On the flight in-country they saw lines of military and civilian traffic headed south. The `unofficial' evacuation was heavy. It wouldn't be long before the public announcements were made and the US forces shrunk like a collapsing bag. They would have to be within the safe territory of the remaining occupied territory before the true panic started.

It was a day gray with mist and cloud-cover. The humidity was high and the moisture more of a drizzle than a rain. They landed at the edge of a rain forest. It was quick work to cover the bird with camo netting, then disappear into the lush wilderness of the jungle.

By night they were camped on the side of a hill, overlooking the remains of a burned-out village. TC and Anderson volunteered for first watch. They ate cold rations and were soon asleep under the camo ponchos shielding them from the incessant drizzle. Solo and Kuryakin were leaning against a knot of tangled trees, when Oscar quietly joined them.

"Why did you bring Thomas into this?"

"Good evening to you too, Oscar," Napoleon responded lightly.

"Napoleon --"

"I didn't give him any details, Oscar, just that we knew his dad. And that was after he volunteered for the mission. Thomas' Vietnamese wife was killed last week. He needed -- something -- to hang onto."

"So a suicide mission was your answer?" Oscar acidly snapped back.

"We have an obligation to him! To his father."

Goldman's retort was a cold slap of bitterness. "You want his absolution."

Napoleon flinched at the too closely aimed barb.

"Everyone seems to think it an important mission," Kuryakin added.

Oscar ignored him. "Thomas should not come," was the final word. "Extra personnel can only mean extra liabilities!"

"Like Myron?"

"I didn't want Myron along. He wouldn't listen to me." Goldman's obvious and open concern for his nephew was a source of anguish ever-close to the surface. "Anymore than Illya would stay behind."

"Or Thomas."

Napoleon looked out at the rain-blurred forest. Absently, he massaged his side, which had throbbed with pain the entire day, but he couldn't let it slow him. He focused his thoughts on his goal, but now saw only a backwash of memories.

"Do you believe in Fate?"

"Fate is what you make it," was Illya's response. "We must deal with the present. We should be concerned with no other philosophy and cannot afford mystical speculation."

"The circle seems to be closing around us," Goldman quietly observed. "I can feel it." He glared at Solo. "And I would rather let Karkov go free than endanger the lives of these men."

"Of Myron," Napoleon corrected.

"Yes, dammit! He's my nephew! You know, Napoleon, you've taken this on as your private little war. It's important to eliminate Karkov, but not if the cost is too high."

Solo looked at his old friend with an expression chilled by a haunting many years old. "How much does it cost to end a war, Oscar?"

So far the mission had exacted a stiff toll on Solo. He had called in favors and burned bridges to be here. His partnership was shaky, altered, the damage done. Now he was committed to his course, whatever that would be.

"Some wars never end, my friend. Ours has the chance to end now." Oscar silently glared at him. "I've paid my dues, Oscar. My bridges are in ashes. I can't go back." Solo glanced at his partner. "I'm not happy with the vulnerabilities of this mission. If Karkov ever figured it out --" He thought back to those tortured, agonizing days of captivity under the Russian spy. Karkov had known how to find and exploit vulnerabilities. If they fell under Karkov's hand now -- none of them would survive the emotional anguish they were open to.

"We are all vulnerable in some way," Kuryakin offered soberly, not commenting on what he thought of being classified as a `vulnerability'. "Our loyalties bind us to each other. The unity becomes our greatest strength and greatest weakness. We must remember to utilize the strengths of our bonds."

Solo grinned at the Russian, but it was a quick, sympathetic reaction; less of sentiment and more of regret. "A friend at your back is better than a whole army of stranger? But, we know how dangerous it is to care about someone you're working with. It clouds judgment and is an invitation to trouble," he confessed with difficulty.

