Magnum the truth, he would want in on the mission, completing another circle of the past and present. It would also burn every bridge behind Solo, with his conscience burdened by every life that accompanied him on this vengeance trail. Is that what he really wanted? Did he want this new generation of soldiers to grant him absolution from his past mistakes? Isn't that what this mission was all about? He didn't want to answer all those questions, because the answers were so ugly he wasn't sure he could look himself in the mirror again. He was already afraid he had crossed over the line between justifiable revenge and selfish guilt. Like Myron, Thomas would feel the obligation to be on the hunt. It was a dirty way to manipulate an officer who had been through so much already. But leverage was how things got done in the nasty world of espionage; in the realm of vengeance. Right now nothing mattered as much as the revenge that burned with an unquenchable fire inside Solo's heart. If his requests did not go through? Then he would go without official sanction. Even at the risk of expulsion from UNCLE. This was more important than regulations, and time was running out to find Karkov.

The most regretful thing about all this was that his actions -- actions he felt compelled and justified to take -- would mean a terrible breech in an incomparable partnership. Perhaps it would end an irreplaceable friendship. If forced to choose between the past and the present, Solo was not sure which he would choose right now. He hoped Kuryakin would not compel him to decide. No matter what course he chose, however, he had to make some kind of peace with his friend.

The loud, steady 'thwap-thwap' of helicopter blades filled the afternoon air as Solo topped the small rise where the helipad was located. He saw Illya standing near a chopper which had just landed. The blades were rotating to a stop after the engine shutdown. Kuryakin was talking with the three men whom Solo recognized, who had just emerged from the Huey. The tall, mustached Lieutenant Magnum, the stocky Marine was the pilot Theodore Calvin, and the short Marine gunner was Rick Wright.

Kuryakin turned, spotted his partner, and crossed the pad to block Solo's path. "They have come at your bidding," he shouted. "You are not going to persist with this madness, are you?"

Solo was pleased Kuryakin was talking to him again, even if it was to argue. As much as he wanted to bridge the gap between them, Solo could not abandon his quest. Ironic that the most loathsome monster from his past -- a Russian -- would possibly destroy his greatest prize -- his friendship with this Russian. In other circumstances he could have studied, even understood the complex mockery. For now there was no time for anything but retribution.

"I have to go after Karkov."

Kuryakin gestured toward the senior agent's side. "You won't last twenty-four hours."

"You have very little regard for my motivation or endurance, my friend," Solo retorted lightly. "Or modern pain-killers."

The Russian scowled with displeasure. "If you have no concern for your own well being, think of Oscar's. Or Magnum's. That lieutenant is the innocent victim here."

"He has a right to know how his father died, and who the murderer was," Solo responded reasonably, hoping to appease Kuryakin if he couldn't convince him. "And have a shot at justice."

"All these young men could be going home, Napoleon. You're risking their lives. How will you feel if one of them doesn't come back?"

"Drop it, Illya."

"Why ruin Magnum's life now? Why didn't you tell him the truth years ago?"

Solo shrugged uncomfortably. He failed to mention his pact of silence with the other three survivors of that fateful mission in Korea. On Oscar's insistence, all had agreed to assist the young Magnum in any way possible, but never reveal their connection with his father. They had all contributed financial support to the family, and Goldman had paved Thomas' way into Annapolis. Now, Solo was going to break that secret, rationalizing that his cause was justified.

Ice-blue eyes as cold as a glacier stabbed him with steel-tipped accusation. "This has nothing to do with Lieutenant Thomas Magnum. This is about the vengeance of Ensign Napoleon Solo."

Solo turned away, unable to respond to the piercing truth.

"Don't ruin his life. Don't end yours," Illya warned fervently.

Aware this was the folly of a madman, Solo set a flame to this final bridge and walked away. When he reached the chopper, he was greeted warmly by the three soldiers.

"Glad to see you're still with us, Mister Solo." Magnum shook hands, though the somber set of the face belayed the comment. "You two don't belong here." His voice barely audible over the dying hum of the slowing rotors. "Nobody belongs here."

