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The banks of computer consoles and tracking monitors meant very little to Robert McCall. He didn't understand the specific functions of the high-tech equipment lining the room, but was glad they performed what was required of them. The technicians working with the them knew what they were doing; from the young, brilliant and arrogant Dr. Wright, to the shirt-sleeved engineers bent over their slide-rules. In his own unique way, McCall knew his own duties for this operation; he stuck to his job and did it well. Like the others, he was a professional in his field. That was why he was here.

"Everything's looking good," came a quiet voice beside him.

McCall smiled at Colonel Stetson. "It's all Greek to me, Charles, so I'll have to take your word for it."

"And the word is very, very good," Oscar Goldman agreed with excitement. "Everything's on schedule and ready to test tomorrow."

A tall, young man with a fresh face and thick glasses edged into the group of men gathered with McCall. "Do you want me to check the link-up again, Oscar?"

"No, Ted, I just went over it. Why don't you go to the monitor room?"

The genius left and Goldman rolled his eyes. "Just what I need, an over-intelligent eager-beaver from NSA."

"It's your brainchild, Oscar, but his brains are making it work," Colonel Stetson reminded. "I'd better be on my way. I need to be in the air before that storm breaks. It looks like a bad one. If only your fancy technology could control the weather, eh, Oscar?"

The director shook his head. "Maybe someday. For now there's nothing I can do with Mother Nature, Charles. I only manipulate technology."

Goldman, head of a scientific branch of the NSA, scanned the room filled with the latest data from around the planet. For the next week this would be his home as he tested a new spy satellite. The first experiment on the agenda was his own idea; a super-spy subterranean radar. If it worked, they would be able to detect deep, underground installations from space. They would know every missile silo buried under Russia and China.

The test, however, would be more finite, specific, and timely; detecting underground tunnels used by the Viet Cong. The project was a massive, joint operation by several branches of service. A C.I.A. agent named Devlin was in Viet Nam with a Special Operations Group, which included J.J. Michaels. Colonel Stetson of the Army was functioning as intelligence liaison between Goldman at the tracking station at White Sands, and the in-field troops in Nam. The entire project was underwritten by their powerful, silent partner -- an organization wishing to remain anonymous to the other groups -- financing most of Gamma Project. For the test, McCall as intelligence liaison, was working home front security. If everything went well he would join the field group for the final phase of fine-tuning.

"Best of luck, Oscar," Colonel Stetson offered as he shook hands with the director. He turned to the agent. "You too, McCall. I hope you have a very boring week, no offense."

"Here, here," Goldman agreed.

"I couldn't agree more," McCall concurred as he shook hands with Stetson. "I told Kay I'd spend some time with her this trip." There was little enthusiasm in his voice, not because he was reluctant to see his wife, just her family -- her father to be exact. "I'm looking forward to visiting with Lee again, too. Be sure to give my best to J.J." The colonel nodded, McCall offered one more caution. "Be careful with him, Charles, he's new at this."

"Will do. And, tell Lee hello for me," the Colonel said quickly as he left the control room -- almost as if he were embarrassed to mention any sentiment for the nephew he left behind.

Goldman studied his friend. "You don't like putting J.J. in this, do you?"

"Just the opposite. I think this is perfect for him," McCall corrected. "Enough of a covert operation to give him experience, but it shouldn't be too dangerous."

"So what's bothering you?"

Not unkindly, McCall retorted, "You're a bloody nosey bloke, Oscar." Goldman's unwavering expression indicated he wanted an answer "I'm worried because J.J.'s in that damn war! Covert missions are one thing, but a war... who can control that?"

Oscar smiled. "There are plenty who try, including us." He sighed, his gaze distant. "I understand your concerns. J.J. was my nephew Myron's sponsor at the Point."

"I remember."

"In another few years Myron will be in combat and J.J. playing spy games in East Berlin. But remember, Robert... J.J. wanted this life. You can't protect him forever. He's been in Nam for a while and done fine. All you can do is teach him your skills and hope he's a good pupil."

McCall reluctantly agreed with the observation.

"Now... what about your part of the operation, Robert?" was Goldman's pointed question. "The Agency wants this to go off like clockwork. Those rumors..."

"...are still rumors, old son," he sighed, the concern evident in his tone.

"No word from our friends in the field?"

"Not a whisper for two days."

"Something's wrong."

"That's what my instincts tell me," McCall agreed. "But they've vanished into the New Mexico desert. Last spotted in Santa Fe. It's like they were simply swallowed up in the sand."

Goldman paced, hands in his pockets. "We all know people in our business disappear for reasons. I can't delay, Robert. Everything is set."

"I know, I know," McCall consoled and put his hand on Oscar's shoulder. "Everything will be fine. We're the best at what we do, Oscar, that's why we're here. That goes for Charles, J.J. and Brian in Southeast Asia, and the rest of us here in New Mexico. Just leave things to me."

"I intend to," was the wholehearted assent. "I've been out of the field too long to do you any good there."

"You've never liked the desert anyway, as I recall. Don't be such a worried old woman, we'll pull this off."

"I hope so. What's your plan?"

"Retrace their steps in Santa Fe. I'll head out to the Michaels place, hopefully before this storm hits. I'll use the ranch as my base, then I'll start searching the area. Two seasoned operatives can't just disappear. There's got to be a trace."

When the agents missed two check-in calls, McCall covertly investigated all known spy in the area, but found no trace of the errant men. That foreign spies resided in the neighborhoods of every major base in the country was common knowledge. Low grade information gatherers lived near and frequented the neighborhood pubs from Edwards to Wright-Patterson. Every agency knew who they were and who talked to them.

Gamma Project could not be a completely black, top secret project -- there were too many people involved on various security levels. Word had filtered through Agency informants that foreign operatives were in the White Sands region. One, an East German-born expert known only as Rolf, was supposedly with the group. McCall had been called in to head an investigation, having crossed swords with Rolf before. The two missing agents were from the underwriting organization and had been called in to keep an eye on the investment. They also knew Rolf.

The resonant bass of thunder was more a feeling in the air; a tremble in the ground, than something heard with the ears. In the distance, the cloudy sky was dusky brown, graduating to black from the approaching weather front. The dust and wind would come before the desert cloudburst. Already Lee Stetson could smell it.