"Maybe you've been in the field too long," Oscar shot back defensively. "This is not a private war." His voice was hard and cold, and his stern brown eyes bore into Solo without mercy. "I know Myron and Zeke and Thomas are MY vulnerabilities. You've come here with your partner -- your vulnerability! We're all well aware of the risks. Maybe our concern for each other will ensure that we all come back alive. And I intend to return with every member of this team! Remember that, Napoleon. Whether the mission succeeds or not, the men come first!"

Solo released a long-held breath. He clenched and unclenched his jaw in irritation. "I agree, Oscar. Just remember we're even more vulnerable than we were in Korea." He finished with a warning glance at Kuryakin.

"I don't think we'll forget," Oscar replied gravely. He left the two agents and scrambled down-slope to the shelter of a canopy-like tree with thick branches. He scrunched down against the trunk. Before he was settled, he was joined by Anderson.

"Sergeant?"

"Excuse me, sir, but you've got to remember we're in hostile country."

"You overheard."

"Some words. All of them too loud."

Oscar nodded in acknowledgment of the gentle reprimand. "It's not easy dealing with us desk-bound meddlers, is it?"

Anderson grinned, a neutral compromise between agreement and polite denial. "I just follow my orders, Mr. Goldman. SOG thinks this Rusky needs to be taken out. We're your support."

"Well, I hope my orders don't endanger you or the others." He leaned his head against the tree and sighed. "Out here the rights and the wrongs are so easily blurred. We could walk away now."

"SOG would just send us right back."

Oscar sighed. "Yes, and others would be at risk. Or perhaps Karkov would get away, and next year or the next decade, when Karkov has committed untold atrocities, it wouldn't be so vague. We should stop him now."

"Are you trying to convince me or you, sir?"

"I'm convinced of the mission, sergeant. Just not willing to take too many risks." He gripped onto the sergeant's shoulder. "You've been a good friend to Myron. I know you've saved his life more than once. Thank you."

"No more than he did for me," Zeke responded simply, but with a tinge of embarrassment in his voice. The last rescue hadn't been simple. Myron had been wounded -- nearly gotten killed going back for Anderson, who had been separated from the rest of the team. Goldman had earned his captain's bars after that. The bars weren't why he'd gone back. The wounds hadn't slowed him down. Just like it hadn't slowed Anderson down when their positions had been reversed. "No more than I'll do for him," he finished fervently.

"Watch his back tomorrow. I want everyone -- Myron, and you, too -- to get out of here alive."

"So do I, sir," Anderson agreed.

The sergeant left the OSI chief to drift off to sleep. While Zeke kept watch, he kept Oscar's advice in mind. He had been watching Myron Goldman's back for many years, now, and he wasn't going to stop on this last mission. No sir.

"Napoleon said you knew my father." Magnum fell in beside Oscar the next morning.

The NI lieutenant was ready to start their three click walk to where they suspected Karkov to be living. Goldman was just packing his gear into his backpack.

"How much did Napoleon tell you?" he asked as he stood and stretched stiff muscles.

"He said you'd be angry that he brought me into this." Thomas grinned to lessen the impact of the report.

The grin was infectious and Oscar responded with a rueful agreement. "Yes, I was. Someday that man will encounter a situation he can't charm himself out of." He sobered as thoughts of the past, of Thomas's father, came to mind. Those memories were never buried very deep, and any number of things could trigger remembrances of their days at Annapolis, or Korea, or of the senior Magnum's death.

"I'd like to hear more about my dad." As they walked, Thomas' voice was low. "You were at his funeral. I remember someone tall, in Navy whites, giving me my dad's watch. That was you, wasn't it?"

Quietly, Oscar confirmed that was true. "A very sad Fourth of July, that day."

Magnum shook his head. "My father died in a crash. How did you recover the watch?"

Not wanting to lie, neither did Goldman want to reveal the whole, ugly truth now. Carefully he chose his words. "Your father died at a field hospital. I was there. When I brought the belongings back to your mother, she asked that I present the watch to you." Magnum fingered the silver-banded watch on his wrist -- obviously a prized possession.

"When this is over," Oscar offered, "I have some stories I think you'll appreciate."

"I'll hold you to that," Thomas promised.