"I'm glad you got out, too," Solo countered, studying the three men. All were subdued, and Solo wondered what had happened in the last week to shadow them with such a mantle of tragedy.

"Mister Kuryakin said you might be going back to the bush! That's crazy."

"Exactly." Kuryakin confirmed ruefully as he stepped up behind Solo.

T.C shook his head. "You don't want to do that, Mister Solo. This part of the world is blowing apart at the seams. Anybody with sense is gonna get as far away as possible."

Solo felt his partner's eyes on him. The decision he made now would change his life forever, or possibly end it very shortly. Possibly end the lives of Magnum, Calvin, Wright, Goldman, Anderson, and Kuryakin. With his friend's return, he realized Illya had no intention of being left behind. The steadfast Russian brought a whole new meaning to partnership. Magnum's gaze was distant and he seemed to look straight through Solo. The agent questioned the Lieutenant, who turned back toward the chopper.

Rick pulled the agent aside. "Thomas' wife was killed this week. A bombing in Saigon."

"I'm very sorry," Solo stuttered, as he approached the young officer, feeling the hot anger inside him diminish in a cooling wave of sympathy. The anonymous anguish he had seen for so many days had just become very personal. "Is there anything I can do?"

Magnum shook his head. "Thanks. I just want to get out of this stinking rice swamp." He looked back to Solo and for the first time seemed to focus on the agent.

"I have unfinished business up-country. But it's a strictly volunteer mission. It would be nasty," Solo warned. "I wanted . . . ." He could feel the tangible ease of tension from Kuryakin. His intended shocking announcement was altered. He would give Magnum a fair chance -- a life. "I am going in to assassinate a Russian spy. I thought of you, because -- well, you're the best," he finished lamely. "But I don't think it's a good idea, now. I'll get another chopper crew."

For a moment his eyes locked with his partner's, and Solo was relieved to see there was no longer the chilling anger, the deep condemnation, that had been there before. A silent message of approval revealed at least some was forgiven and Solo's silently nodded thanks was just as silently accepted.

Mentally, Napoleon released a long sigh of guilt. How could he misuse his influential connections and lead these men into foolish suicide in the closing hours of the war? Their war was over. His conscience could not permit more tragedies. Illya knew that. Such a close partnership could sometimes be annoying when Illya could anticipate his thoughts, but he would not give Illya the satisfaction of knowing he was right. Yet.

Magnum glanced at his friends. Both NCO's shrugged. They were anxious to leave Vietnam, but they were still game to follow their CO one more time.

"We could take you."

"No, if you could just find us the best trackers left around here, then drop us at coordinates which I can't give you yet. Then -- then leave. Get out while you still can."

Magnum was thoughtful. "This place is falling apart. You won't have long before this chopper will be a prized commodity."

"I know."

"We're the best. You'll need us," Magnum decided.

"No --"

"Yeah, one more chance to stick it to Charlie," Rick responded with more enthusiasm. "Then we get out of this snake pit and go someplace civilized."

Napoleon glanced at Calvin. "You, too?"

"I'm with them."

Knowingly, Solo acknowledged with a nod. Three more people stuck to the intricate web he had weaved. "Briefing at 0800 tomorrow."

The agents started slowly back down the hill.

Kuryakin leaned over to Solo and whispered, with a tinge of relief and surprise. "You are not telling him everything?"

Solo shook his head in a negative gesture. "No need to know. Not yet, at least. He doesn't need anymore complications in his life. He didn't need this."

"Be careful what you wish for . . . ."

"I know, I know."

"You are a soft touch," Kuryakin accused gently.

"Just don't let it get around. It would ruin my reputation."

The three GI's caught up with them to walk back to the huts.

"Do you ever get to New York?" Solo asked.

"Only passing through," Magnum responded. "Why?"

"I never mentioned this before, but I knew your father. In Korea."

For a moment the expressive Lieutenant was speechless, but quickly recovered, his face filled with questions. "You knew Dad? Why didn't you mention it before."

"There really wasn't time," Napoleon shrugged easily. "But on the flight back, when we're on the way home, I mean, and we have some time, you might like to hear a few stories."

Magnum's face brightened. "You bet."