The sun was veiled by the filtered-gauze of white-dust from the New Mexico sands. Soon there would be an artificial 'dark' preceding the torrents of rain. Flash floods were likely all over the area.

A twinge of regret flashed in and out of his heart. Should he have come? The elation of his time at the ranch was always tempered with the pain of leaving at summer's end. This time he was here for Easter vacation -- only a week -- but he knew it would be a wonderful few days, followed by a bitter parting. Clouds lined with black.

This trip his thoughts were shadowed by deeper concerns. He never paid much attention to world affairs. The Colonel commented regularly on the news and what it meant to America, but Lee was consumed with more important matters this year. A freshman in high school, his eyes were only for girls. The situation in Viet Nam meant little to him until now.

The Colonel would be there this week -- maybe longer -- thus Lee's early visit to the ranch. Now he avidly listened to every report of the fighting in Southeast Asia. He wondered if the Colonel would be involved in combat. Lee didn't understand the terms he heard; escalation and demilitarized zone. He didn't understand the foreign words like Saigon and Hanoi. He did know that the Colonel and J.J. Michaels were in this strange little Asian battleground on the other side of the world. Those were concerns disturbingly serious to a fourteen year old not yet ready to be an adult.

He shook off the momentary gloom. There was so much to be happy about, why let things get to him today? He was here and his cousins were able to join him for vacation! Making it even better was this morning's news about his favorite 'uncle' dropping in for a surprise visit.

The screen door slammed and Lee turned toward Uncle Jake.

"Get the horses settled?"

"Yes, sir. They're edgy."

Jake Michaels gave a curt nod. He walked with Lee to the barn, the dog trailing close behind. Jake gestured toward the animal. "They can feel the storm comin'. It'll be a big one. Now, remember what I told you?"

"Yes, sir. In case you're held up by flash floods, we're to sit tight 'til morning."

"Any trouble, you ride over to the Torres place. They're all right for Mexicans. The Clarks are gone for the holiday, remember."

Lee bit back an angry comment at the slur about the Torres family. There was no sense getting into an argument now. "Yes, sir. And Grandma and Grandpa are meeting you in Santa Fe, 'cause they'll be done with their shopping by then."

"Right. Then we'll all come back tonight, together. If we have to stay in Santa Fe, we'll call." Jake squinted at the clouds looming beyond the meadow. He muttered several curses under his breath; most at the weather, some at the son-in-law he disliked and was going to retrieve. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and shrugged. "Let's finish up in the barn. Your Aunt Kay has some last minute fussin' to do before we leave."

The spacious ranch yard seemed almost ethereally peaceful in the late afternoon heat. The high humidity lent a tangible mugginess to mask the stark heat of the sun. There was little sign of life; the rustle of horses flitting around the corrals -- in and out of the barn. The faint sound of voices drifting on the eerily-still air. The low rumble of thunder came more frequently. The charged atmosphere was alive with the percussional electricity of approaching danger.

From the vantage point of a small hillock matted with dry prairie brush, two men silently observed the tranquil country scene. Both observers stiffened as a man in a western hat and work clothes, and a younger male in a baseball cap, crossed from the house to the barn. A brown and tan dog nervously trailed behind them.

"Looks quiet enough."

"So does a python," came the whispered retort, "before he strikes. You thought the goat farm was quiet, too."

Napoleon Solo, the older, dark-haired man grimaced in silent disapproval of the sarcasm. He glanced over his shoulder at the western horizon and measured two fingers between the sun and the storm front. He turned back to resume a study of the homestead.

"One mistake -- "

"One?"

"I gave Rolf more credit than he deserved. Goats!"

Kuryakin hmphed. "You're right. Paul Kobal must have thought of that."

Solo shivered. Rolf was bad enough as an opponent. Discovering the ruthless Soviet agent Paul Kobal was behind the spy operation was a nearly fatal surprise. The counter operation was much larger and more deadly than any of the good guys anticipated. Kobal was a merciless mastermind. His plots were big, lethal and usually successful. Yesterday the Soviet left for Viet Nam -- probably the only reason Illya and he managed to escape.

"Maybe they're the only ones around," he commented with hopeful speculation, ignoring the caustic blame from his Russian partner.

"Maybe there is an entire posse lurking underground," his blond companion responded instantly.

A weary grin spread across the senior agent's abraded, dirt-smeared, bruised face. "In this part of the country they're called cellars."

The correction was automatic. A conditioned response from someone long-ago resigned to explain American idioms to a foreign citizen. Though residing in the United States for years, the native Russian's occasional misuse of phrases still amused Solo. The corrections were something of a game between the spies; partners longer than most espionage agents survived in the business. Both in their thirties, the men were in the prime of life and inordinately in good physical shape. Skill and luck combined with experience to beat the odds in a deadly business. A large part of the experience was the absolute trust they had in each other. The banter was second nature and seemed to escalate in cryptic cynicism according to the degree of danger they faced. The game kept them tied to a familiar lifeline in desperate times.

"An outlaw under every cactus?" Solo countered rhetorically.

"I dislike cactus."

"We could always go up and knock."

Illya Kuryakin raised an eyebrow at the mocking aside. "That's what you said when we approached the goat farm."

Solo remained silent.

Illya frowned as he studied the yard below. "This is too close to the mines and Rolf. These people are likely part of the operation."

"That looked like a kid down there."

"Looks can be deceiving. When the dog is confined, we steal the truck and get to White Sands. Until then, you rest."

The admonition, voiced more like a stern order, left unsaid any obvious specifics on their conditions. Both were in need of food and sleep. After two days imprisoned in a mine shaft they were weakened by drugs and torture, the U.N.C.L.E. men managed a ragged escape. Through their resourcefulness they literally collapsed the enemy camp. The victory was less than complete; Solo was wounded, and a few enemy agents, including Rolf, were still alive and probably in pursuit.

From fatigue, and Solo's injury, they halted on the rise overlooking the ranch. By silent, mutual consent, they made no effort to leave. The storm front was edging out the sun as dust blew around them, even while errant sprinkles pelted their skin with hard, wet drops. Suspicion, so far, won out over comfort, so they remained at the observation post.

Solo wiped a sheen of sweat from his face. "You're probably right, stealth is our best option. Even if they aren't connected with the spy ring, they're likely to shoot us for trespassing. Or your accent," he pointedly complained.