Their expressions indicated the conversation as a silent pact that they would both come out of this to have future visits.

The trail had proved to be steeper and more overgrown than expected. Magnum, as point man, led them to the hillside village only a few hours before dark. Weather had not been on their side. Rain had intensified to a full-blown tropical storm. The exhausted men came to a halt on a small ridge opposite the huts. They knelt in the tall grass and observed the village with binoculars.

"If this is the place it's sure quiet," Myron whispered to Magnum, on his right. He nudged Anderson at his left. "See anything?"

"Not a thing. Chickens are hardly even moving."

"It's raining," was Rick Wright's sarcastic explanation. "I'd be scarce in this weather, too, if I had a choice."

Solo scrambled up beside them. "We need to get closer. Then after dark we make our move."

Myron looked to his uncle, who had joined the huddle. "Your call, Uncle Oscar."

"We cannot slit the throats of everyone in the village," was Illya's dry observation. "We must know Karkov is there, where he is and strike quickly. Napoleon and I are best suited for such reconnaissance."

Oscar gave his approval of the plan. Myron suggested Wright and Magnum take the east flank and stay close in case the agents needed back-up. Anderson and he would take the west side of the village. TC and Oscar would retain the middle ground on the ridge as back-up for anyone who might need help.

The agents took the four huts to the west. Anderson and Captain Goldman, the three huts on the east. It was a pain-staking task which required visual confirmation of their target. The never-ending rain made it difficult to hear conversations inside the huts, so with each stop, Solo had to bore a tiny hole through the thickly-matted straw and peer inside the hooches.

They were on the third hut when a loud, angry Vietnamese voice cracked over the pelting rain. They peered around the corner, sickened to see their worst fears visualized. Anderson and the younger Goldman, were roughly dragged into the center of the village, under the guns of three NVA men. Mercilessly, the prisoners were thrown to the ground. One of the soldiers kicked Goldman in the shoulder for some snide comment. Another NVA smashed Anderson's face into the dirt.

For precious seconds, Napoleon's thoughts were frozen with anguish that his friends were captured. Within seconds, his mind automatically cleared away the shock and he analyzed options. His possibilities diminished when a tall, chunky Russian joined the group.

Solo forced down the shiver which chilled his spine at the sight of Karkov. Even at this distance the partial view of the disfigured face was revolting. It held him in a grip of immobility until the prisoners were taken into a hut.

The action jolted Napoleon out of his shock. He pulled his communicator from his pocket and signaled Oscar.

"Napoleon, I'm going to murder --"

"Oscar, don't say anything, just listen. I'm in a position to free them. Don't move! Repeat, don't move! I'm going to get them out. I promise nothing will happen to Myron."

"Napoleon --"

"Oscar, please, trust me, this one last time, just trust me."

He didn't wait for a reply. He tucked the communicator back into his pocket, leaving his end open so Oscar could monitor the channel. Solo looked into the condemning blue eyes of his partner and forestalled the inevitable objection with his statement of finality.

"I HAVE to, Illya. Back me up and I can get those kids out of there."

"By acting as the sacrificial diversion?"

"I hope not."

"Why don't I believe that?" It was a rhetorical sneer delivered with more disgust than Napoleon could remember seeing in the Russian. "You have been working on this martyrdom all along, Napoleon."

"No --"

"Yes, damn you, and you didn't care who got in the way."

"That's not true. It's just -- "

"You had to assuage your guilt at any cost. What better way than a grand sacrifice?"

"No. I have to save them. To do it, I'll just fulfill our objective and kill Karkov. I'll return with my shield, not on it. Promise."

There was only one option, of course. Perhaps it had been the only answer for twenty years. Did he believe in Fate -- Karma? He didn't know. He believed in his ability to free the prisoners. He believed it his destiny to kill Karkov -- to do it right, this time. It would be his last chance. Perhaps, that WAS Fate. Solo came to his feet. Kuryakin rose and clamped a hand on his arm. "There has to be a better way."