At first light the constant hum of rotors advanced and receded over the busy camp. Providing a backbit for the helicopters, were the engine drones of trucks, jeeps, and personnel carriers sweeping through the staging area. This constant background activity had been a steady flow during their stay here.

Myron Goldman waited in the early dawn, watching the arriving choppers at the helipad. Most of the Huey's lifted off with full loads, mostly of soldiers, and returned empty. He was watching for a passenger who would be unique among the few men debarking; a man who was distinctly unsuited for a combat zone.

With a sigh of impatience, Myron extracted a cigarette and after several tries succeeded in lighting it. He was committed to a stern stand on this issue with his uncle. A Washington paper-pusher had no business in the bush, it was as simple as that, he mentally argued. Uncle Oscar was a reasonable man, he would respond to the logic of the difficulties after Myron explained it all. He tried to visualize the firm resolve of his stand, but instead found himself slipping back to memories far in the past.

He couldn't remember the first times he had met his Uncle Oscar. He associated the tall, lean man with his father. The physical resemblance was strong between the Goldman half- brothers, but more than that was a brotherly bond. There had been a solid presence with them around.

Dad had not been at the Goldman house much. The Army had sent him everywhere but home. Uncle Oscar would visit when dad was in town. Military history was the dominant conversation, never veering far from WWII, where Col. Martin Goldman received the Congressional Medal of honor at the Battle of the Bulge. They talked of the older brother who had the distinction of going down with the Arizona at Pearl.

Now that Myron thought about it, he never recalled stories from the younger Oscar about Korea. When Myron was older, he remembered fewer and fewer visits from dad and Oscar. Mom and dad had fought whenever he came home, so he didn't come back much. Mom had moved Myron to New York with her Jewish family. He'd stayed there until she died of an overdose of sleeping pills. Myron always felt Oscar had abandoned him, just as his dad did.

Myron had resented the Goldmans, but accepted that as a state of life until his mother's funeral. Oscar had been there, offering more support than his father. There had been frequent phone calls and letters after that. Oscar had eased his admission into college with the right contacts. Oscar Goldman was the head of the Office of Scientific Intelligence. He had connections everywhere with everybody.

When Myron had joined the Army, Oscar was disappointed, (he had hoped Myron would come into the OSI), but supportive, offering all kinds of placement possibilities from Army Intelligence all the way down to a cushy desk at the Pentagon. Myron had stubbornly refused any help from his father, or Oscar, and they had backed away. Oscar, though, had kept in closer touch than his dad. When Myron had joined Special Operations Group with covert activities, Oscar had helped again by supplying high-tech equipment that only the advanced OSI teams were using. Lives had been saved by the small pocket communicators, the light-weight night-sight goggles, and other inventions straight out of the OSI labs.

When dad died of cancer a few years back, Oscar had picked up the slack again. Oscar pleaded that Myron get out of combat, but the young captain had thrived on the SOG missions which actually helped instead of hindered the common soldier. By then, covert ops were under his skin and he could not go home until he had done all he could to save American lives in `Nam. Sometime during his first tour, he had realized it was not a war only against the VC, but also a war against the lowly soldier of the line against the mutton-headed decision-makers in Washington. As long as bad commands were handed down and GI's were captured or killed, Myron felt an obligation to lend his skills and experience in a way that would help, on the line, where it counted. Although Oscar had not agreed, he had understood and had always been there to offer support, even when Myron didn't know how to ask for it.

Smoke rings formed, then dispersed as the whipping wind and dirt from the next chopper choked the pad. Every man had moments in his life he would like to live over. His relationship with his dad and uncle, his early army days, were at the top of Myron's list of regrets.

He had joined the army to spite his VIP relatives, mostly General-dad. He had come to Vietnam with a chip on his shoulder and an attitude that was childishly petty. He had been turned around by the stark horrors of the uniquely savage combat of `Nam, and the guiding hand of Sergeant Anderson. Without Zeke's tutelage, he would have been dead the first month out.

The latest helicopter swung onto the landing pad with a swirl of dust clouding the ground. Myron squinted against the grit and anemic sunlight filtered through the mat of tropical foliage. Three men debarked. One tall, older man, in still-creased jungle fatigues was crouched almost double under the blades. When he straightened, Myron jogged forward and eagerly shook his hand. His uncle responded by wrapping Myron in a warm embrace.