"My accent?"

"Russian. Not the most popular in these parts."

Illya scowled. "I am on assignment. I did not plan to be marooned here in the desert without identification."

Napoleon nodded and wiped away perspiration with a trembling hand. Each slow movement was a forced fight against the ever-increasing weariness. He laid his head down on the dirt, still keeping watch on the yard. As the shadows lengthened, Solo drifted into an uneasy near-sleep and unpleasant dreams of their capture.

"So much for being silent partners." Kuryakin paused in his tirade to touch a hand on his partner's face. "You are fevered." He sighed deeply. "This has all gone extraordinarily sour."

"We'll have to make our move as soon as possible," the senior agent mumbled, foregoing further comment on their circumstances.

Kuryakin watched the dusky shadow of dirt and clouds below. It was muggy, windy and his eyes blinked from fatigue and grit. Should they risk going down there and announcing themselves? With no identification they could not prove their affiliation with U.N.C.L.E. They could well be mistaken for fugitives; the ragged appearances, the bullet-wound, travelling on foot -- all highly suspicious. Solo had warned him that these ranchers were notorious for shotguns first, questions later and he believed it. This was, after all, the wild west.

Kuryakin was unwilling to take the risk of approaching the people in the house. At worst, they were part of the spy-network set to sabotage the U.N.C.L.E. project at White Sands or they were trigger-happy cowboys. At best, they were innocents, who would be inadvertently crushed under the boot of espionage if the enemy agents were still pursuing them. Getting involved with these country-folk could cost all their lives if caught by their opponents. Plagued by these troubled thoughts, he drifted to sleep.

"Napoleon!"

Solo opened his eyes to find Kuryakin only inches away. Dust roiled around them and the sun was now a smudge behind the dark clouds. Thunder echoed on the desert hills. He heard the thrum of an engine. He rolled over and watched as an old pick-up truck putted out of the yard and down a dirt road. Four youths waved after the truck, then all disappeared, with the dog, inside the house.

"So much for plan A," Kuryakin snapped, angry at himself for drifting off. Only a few minutes passed, but the unforgivable lapse cost them their transportation to freedom. He prayed the error would not, ultimately, bring a higher price. "On to plan B."

"Always my favorite," Solo mumbled with a tired sigh. Right now, he just didn't care anymore. He was too tired and sore to summon the energy to think.

The dust-stifled air whipped around them in swirls of stiff wind. Fat drops of rain flew against them in a flurry of grit and moisture. At least the storm would cover their tracks. Maybe, when it all cleared, they could find a way out. Maybe there was another car somewhere on the premises. Yes, and maybe Santa Claus was real.

"Those four look like kids. Teenagers, maybe?" he offered. "You still think we need to use the covert approach? Why don't we just go up and ask to use the phone?"

Kuryakin slapped him on the arm. "Look!" he gestured toward the road.

A black sedan pulled up behind the house. Instinctively the agents ducked closer to the grass. A tall, blond, muscular gentleman emerged from the driver's side. Rolf. Two of the four teens came out to meet the enemy agent. The barking dog scratched and howled from behind the screen door.

Solo and Kuryakin could read the pantomime from their distant perch. Rolf asked something, both young men shrugged 'no'. Rolf gestured toward the barn, the two boys accompanied the tall stranger, then several minutes later returned. Rolf got into the car and drove a slow tour around the stables and house. He gestured toward the nearby hills, now cloaked behind the heavy storm. The boys again shook their heads negatively. Rolf gave a nod of acknowledgment, then drove slowly back the way he'd come.

"He didn't even look bruised!" was Solo's dejected comment.

"We are unprotected, unarmed, cornered by a ruthless adversary and that's all you have to say? There are more important considerations than your ego, Napoleon. Besides, he is bigger than we are," he finished with his own hint of wounded dignity. "We did beat him in Austria."

The clouds moved over the hill and ranch as intermittent drizzle turned into a sudden downpour. Huge drops splattered on the desert floor around them. They shielded their eyes.

"Let's get to the barn. It is easier to plot stealthy alternatives in a dry environment. We should not approach them, yet," Kuryakin suggested.

"Wait to make sure Rolf is gone?"

"Yes. If we go around the corral, we will be out of sight of the house. Can you make it?"

"I'm not an invalid! It's just a nick." Solo gestured the go-ahead. "Lead on, McDuff."

"It's only fair you wash," Skip insisted. "I fixed the dinner."

"Some dinner," Andy joked.

"What's wrong with macaroni and cheese and hot dogs?"

"I saw you scoop up thirds," Lee accused Andy. He cleared the last of the plates and glasses off the table. His cousins leaned against the counter. Skip and Murphy were taller and leaner this summer. They all were. Andy was still the shortest -- probably always would be.

At the beginning of this vacation, Lee found he still had a tendency to think of Murph as young and immature. Lee was, after all, in high school now. A few hours with his cousins had set him straight quick enough. The first day back together, the four of them had readily settled into their old ways.

He glanced out the window and saw the rain streak against the white lightning bursts. Every visit here was a little different. This was a holiday of change and transition. They talked about girls and dates and cars. Lee worried about the Colonel.

They were growing up. They would always have the bond they'd forged since that first summer together. They were, however, shaped and formed by individual experiences during the rest of the year. The ranch was their anchor. The other months were their separate trials and triumphs.

Another flash nearly blinded him. In that instant he thought he saw a shadow move near the barn. "Hey!" He blinked.

"What?"

In the next glare, he saw nothing unusual.

"Seeing things, I guess," he shrugged, but sat on the counter near the window just to keep an eye on things as Murphy got down the cookie jar.

Thunder rattled the wood slats of the barn and cracked like a sonic boom right over his head. Solo started at the sudden streak of light against the black, then the darkness swept over them again. The horses neighed nervously. Rain clattered on the building like millions of tiny pebbles thrown against the roof.

"Illya?" he whispered. He sensed he was alone, but wanted to make sure. His partner was undoubtedly out scouting for a vehicle or foraging for food.

He wondered how long he'd slept. Carefully, slowly, he sat up and peered around. Even the slight movement was painful to his sore muscles and injured side. In the next moment of illumination he checked his injury. Blood was dried and matted, sticking his cotton shirt to the bullet hole on his left side and he restrained the temptation to scratch the irritated, itchy skin. At least the bleeding stopped -- at least until he had to move. Little comfort. The wound was tender, the bullet still inside. If they didn't get to civilization soon, the infection would kill him if the blood loss didn't first.