Napoleon shook his head.

"I won't let you do this. We can come up with a better plan. You don't have to give your life for a mistake you made twenty years ago, Napoleon!" he hissed, his vehement passion striking sharp and bitter against his too-calm partner. "You don't have to end your war by dying!"

The entreaties were such painful stabs because of how hurt Kuryakin was over this whole mess. Napoleon regretted the pain, and how he had allowed the past to destroy his partnership and friendship. He had, however, already passed the point of no return. If there had been no other lives at stake, if he was sure there was another way to eliminate Karkov, he would have chosen an alternative. They could have lobbed the village with mortars or grenades. They could have removed the assassination from a personal kill to a faceless mission and destroyed many lives instead of one. But Fate, and Napoleon Solo's passion for revenge had changed that.

"I wish it could have been different. I am sorry, Illya. I regret this more than anything I've ever done.

He whipped a karate chop onto Kuryakin's neck before his friend saw it coming. The Russian sagged into his arms and Solo gently lowered the form into the brush. Fleetingly, he brushed a hand against Illya's forehead. "Sorry, old friend."

He jogged through the bush and just at the edge of the village, Solo was intercepted by Magnum. The young man already knew what had to be done. Solo told him to hold his ground and be ready to assist the prisoners. He would know what to look for.

"Oh, and in a few minutes, there'll be a mad Russian bear coming this way. Keep him out of the way for me, will you?" He patted Magnum on the shoulder without waiting for a response.

A few feet along the back of the huts, Solo came to an abrupt halt. A piercing scream cut through the background jungle noises. Oppressive silence stilled the world. With a shaky hand, Solo wiped dripping sweat and rain from his face. His mind yet heard the echo of the cry -- a scream distorted in the distance of time. Oscar would have heard that nightmare sound and understood all the implications. Karkov started with the leaders. Even without insignia, there would be no mistaking who was the captain and who was the sergeant of the two captives.

From out of the dense grass next to the huts, Oscar slipped next to him. The OSI chief was as pale as winter snow, his eyes as chilled as a November frost. "He's torturing Myron!"

Solo grabbed his arm and pushed him down behind a tree. "I know. I'm going to get him out."

"I did this too, Napoleon. It was OUR vengeance --"

"But Karkov will remember ME. We need a distraction, Oscar, and I'm the best target we have." Magnum came up behind them. "Thomas knows what to do. He'll fill you in."

Oscar seemed about to say more, then changed his mind, and nodded his head in reluctant agreement. Then Solo stepped around the corner and, with hands raised, boldly stepped into plain view in the center of the huts.

Goldman pushed against the sergeant, who had landed on top of him. Their hands were bound behind their backs arms looped together. Goldman could only offer a nudge of his uninjured shoulder to help lever them both up to a sitting position. He had to sit up -- carefully. Consciousness was fading in and out and he needed all his wits about him. He knew their colleagues would not let this last, and he wanted to be ready when the rescue came.

"Zeke, you okay?"

"What's one more mouthful of Vietnam dirt?" the sergeant whispered back. "What about you?

Myron nodded, catching his breath as he brushed his injured arm against his friend. "Okay." He had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out again. The swiftness of the attack had been as bad as the viciousness of Karkov's torture. Myron had not expected instant, pointless pain. He should have. What better way to agonize the colleagues in the bush? He felt like a traitor, crying out like that, but the pain had been terrible. So excruciating, yet so simple for the hefty Russian to take a slender human arm in his beefy hands and crush it until the bone snapped.

"Cap, don't give up on me, now. Stay awake."

The shaky fear in Zeke's voice startled him more than the words. Myron raised his head, aware he had been drifting off. It wouldn't be long until shock insulated him from consciousness. He deliberately moved his arm, sucking in a stifled cry of anguish. He needed the pain to stay awake.

"They're gonna come after us," Anderson assured. "Just hold on, Cap. They're a comin'."

"That's what I'm afraid of, Zeke."