"Good to see you, Uncle Oscar."

They had not been the words he intended. Reprimands and rebukes had marched through his mind for the last few hours. Familial respect had to take a second place to reason. Here, he was not the young nephew, but the combat veteran. His uncle had no business being here, no matter how personal or lofty the ideal seemed.

Those sensible thoughts were driven away by sentiment and natural affection for his only living relative. His uncle was someone who had, at times, been more of a father to him than his dad had ever been.

"Myron . . . ." Oscar Goldman pulled back and studied his nephew. Concern and love filled an expression which transparently conveyed the affection he held for his relation, the relief at finding Myron in one piece. "Good to see you, Myron," he replied thickly as he patted the Captain's shoulders.

Tears were burning in his own eyes, and Myron blinked them away. This was not the time to get carried away by emotions, he reminded himself. This was deadly serious, and his love for his uncle was the reason he was going to fight tooth and nail to protect Oscar, to keep these old fools out of the jungle.

To break the moment, Myron picked up the knapsack Oscar had dropped and started for the barracks. Oscar put a fatherly arm on Myron's shoulder, making the young man's resolve a notch weaker. It was an affectionate gesture which Oscar used often on his nephew and a few close friends; a protective, fatherly kind of touch that put the recipient under his wing.

"My hooch is in the back," he gestured toward the outlying reaches of the camp. "The others will meet us there."

Oscar followed his nephew, flattening against the side of a Quonset hut to avoid a line of jeeps and trucks thundering by. He wiped grit from his face. "I've requested another SOG team for this mission, Myron. I don't want you involved."

The captain stopped but did not look at his opponent. It was easier to be stern if he didn't know what emotions were playing on his uncle's face. "If you're involved, I'm involved, Uncle Oscar." His hot, impulsive temper threatened to bubble to the surface, but he held it in check. If he exploded now, his reasonable, sensible arguments would be diminished with the heat of anger. "I'm coming with you on this one."

"I can't allow it, Myron."

Conversation was again interrupted by a string of army ambulances. After they passed, Myron crossed the wide, dirt roadway and entered the barracks area which was quieter. The chaotic noise of evac operations was muted by the closely packed buildings. The interruption gave him time to think and choose his weapons in this debate. Oscar's importance automatically gave him the armament advantage, but Myron had a knack for tactics. There WAS a way to out-maneuver the big guns of the OSI.

"I have contacts of my own, Uncle Oscar." He stopped on a narrow dirt walkway between huts. "I may not be able to go with your team, but I can get anywhere I want in the jungle. This is my war."

Silence seemed to indicate a mortal hit on the opponent. He finally turned to gage his accuracy. His uncle's expression of sorrow and distress struck a blow at Myron's conscience. This was not a game of one-upmanship for either of them. No matter who got their way, they would both be hurt by the ultimate decision. As in most wars, there would be no victory here.

Myron placed a hand on his uncle's arm. "You understand why I HAVE to be out there with you, don't you, Uncle Oscar. I couldn't let you into that -- that jungle alone. Not without me."

Slowly, Oscar nodded. A profound sorrow darkened his brown eyes. "I understand. For the same reasons I don't want you to go." He gripped onto Myron's neck and hugged him. "Part of my war never ended, Myron. That's why I have to be here. To finish it. I didn't want any new tragedies complicating the sordid old conflict."

"Can't you just let it go? Let Solo fight it, this is his vengeance more than yours."

Even as he spoke the words, Myron recognized the selfishness of the request. Could he have let Zeke go back into the jungle alone? Never. The bonds made in combat superseded everything else. He saw, even after years of civilian life, the bond for the older veterans was as strong as his friendship with Zeke. He knew that would be as true in his future as it was for his uncle now.

"Ending a war isn't very simple for those on the front lines." Oscar dropped his arm and looked at his nephew. "You see it already here. For some, this war will never end." He looked off into the distance. "Some wars never end."