The rustle of dry hay was the only sound of Kuryakin's return. Solo absently noted his friend's blond hair was dirt-smeared brown. In the glow of the lightning, the Russian's fair skin appeared blistered, bruised and abraded. Good thing they weren't trying the direct approach; they indeed looked like fugitives from a chain gang.

"Did I miss anything?" Solo cautiously propped himself against the wall, cringing at the movement.

Kuryakin handed him a canteen. Parched from the hot run across the desert, drained from loss of fluids, Solo drank so fast he could hardly breathe.

"Napoleon, easy," Illya warned and took possession of the canteen. "Slowly," he cautioned, and regulated the flow of water. "Just a nick?" He attempted to pull part of the shirt aside, but Solo stopped him.

"Don't worry about it. We've got bigger problems. What did you find out?"

"Would you like the bad news now, or later?"

Solo returned the canteen. "Get it over with."

"During your beauty sleep I found another truck."

"The bad news?"

"The engine is in more pieces than you are," he said in an almost off-handed tone.

Solo wiped sweat and grime from his eyes and studied the barn. The strobe of the lightning cast anemic illumination around the straw floor, the loft, the hay. It was not a bad location to hole up for a while. There'd been worse in their checkered past. He just didn't want this to be their final resting place.

His throat still felt dry and gritty with dirt. The water Illya found had been their first since early that morning and it didn't seem enough. Dehydration was becoming as great a threat as the enemy agents. Beside their physical difficulties, they still needed to get out of here and contact Goldman at White Sands. Time was now their enemy, and it was running thin on all counts.

"Any other vehicles?"

Kuryakin's low laugh was mirthless. "Only for Cossacks."

"Steal a horse?"

"Borrow," Illya corrected. He walked over to one of the skittish, suspicious animals and soon won him over, stroking the horse's forelock. "A ride across unknown country in this weather is too dangerous."

"It's an option you may have to utilize, Illya. I'm not exactly rodeo material..."

"I'm not leaving you behind," he snapped back. "And Rolf could still be out there."

"In this weather? No, he's at White Sands by now. He'll save his vendetta for another day. You could wait till everyone in the house goes to bed and ste... uh, borrow a weapon, then ride to the Alamo and warn our forces of an ambush."

Kuryakin shook his head. "I don't like it. We'll come up with something else."

"Hmm," was Solo's skeptical retort.

Illya studied his friend for a moment before turning his eyes back to the soggy yard. His thoughts ran through a mental list of alternatives. The process was quick due to the lack of options. They must leave soon. There was no way to tell if their pursuers were stalled by the weather, or if they were still in the area. More likely, Rolf was already at White Sands to carry out the original mission. Perhaps it was too late to stop the sabotage.

Even without their enemies to consider, there was the complication of Solo's wound. The senior agent needed medical attention very soon. Napoleon's increasing fever and drowsiness only intensified Kuryakin's anxieties.

Solo's head was leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed. "Any ideas?"

Kuryakin glanced across the yard to the house. The lights in the kitchen were still on. He could see silhouettes behind the curtains. His stomach grumbled at the thought that the people inside were probably eating dinner.

"After all are asleep, I shall call Goldman."

"Still leery of the direct approach?"

"Visibly, Rolf holds much more credibility than we do. The residents are likely to find him believable and us..."

"Something the good guys should drag in." Solo nodded slowly. "Just be careful," he advised, blinking to stay awake. "I'm tired now -- let me know when you need help," he trailed off, once more drifting to sleep.

Another streak of electricity exploded across the desert. The lights in the house flashed and died. The power was out. The phone lines might be down as well. Time to think up Plan C, Kuryakin sighed to himself.

"Wow, this is some storm," Andy marveled. He passed out matches and candles from the cupboard. "Use these, then we can find some flashlights. We shoulda been prepared for this, I guess."

Lee tapped his arm. "They're in the hall closet," he invited as he led the way.

"Guess I can't wash by candlelight," Murphy offered, his own voice unconvinced of the meager excuse.

"Guess again." Skip laughed as he snapped his cousin with a dishtowel. "Come on, I'll dry, it'll go quicker."

"I'll put away," Andy volunteered as he and Lee returned with flashlights They set the candles in pools of wax around the counter. One flashlight was pointed toward the ceiling to offer dispersed, but weak illumination. "We'll be done before you know it, and Grandma won't believe how neat we were."

Lee's gaze was drawn back to the rain. "I hope they don't try to come home in this."

Skip stared out the window. "What're you worried about, Lee?"

Stetson shrugged. "Nothin'. Just a shadow."

Murphy joined them. "You think it was one of the escaped prisoners that Fed told us about?"

"Nah," Andy refuted. "He was spooky, wasn't he?"

"Federal agents are supposed to be, right? They can't all be like James Bond."

Lee stared out at the darkness. "McCall isn't spooky." Soon his eyes blurred and he blinked, turning away from the mysterious shapes in the night. "Who's James Bond?"

Andy laughed at the joke and suggested, "Maybe there's something on the news about any flash floods. I'll go get the radio."

The portable transistor was tuned to a station out of Albuquerque, which reported damage throughout the area. Roads were washed out in many neighborhoods and residents were advised to remain at home. The front was stalled over the region and there would be no clearing until the next day.

Skip was the first to mention the obvious. "Guess we're on our own."

"Hope everyone is okay."

"Uncle Jake knows his way around," Andy assured them all.

The boys finished the clean-up and went to the room Andy and Skip were sharing. Ordinarily, they'd be staying in the bunkhouse, as far from Uncle Jake's domain as possible. But with the storm and the adults gone, they'd moved inside the house to be near the phone and so they wouldn't have to run back and forth through the rain. They listened to music and played cards, while Andy tinkered with repairs to an old phonograph. After three games, they were bored and agreed it would be a long night.

They listened to the Albuquerque rock station that promised to play the A Hard Day's Night album in it's entirety. Andy was thrilled, and cranked up the volume for the songs he wanted to sing along with. Lee knew very little of the Beatles, since the Colonel did not approve of Rock 'n Roll. He liked the sound. He laughed as his cousins, who'd seen the movie and acted out silly parts from the film.