Goldman turned his eyes on the huge Russian obscured by the deep shadows across the rather large hut. Anderson shifted, stretching his bonds and the sore shoulder muscles. He was bruised and filled with hate. Next time one of those creeps came near them he'd kick them into the next country. He felt the weight at his back increase. The captain was fading out again. "Cap, don't you worry, now. This won't last long."

The officer gave a tight nod before turning to Anderson. "Damn, this is the last --" He bit his lip, fighting the pain, the emotions which bubbled within. He had been so afraid of this. His throat was tight and he could hardly get the hoarse words out. "Zeke, if you get the chance, I want you outta here."

"You bet, Cap. And I'm takin' you with me."

They turned to be face to face and stared at each other, a mutual message exchanged. Goldman nodded. That's the way it had to be for both of them.

The soldier outside the largest hut almost shot Napoleon on sight. Instead, the man shouted some indecipherable phrases and two more NVA stepped out of the hut to hold their rifles on him. They motioned him inside. The three NVA stood behind him, just to the side of the prisoners.

The slightest glance was raked past the bound prisoners. They were alive, with minor signs of wear and tear. No obvious reason for the cries of pain, but Goldman looked sick and faint; Anderson looked livid. Myron HAD been the victim. Something internal and painful. Napoleon swallowed the revulsion. Internalize the hate and use it, he reminded himself. It is the best weapon now. Then his eyes were drawn to the man in the corner. Involuntarily he approached the hideous apparition folded in the shadows.

Over two decades had passed, but still this man made Solo's skin crawl, still froze his nerves with icy fear. The dark eyes surrounded by the horrid face bore into his soul and he affirmed in his heart that this, indeed, was somehow his destiny. What they had left in another existence, another war, was to be finished now.

"Solo," the man rasped.

Napoleon's spine twinged at the accusation and hate in the single name. He tried not to see the disfigured, rippled flesh of the face, but Karkov had leaned out of the shadows just enough to show the damage.

"I thought it was you by the river. A ghost from my past. I have never forgotten the young fool who left me with this." Fingers jitteringly brushed at the discolored scar which was the uneven flesh serving as a cheek. "I have always dreamed of repaying the stupid boy who did this." His dark eyes, narrowed through slits of puffy skin, flicked over to the prisoners, then back to the agent. "It could take days -- weeks before I touch you, Solo. Just like Manchuria."

Karkov would never know how Solo had paid already for the emotional detris of that Manchurian debacle. His personal war, which was now in the final skirmish, had so much more on the line now. The Russian would never know how frightening those threats were.

"No," Solo shook his head slowly, "this time I'm going to finish the mission."

Two capsules were hidden in the cracks between his fingers. Solo threw the tiny bombs behind him at the three riflemen.

"Run!" he shouted to the prisoners, over the explosions.

In the next second he threw himself onto Karkov and wrestled his way behind the huge Russian. A gaseous cloud filled the hut. Solo took a small pistol from an ankle holster and pressed the pistol to Karkov's head. Before he could fire, his arm went unfeeling and the pistol dropped from his quaking hand. Only then did he note the piercing, paralyzing numbness of an injured nerve along his arm, a sharp incision of pain, the warm wetness of blood trickling down his skin.

The prisoners clumsily raced for the nearest edge of protective rainforest. Three rifle-shots sounded behind them, quickly followed by shouting. M-16 shots popped from the tall grass around them and muffled Myron's moan of pain as they fell into the wet brush. Hands dragged them into the protective cover. They were pushed and herded farther in as Magnum, Wright and Calvin closed behind them. VC were gathering outside the huts.

Oscar carefully hugged his nephew as Wright cut the ropes. Anderson came up on the other side and supported his CO, mindful of the broken arm. "We've got to help him --"

"Not here," Magnum interrupted. "We need to run for it. Now. We don't know how many soldiers are in the huts."

Kuryakin stood in front of the group. "Napoleon's still in there with Karkov."

The others stopped, clearly torn between returning for the lost man, or continuing to safety. None of them could verbally acknowledge the need to take care of their injured men. Yet, leaving without Solo was unthinkable.