Myron thought of his men who had died here. The friends and fellow soldiers who were POW and MIA, some still unaccounted for. What about the men who had lived with Vietnamese women and were leaving behind children and wives?

What would become of the natives and Montagnards who had helped the Americans? The communists would be vindictive against whoever could not be evacuated. Then there were the ones on the home front, relatives who had received the letters of regret from so many commanders like himself. For all of those who had been touched by this God-awful war, and that was almost everybody in Southeast Asia and America, the war would linger for a long time. When would their war end?

"I have a chance to end my war now, Myron. It's something I have to finish."

Myron nodded.

Oscar patted his shoulder. "Besides, we're committed now. Every intelligence agency in the free world is hot for us to eliminate Karkov. He's a nasty thorn in their side. We're in a position to make a strike for them."

Myron grimaced. "More alphabet soup. I don't like the sound of this."

Oscar agreed with a nod. "Now, I need to discuss some things with Napoleon. Where is he?"

"My hooch. Just down the path here and to your left. My name's on the door."

"Good." Oscar took his knapsack. "Why don't you go prepare your team."

It was a subtle dismissal. His uncle had private words for Solo. It was a confirmation that Myron had won. Winning did not feel like much of a triumph. Myron watched to make sure his uncle made it to the right hooch. Another small indication of his protective instincts surfacing. He noticed another person lurking on the pathway. Illya Kuryakin was leaning against a hut, almost obscured by the early morning shadows. The agent approached once he had been spotted.

"A tangled web," was the spy's obtuse comment.

There had been little time to associate much with the agents. Now, Myron felt a kinship with Kuryakin, a bond born of recognition of their place on the mission. They shared the common duty of protection to the two men who were too close to the past to see the dangers of the present.

"I dig that," Myron sighed.

"Seems like a helluva spot to call a reunion," Oscar quipped as he entered the small, stuffy hut which was considered officer's quarters at the camp.

"Oscar." Solo stiffly came away from the window where he had been standing, and warmly shook hands with his old friend. "A bitter necessity."

Goldman made himself as comfortable as possible in a rickety wooden chair. Involuntarily his nose twitched at the smell; the pervasive jungle odor, the stifling humidity, the baking climate. Tactile reminders of a jungle war long past. His nerves were already prickling with the sense of danger at this mission. He hoped it was not a prediction, merely a sense of over-caution. There was too much riding on this fool-hardy expedition for them to be anything but cautious.

"I've been gathering intelligence from several sources." This was related as he spread out a map on the bed. "Chinese and Russian advisors are said to be with these NVA groups." He pointed to an area not too far to the north. "Their troops are coming closer every day. Remember, the enemies are here with armament support."

"The team's ready."

"Are you?" There was more straining the former agent than the injured side, although that would be a bad enough liability in a combat situation. The tension, the sleep-starved face, the haunted eyes, were evidence that Karkov's reappearance had gripped and twisted something deep inside Napoleon Solo. Would skill and professionalism be enough to counter the vengeance burning inside his old friend? "Can you handle this?"

Solo released a deep breath. "If I could turn time around, I would probably NOT make the call to you, or to Waverly. Now -- I have no choice, Oscar. Just like you."

"More than you know. CIA, IMF, MI-6, and a few others including UNCLE, have deemed this mission imperative. Karkov is too dangerous to leave alive. We are the termination squad." Goldman stood, crossing to the window. "Eerie, isn't it? So much like Korea. Or am I just imagining it?"

"It smells and tastes like a war, Oscar. Just this last mission and our war is over."

"I told Steve and Jonathan. They're farther away from the ghosts. They were able to stay out of this."

"You mean they don't feel the guilt the way we do," Solo corrected harshly as he joined his friend at the window. "We're putting everything on the line for this, Oscar. If we fail here -- and there are so many ways to fail -- then we loose it all."

"You mean Myron?"

"And Illya. And all the others on the team. If any of them are killed, if we don't kill Karkov, this will be for nothing."

Oscar's voice was grim. "How lucky do you feel, Napoleon?"

"Not lucky enough."