"I can't believe you haven't seen it," Andy said to Lee. "It's the greatest!"

"The Colonel only lets me see on-base films. The theater at Point Magu never showed it."

After the set of songs, they noticed the dog was pacing and scratching at the door. They all agreed it was time for a break. Murphy accompanied the hound to the kitchen. He let him outside, where the animal sniffed the ground near the porch, but seemed to have lost whatever he was trailing in the rain-washed mud. Unwilling to get wet, he stayed under the eves. Murphy left him to his business and looked for leftovers from the macaroni and hot dogs, but couldn't find the foil-topped pan. He snagged a packages of cookies instead. The dog wanted back in and Murphy gave him some Oreos.

He was about to leave when he noticed water pooled at the door. He got a towel from the linen closet and wiped it up, waiting for a moment to see if more rain seeped in. No more came in, but he placed the towel there just in case. The dog started barking again, and Murphy plied him with more cookies. He took the goodies back to the room. Everyone was sitting on the floor, reading comics by the glow of flashlights.

"What was he barking at?"

"Dunno. Maybe the storm spooked him." He handed out Oreos. "Hey, who ate the last of the left-overs? I was gonna have a snack."

"You're blind, Murph," Andy accused as he took a handful of cookies. "Is this all you brought back?"

"The hot dogs were all gone!"

Andy playfully shoved his arm. "You're such a pig, Murph."

"I didn't eat the leftovers! I swear!"

"You think the horses are okay?" Skip asked, as another clap of thunder startled them all.

"We should go check," Lee decided.

Andy agreed. "And we can scrounge some food before ol' Bloodhound here get his paws on it."

Armed with flashlights and slickers, they congregated in the kitchen. The dog sniffed the floor and started barking again.

"Why's the towel here?" Lee wondered.

"Some water came in."

"From where?"

"Under the door."

Skip leaned down and placed his candle as low as he could. "No leaks now. Not at the door, anyway." He moved the flame low across the floor. Muddy puddles pooled on the linoleum in front of the fridge, at the sink, and by the wall phone. He stood and traded his candle for a flashlight and shone it on the ceiling. The others turned theirs upward as well. "No drips."

Lee told them to kill the lights. He looked out into the night. The intermittent lightning revealed no intruders in the yard. Still, there had been that shadow earlier in the evening. And there was the dog -- barking over something.

"I won't leave."

"Fine."

"We will wait out the storm together. The phone lines should be restored soon."

Solo nodded tiredly, eyes closed. "Whatever. Let them destroy the U.N.C.L.E.'s project at White Sands. Who cares? They'll just take it out of our paychecks for the next century."

Kuryakin refused to respond to the sarcasm. He sat down next to his friend. "You must eat, Napoleon. You are much too weak."

The injured agent shook his head. "Not hungry."

His own appetite gone, the Russian pushed aside the food saved for his friend. He laid a hand on Solo's face, which was hot and damp. He glanced at the blood-caked shirt/make-shift bandage stuck to the still, slightly-oozing entry wound. Napoleon needed a doctor. He would die on a horseback journey, so moving him was out of the question. Kuryakin could sit out the storm, sticking by his friend, watching him bleed to death or die of lead poisoning. Or he could do something, like go for help.

For a time he sat thinking, watching the rain, A Hard Day's Night floating like a wraith in his thoughts. How appropriate, he sighed,

Leaving -- deserting -- his friend was the last thing he wanted to do. What if the spies were still on the trail? Napoleon would be completely helpless. And the innocent -- Illya had decided they were no threat -- people inside the house would be killed as well.

"Perhaps I could find a doctor tonight..."

Solo opened an eye. "In a strange area... on horseback... in this weather? Forget it."

"I must do something!"

Solo laid a hand on his friend's arm. "You stole food, you tried to call for help..."

"Both useless."

"What do you suggest?"

Kuryakin shook his head with defeat. "Very few options, I fear."

Napoleon soberly stared at his friend. "You have to make a decision you can live with, Illya. Or, I'll make it for you if that's any easier."

"You are having a bad run of luck on ideas, my friend."

"You'll never let me live it down," Napoleon muttered under his breath.

"Never."

"You could avert disaster, save the project -- probably even the lives of McCall's team in Viet Nam, if you beat the saboteurs to White Sands," Solo stated soberly.. "Agreed?"

Kuryakin hesitated.

"Illya," Solo urged sternly.

"Agreed," Illya finally, reluctantly, snapped out.

"Then that's what you've got to do. Get to White Sands. Send back a doctor. Simple."

The Russian's silent glare was his only answer.

Napoleon gave him a pat on the arm. "Now saddle up, Tex. You've got to go rescue the fort from the savages."

Lee carefully loaded both shotgun barrels. He'd been properly trained in weaponry by the Colonel, as well as a few basic instructions from Uncle Clayton. The other boys knew how to target shoot with the old Winchester Skip was holding. They were armed for bear and would probably find nothing more sinister outside than a stray Puma driven out of the hills by the rain. Still, Lee was suspicious of the phantom he thought he'd seen; images of desperate murderers lurking in the barn filled his thoughts. The cold, eerie Federal agent still spooked him, and the muddy prints in the kitchen didn't appear out of nowhere. Someone had been in the house! The boy's burgeoning maturity and memories of a long-past brush with violence, convinced them to meet this threat with deadly force.

"Stay out of the open, but keep each other in sight. We don't want to accidentally shoot ourselves."

With a nod of agreement, the four waited for a lightning flash to end, then slipped out of the kitchen.

The spirited animals restlessly trotted around the stall eluding the lithe agent. Several whinnied cries mingled with the plod of hooves on the hard ground. The cacophony was completed by the staccato barks of the approaching canine, the close explosions of thunder and the driving rain.

Illya caught and saddled a horse. He tied the reins to a post and rejoined his friend, reluctance barring his escape.

An infinitesimal shift in shadows alerted the U.N.C.L.E. agent. In the next streak of light he clearly saw shapes -- armed men -- moving against the dark form of the house. His clumsy foray to the kitchen had been discovered. Indecision was swept away in an instant. He and Napoleon were no match for four men with guns.

Illya shook his partner. "Napoleon, they're coming."

Solo snapped awake, instantly alert, and looked out a knot-hole. "A posse. Damn, I can't believe it! Another group of the spies!" With help from his partner he slowly struggled to his feet. "Get going."