"We can't storm the village," Calvin pointed out. "We got to get back to the chopper while we can."

"Go on. I am going back for Napoleon. We will join you on the trail."

Oscar grabbed the Russian's arm. He was at a loss to speak. "Illya," he finally sighed, "we can't leave him. All of us have to end the war here. Now." He glanced at the others in the little circle. Each man gave a silent nod. "Together."

Shouting came from the village; a strident, echoing yell of triumph. Illya crept back until the huts were in sight. The others were crouched behind him. Karkov was standing by the largest hut, assembling the remainder of his dozen, or so troops, preparing them to seek out and destroy the rest of the insurgents. The Russian was loud, boasting, and occasionally lapsed into English to utter the recognizable names of Manchuria and Solo. Karkov's khaki jacket was soaked in blood.

Kuryakin assessed his hidden weaponry; his personal arsenal of explosives which could wipe out the entire village. He forced his mind away from the obvious. He tried to ignore the message of dread which screamed at the edge of his thoughts and tried to think of his job -- his responsibility -- not the condemning evidence of the blood, of the opponent yet alive. Illya jumped at the close rifle shot just to his left. Thomas Magnum dropped to his knees and continued firing. When Illya looked back to the village, he saw the still form of Karkov, and several of his men, on the ground.

The rest of the troops were scattering, but they were caught in the open, under the assault of the committed and skilled US soldiers who had brought all weapons to bear on the village. Kuryakin tossed several bombs in the paths of retreating VC. Within minutes, the enemies had retreated, or were dead. Anderson and Calvin had spread out to cover the team in case the surviving NVA tried to flank them. Kuryakin sprinted out of the jungle and past the bodies of the Vietnamese. He was going too fast to think about what he would find in the hut. He kept his mind tightly focused on his objective; getting to Solo and getting out.

The dark-haired agent was bound hand and foot, slumped on the ground. Blood spread beneath him, soaked into the wet dirt floor. Illya cut the bonds and felt for a pulse. He sighed his intense relief that his friend was still alive, and quickly threw his partner over his shoulder.

There was little conversation as the Huey raced over the Vietnamese countryside, then over the blurring blue of the ocean. In the distance, Solo could see an aircraft carrier; a gray wedge in the vastness of the ocean. His heart skipped a beat; of guilt, of regret, of gratitude. The mission was over; a success. No man on the team cared about the victory. Their triumph was the greater prize of Life. No one would have traded the lives of any man on this chopper for the very justified death of Karkov. None of them were capable of that ultimate sacrifice anymore.

The end of this mission could have been so tragically different. His lust for blind vengeance had almost destroyed the brave, good men in this chopper. Luck, skill, Fate -- maybe all of those elements had brought this weary band of vagabonds home safe. The carrier would be their haven. They would be mended and cared for, then released back into the world. They would go their separate ways, but never truly be separate from each other. This mission, this war, would be etched into their souls, as every other war was scarred into every other warrior. This time, this war, had a good ending.

Magnum had lost a wife. Long ago, he had lost a father in another war. That debt, at last, was now paid. The bitterness of guilt welled up inside Napoleon, then faded. That self-condemnation was receding. He could put it behind him now, with that other war. Never to be forgotten, but no longer a haunting nightmare. Magnum would never appreciate the true justness of the mission -- that he had killed his father's killer. It was an added piece of irony to a very long and dangerous story. Or perhaps, it was the final ink-stroke of Fate at the end of this strangely interconnected saga.

Myron had been injured -- could have been worse. He would return home with the physical pain and scar of this last excursion into insanity.

Napoleon Solo would mend. The knife wound would heal and he would live. He wasn't sure where he would go or what he would do, but he, and the others, were alive. That bottom line was more than many comrades had found with this war and Korea and every other conflict where brave men fought and left the battlefield; where valiant friends remained. For the men in this chopper; this war, the Korean war, were both over. Everything about their wars, except their memories, had ended.