Although they had traded information before, this was the first time Oscar would be working directly with Illya Kuryakin. The Russian's reputation was well known in intelligence circles, and Oscar felt he knew Kuryakin well because of Solo's comments about his partner. To Goldman, Kuryakin was subdued and quiet. A different side of the clever, sly agent Solo described. Though Oscar knew, better than most, how multi-faceted intelligence operatives were, he was curious at the extreme quiet Illya displayed during the planning meeting in Myron's hut. Kuryakin's taciturn silence was a natural result of a career in a treacherous business. So why did the Russian's silence now seem scary?

The members of the strike team were gathered for their final briefing. It was not so much different from an OSI mission. Oscar had sent men out on dangerous assignments before. Sometimes his men had been killed. With OSI he was engaged in a secret, covert war with international enemies. Perhaps he had never been that far from combat at all.

Korea seemed light years away, but experiences shared there had left infinitesimal cracks in the prisms that were four men's lives. Some fissures ran deeper than others. Like refracted light in a prism, every angle provided a new insight. So it was with people. And time changed people just as an altered angle changed the prism's colors.

For Oscar, Korea had been his training ground in intelligence, where he discovered a talent for organization and a cunning which had served him well over the years. His experiences in the field had left minimal scars. The wounds had slowly healed with years of dedication to duty, and the personal commitment of anonymously watching over Magnum's widow and children.

Of the four survivors of the ill-fated raid into Manchuria, each of them seemed to have achieved a kind of personal peace through useful careers. Steve McGarrett was the successful, if controversial chief of Hawaii Five-0. Jonathan Hart was an internationally renowned corporate businessman. Oscar was involved with intelligence on a more scientific level than down and dirty spying. Only Napoleon remained an active field agent in intelligence. In Solo, the fractures in the prism ran deep indeed and Oscar wondered if this ghost-chasing would finally, irreparably, break the glass. Guilt was motivating Solo, and it could drive him to self-destruction.

"There's a few things you need to remember in-country," Myron Goldman advised.

Kuryakin's gaze and attention wandered from the captain, to his sullen partner across the room. His instinctively pessimistic nature saw only disaster ahead. There was nothing he could do to alter their course. Why did he cling to the sinking ship?

At first, Solo had tried to exclude him from the mission, and Kuryakin had tenaciously argued for the American to come to his senses. He had too much invested in the partnership to allow it to flounder because of his friend's bad judgment. Illya left unspoken his dependence on Solo as a friend as well as a fellow agent. That was something he would NEVER acknowledge or discuss. It was against all logic of an operative to depend on another. Nonetheless, it existed as certainly as the sun was a tangible star in the sky. Therefore, he could not remain idle as Solo fell headlong into self-destruction.

Sometime during the parade of years at UNCLE, his loyalties had subtly altered. Commitment to the cause had taken a back seat to his partnership with Solo. This was as much his fight as it was Napoleon's. If Waverly had not given the order for him to come, he would have accompanied Solo anyway. Just under the surface of the Russian, there was an ingrained rebelliousness to authority that asserted itself when his friend was in danger.

The captain finished and suggested they gather their gear. Solo pulled his eyes away from the scene of the tropical wilderness encroaching on the base and met his partner's gaze. With a mixture of irritation at Illya's tenacity, and gratitude for the blond agent's unswerving loyalty, he crossed the room.

He handed Kuryakin the army-issue backpack. "Last chance to come to your senses and catch the next flight to civilization."

Kuryakin stared back evenly. "You could never get along without me."

"Unfortunately, you're probably right," Solo admitted soberly, reflecting on how dependent he had become on his partner over the many years they had worked together. He shouldered his own pack and forced himself not wince as he walked toward the door. "But I'll never admit it in public."

Part of him was glad to have Illya's proficiency to back him in a dangerous situation. He valued the skill and the companionship that was an integral part of their efficiency. He didn't like Kuryakin endangered because of this personal vendetta. For the thousandth time he questioned his debt to the past and weighed it against his debt to his present partner. He kept hoping that blind luck would somehow allow him to lay to rest some old ghosts and still bring his old friends and newer friends through this experience unscathed. And since he was unable to force Illya to leave, he accepted the Russian's presence with a personal vow to protect Illya from danger as much as possible.

...Continued