For a moment Illya stared at him, his eyes reflecting the agonizing dilemma playing out in his thoughts.

Napoleon gave his friend a gentle shove. "Go on."

Kuryakin nodded, then touched his comrade's shoulder. "If there was another way--"

Solo shook his head. "No choice. Not even the most paranoid farmers would come gunning like that! Now get out while you can. I'll be here when you bring back the cavalry."

It was a false hope. They both knew, against the opponents closing in, there was no chance for the unarmed Solo. Kuryakin tried to shove the dismal thought behind a wall of clinical logic. At least this way he would get away and hopefully fulfill their mission. He could save some lives tonight, just not the most important one to him.

"I'll get the door, and you ride like hell."

Solo opened the door a crack. He was instantly soaked atop his cold sweat. His right side burned with pain and he had trouble focusing his eyes. He leaned on the wood and forced himself to breath steady, to stay on his feet. The rain in his eyes was nearly blinding.

"Go!" he shouted.

Kuryakin rode toward Solo. With a half-salute of farewell, the senior agent slid open the big doors. The horse bolted into the yard.

A shotgun blast cracked above their heads and echoed in the night. The already nervous horse reared, knocking Solo to the ground. By the time Kuryakin regained control of the animal, the shotgun was pointed only inches away from the senior agent's head.

The breath knocked out of him, Napoleon waved for his partner to leave.

Kuryakin evaluated the teenager aiming the rifle at him. There was a chance he could escape without being shot, but he would not even make the effort. Abandoning his partner with a gun, literally, to Solo's head was not his style. With a sigh of resignation, the Russian raised his hands, flung a leg over the horse's head, and slid to the ground in surrender.

"They're the escaped convicts," Murphy insisted.

Murphy, Skip and Lee stood on one side of the kitchen table, weapons at the ready. The captives sat in the corner of the far wall, Solo's head leaning against a cupboard, eyes closed. One elbow was propped on a chair, supporting the hand that was clutched to his side.

Kuryakin grimaced as he glanced at his partner's wound. Whoever these kids were, there was no choice but to accept surrender and make the best possible terms.

"I believe we have a misunderstanding here," the Russian began. "Since the explanation will be a long one, we should set our priorities. My friend is in need of medical attention. Is there another vehicle we can use to get him to a doctor?"

Lee was suspicious. "Another vehicle? Have you been watching us?"

"Don't answer any questions like that," Skip warned. "They'll kill us and escape."

Solo opened his eyes and looked at Kuryakin. "Try the truth," he sighed. "What have we got to lose?"

"More of your blood," was the curt reply. Illya stared at each of the young men, focusing finally on Lee, who was armed and obviously the leader. "We are agents of an international enforcement agency called the U.N.C.L.E."

"Uncle?" Skip snorted.

Kuryakin rolled his eyes. "It does not command much respect when spoken like that, but there you have it. We have spent the last two days in a mine shaft as, yes, prisoners. But not what you think. We were imprisoned by... foreign spies." He grimaced at the pathetic story he himself could hardly believe. The cousins exchanged glances, which Illya did not miss. "That means something to you," surprised that they were not as skeptical as he expected.

"We've had our own experiences with mine shafts," Skip responded with feeling. "But that doesn't mean you're telling the truth."

Kuryakin singled out Stetson. "You recognized the name of U.N.C.L.E. United Network Command for Law and Enforcement."

Lee shrugged as causally as he could. "My uncle has mentioned something about that kind of outfit, yeah. He's a Colonel in the Air Force."

"Wonderful!" Illya declared. He looked at his friend whose skin was pale and shiny with sweat. He put a hand on Solo's face, which was hot. "At least give me some towels or linens," he said to Stetson. "Perhaps I can stop some of the bleeding."

"He wants to separate us so he can jump you," Murphy warned.

Kuryakin cast a concerned look at his partner, then refocused on his unreasonably paranoid captors. "There must be someone I could talk to. Where is your uncle... any uncle?"

"Don't say anything!" Skip warned.

"I've heard of U.N.C.L.E.," was Lee's cautious reply, "but that doesn't mean you're a member. You sound like a foreign agent."

"A Russian spy!" Murphy accused. "Where's your ID?" he demanded.

"Taken by our captors." He rubbed his face. The situation was already desperate. That he was being held captive by teenagers was insult to injury. Ever mindful the phrase held a very literal meaning to his partner, he tried again to explain the urgency of the situation. "The spies we escaped from are after us. The leader... that blond man who stopped here earlier today, was asking about us, was he not?"

The cousins exchanged silent glances.

"He is a Soviet agent. I am a Russian citizen, but I do not work for the U.S.S.R... " His voice trailed away as he read the incredulity on the expressive faces. "Rolf, the enemy agent, knows you are here. He may come back to see if my partner and I ever showed up. There are few places of refuge in this desert. For your own safety as well as ours, it is imperative we -- all of us now -- get to the nearest local authorities. My friend needs a doctor and I must contact the intelligence officers at White Sands."

"That's just what you'd want," Skip accused. "You want us as hostages to get you into White Sands!"

"Hold on," Lee interrupted. He wasn't sure what to make of the fantastic intruders, but it would do them no good to be hysterical. "Let's hear him out."

"This is ridiculous!" Murphy insisted. "You expect us to believe that? It's like something from that James Bond movie."

"Who?" Lee asked again.

"A new spy movie."

"This is the truth!" Kuryakin snapped back.

Solo laboriously raised his head. "Let my friend go and bring back help. You can keep me here." With the lethargy of shock, pain and exhaustion, he noted the red liquid dripping through the fingers. "And your mother will be very mad at you if you let me bleed all over the kitchen floor," he announced tiredly. "Let my friend go."

"You are the one in need of help, Napoleon," Illya reminded. He pressed a hand to Solo's face. The fever was gone, replaced by the cool, clammy symptoms of shock. He looked back at the young men. The fear he saw in their eyes angered him. "Regardless of who you believe us to be, are you going to allow my friend to bleed to death?"

Murphy looked to his older cousins. "I could get the first aid kit."

Lee gave a nod of acceptance, and Murphy took a flashlight and left.

"I think you guys are escaped prisoners and will slit our throats the minute we put the guns down." Skip glanced out the window at the splashing rain. "Andy's takin' a long time puttin' the horse away." He glared at the blond prisoner. "Someone else hiding in the barn?"

"Not to my knowledge. Look, if it makes you comfortable, tie me up -- do whatever you feel necessary -- but someone has to go to town for the local police." He glanced again at Solo. "At the very least, a doctor. My friend is... is in desperate need of help!"

Skip grimaced at the dilemma. "Can't you do something for him now?"

Kuryakin shook his head. "Very little."

Stetson was still wary. "Even if we believe you, no one can ride in this weather. Roads are washed out and flash floods can sweep you away like you never existed. No one can go out -- at least until daylight."

"I will go!" Illya snapped. "I am willing to take the risk!"

Murphy returned with old towels, clean rags, antiseptic, an aid kit and a basin of hot water. Illya praised the youngster for his efficiency. Murphy, with some embarrassment in front of his cousins, admitted he just used some common sense. As Kuryakin and Skip carefully laid Solo on the floor, Andy returned, soaked and muddy.

"It's gettin' worse our there," young Travis reported. "The horses are really spooked. "What's goin' on?" Andy paled and gasped. "Did you shoot him, Lee?"

"He was already shot."

They filled Andy in as Kuryakin ripped the blood-stained shirt off of Solo. The cousins alternately winced and groaned as the ugly, seeping wound was quickly, expertly cleaned and dressed. They had more vocal and visible reactions than the patient. Solo gritted his teeth and silently endured the necessary treatment.

"You're as good as a doctor," Murphy complimented.

"Unfortunately, from too much practice," Kuryakin sighed, worriedly studying his friend. "The bullet has to come out. There are probably internal injuries. Please, let me go for help."

Andy stepped forward. "What if they're tellin' the truth. We can't let him die."

Skip shook his head. "No one could make it into town."

"Then we should go to the Torreses," was Andy's solution. "The old grandfather's part Navajo and is some kind of medicine man. He knows a lot about healing and it's a lot closer than town."

Lee considered the problem as he watched Kuryakin tie the gauze bandage. The dark-haired agent, Solo, was pale white and in pain. If only McCall was here, he would know what to do. He would know all about this spy stuff. He would know if these guys were telling the truth; he could make all the important decisions. Unfortunately, McCall was not here, and might not come at all, thanks to the storm.

"Napoleon cannot endure a horseback ride. Can we bring this Torres person back here? I could do it, just give me directions."

Skip was still suspicious. "He'd escape -- and with one of Uncle Jake's horses."

"I assure you, I will return," Kuryakin sighed with exasperation. "What must I do to convince you we are the good guys?"

For some reason all the cousins looked to Lee for a decision. Whatever he chose, they would follow. He didn't like the responsibility. He could literally hold this strange man's life in his hands -- both their lives. He didn't like it, but recognized he would have to make a choice and stick with it.

"All right. You," he pointed to the blond agent."

"Illya Kuryakin. This is Napoleon Solo."

"I told you they were lying," Skip proclaimed.

Andy joined in. "They're spies! They can't even make up decent names!"

Solo shook his head. "I should never leave the explanations to you. He's Russian. I am, unfortunately, a descendant of a family with exotic names. I am also, as you can see, as red-blooded American as you boys."

Illya shot him a scowl. To the boys, he said, "Which direction is Torres?"

"Southeast," Andy supplied. Skip glared at him. "Oops. I shouldn't have given anything away, huh?"

Solo shook his head. "Take the boys. Our pursuers might be back..."

"We will have to take the risk!" Illya snapped, glowering with disapproval. "I won't leave you here by yourself."

Irritated that the adults were clearly no help in providing a solution, Lee demanded they rest and wait until morning. Riding at night was out of the question. With daylight, even in a storm, he and his cousins knew the area well enough to make the trip to The Torres farm. In the darkness, no matter how urgent, it was too dangerous.

The Russian bridled at the decision. The delay would mean his partner's life. He could not allow it. Murphy pointed out there was no choice in the matter.

Andy volunteered for the first watch, with the shotgun and Winchester propped in the corner next to him and Skip, by the cabinets. The spies were ordered to stay near the wall. Skip laid a blanket on the floor beside his cousin. Lee and Murphy left to sleep in the living room. Wild thunder and rain continued relentlessly, with snakes of lightning splitting the sky and illuminating the windows.

Suddenly Andy's mouth was covered by a hand. The next second the cold barrel of the Winchester was resting under his ear. He must have dozed off and in that instant, the prisoners were in control of the weapons. They would all be murdered!

"Please remain quiet and still," Illya commanded in a whisper.

The man was a professional, obviously, and left no room for opposition.

"I have no desire to hurt you, but I must do everything I can to save Napoleon's life," Illya whispered. "I am taking you with me, to bring back medical aid. Don't try anything foolish."

"No," Lee snapped out from the doorway.

Kuryakin saw Murphy and Lee were just inside the kitchen. The voices woke Skip, who took in the situation in a glance and remained frozen in place.

Lee continued. "I'll go, I know the way..."

"I've been there more than anyone," Andy interrupted "I could find it for you blindfolded."

"That is just about what it will be," Kuryakin said with a nod toward the window. "If there was another way to accomplish what must be done..." he shrugged, leaving the rest of the apology unspoken. "I must do what I can for Napoleon."

"Illya the Kid," Solo joked quietly. He struggled up on an elbow. "This kind of thing is hell on public relations."

"Go back to sleep, Napoleon, I am organizing a rescue."

Solo shook his head. "This isn't the way."

"It is the only way I can see." Kuryakin, with the shotgun held against Andy, crossed to the door. To Solo he said, "Try to stay alive until my return. I would hate to go to all this trouble for nothing."

Solo gave a nod. "Will do. You'll have to phone for reinforcements."

"The Torreses don't have a phone," Andy supplied.

"Then you'll have to keep going," Solo stated. Kuryakin started to object. "I'll be fine, Illya. You've got to warn White Sands. We'll hold the Alamo."

"Napoleon, you always use the worst analogies."

"I could have said Waterloo."

"It's not over yet." Kuryakin looked out the window. There was the faintest gray tinge on the eastern horizon. He turned to the nearest boy. "When is dawn?"

"Maybe another hour. Less if the clouds thin out "

Kuryakin pushed the rifle over to Solo. "Try not to shoot anything but bad guys," he advised gruffly.

"Will do."

The Russian hesitated. Solo gestured him away. "Go on. I can take care of myself."

"I have seen little evidence of that since we have been partners," was Kuryakin's semi-serious comment. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Solo gave a tired nod. "I know." He sighed, and settled his head back on the pillow. The Winchester rested in the crook of his arm.

Reluctantly accepting the inevitable, Kuryakin inclined his head in farewell. Light flared and faded in the room. He paused for a last glance, then he and Andy walked out the open door, into the early-morning rain. In the next instant of darkness, they were gone. The three remaining cousins watched at the window.

"Maybe we should try to get the drop on them in the barn," Skip suggested.

"And get all of us killed?" Murphy snapped back. "Maybe he won't hurt Andy. Maybe he's telling the truth."

"He is," Solo assured. "You've got to trust us."

"Not very easy when you have us at gun point," Lee retorted.

"You gave us no choice. My friend is highly motivated. That makes him trickier than ever."

Once in the barn, Illya placed the shotgun safely out of reach and helped Andy with a horse.

"There is no need to prepare two. I will go alone."

"What do you mean?" Andy finished cinching the girth and put down the stirrup. "I thought..."

"That you were my hostage? Only to get me out of the house. I could never endanger a boy..."

"I'm not a kid, you know!"

"A young civilian, then." Kuryakin lead the horse out. "We are the good guys. Our actions are supposed to separate us from our opposite numbers."

Heedless of the strictures, Andy saddled another horse. "You'll still need help finding the Torres place."

"I can't take responsibility for you," was the agent's harsh reply.

"What about your partner? He's in bad shape, isn't he?"

Illya's expression darkened. "He would not want me to endanger your life to save his own."

"But you can't stop me if I go along."

The agent rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Americans are a stubborn lot," he muttered. "Cowboy heroics. Why would you do this for us?"

It was a question more complex than Andy was prepared to face. It seemed a dangerous, even foolhardy excursion. These men were total strangers. He couldn't even swear he believed them! So why take the risk? He thought of McCall, back to that summer of danger several years ago. There had been plenty of fear and excitement. There had also been a feeling of triumph; overcoming the fear, the risk, to ultimately win against people who were the bad guys.

"I can help. It's not as dangerous as you think. I know this country real good."

Andy threw open the barn doors and mounted his horse.

Illya caught his arm. "Thank you."

Andy gave him a nod and urged the reluctant animal outside.

Two horses with riders galloped out of the barn and quickly disappeared into the rainy of night.

"I'm going to get the shotgun. You guys stay here."

Lee rushed into the downpour. Skip and Murphy turned to glare at the spy.

Solo closed his eyes. "I don't like this any better than you do. Wake me when the cavalry comes back."

Almost an hour later the horses slid across the slick, silty mud leading into the Torres homestead. The sun was an anemic gray spread of light above the eastern hills.

The wild excursion through the desert was a harrowing experience. Illya decided, and young Travis concurred, that keeping to established routes would be safest. The main road was completely washed out in two places, at one spot impassable even by horseback. Once riding cross-country, the terrain looked amazingly different. Andy's directions were off-target at one point. They were delayed yet again by a gully now widened to a rushing river. They lost precious time finding a shallow spot to cross.

They tethered their mounts at a post next to the house. A dark-haired man who looked to be in his forties, emerged from behind a lean-to near the corral.

"There's Mr. Torres!" Andy shouted.

Now at their long-anticipated destination, Illya went first to the door of the house, pounding on the old, weathered wood. After several assaults, it was clear there would be no response. After greeting Andy, Hector Torres moved to join the agent.

"Grandfather isn't home," he explained. "Come in." He wiped his feet and placed the bucket by the door. "I was just milking the cows."

He lead them into a comfortable, if small living room. A fire had burned to ashes in the fireplace, but the smell of pungent wood filled the air. Strong coffee steamed from a percolator on the stove. The travelers shook water from their ponchos and pulled their dripping hoods down. Hector was startled at the blond man's bruised face and dirty hair.

Swallowing his curiosity, Hector moved the pot off the burner. "I've got coffee here..."

"We have no time for explanations," Illya returned sharply. "A friend of mine is injured. I must find a doctor."

Hector looked to Andy for further explanation. "It's a long story, Mr. Torres. His friend is back at the ranch with the others. Uncle Jake went into Santa Fe."

"You need my grandfather and he's not here. One of the ladies at the reservation went into labor during the storm. Father and Annie left just before dark to help her. I don't know when he'll be home."

Kuryakin exchanged glances with Andy. "Where is the nearest phone?"

Hector shrugged, looking at his Andy. "The Clark's, maybe?"

Andy shook his head. "They're gone on vacation. You'll have to go into Glorieta."

"Is there a doctor there?" Kuryakin asked.

"There's a clinic, but the doctor only comes in a few times a week." He shrugged. "I don't really know."

"Are the Clarks are on the same phone lines?"

"I'm not sure," Hector admitted. "They're across the gorge. Maybe not."

"Then I will go to this Clark house," Illya decided.

"But they're not..."

"I will still be able to use the phone." To Andy, he suggested, "You should stay here until the storm lifts. It would be dangerous for you to return alone."

"Mr. Torres could take me..."

"No. It was enough of a risk for you to come here with me. For that, I apologize, but it was necessary to help Napoleon. Please do nothing to endanger yourself now."

Before the stunned Travis could comment, the agent was back into the rain, jogging toward his horse.

"What's going on?"

"I'll explain it all. You won't believe it. I don't think I do!" Andy promised as they watched the mysterious agent halt just as he was reaching for the reins. "Why's he stopping?"

Torres pointed toward the road. "A jeep's coming."

They watched as the four-wheeler came to a stop and a long-coated, broad-shouldered man with dark hair emerged. Andy couldn't believe it! He was even more surprised when the Russian crossed the yard and shook hands with Robert McCall!

The two agents were talking in fast, clipped half-sentences when they came into the house.

"Andy, my boy," McCall greeted his young relative. "Illya's been filling me in."

"How did you find us?"

"I couldn't make it through to Jake's. The roads are washed out. I was coming across country and saw two riders. I thought, they might be from the ranch. I guess I was right."

"We must get Napoleon to a doctor."

"Of course. But the project..."

"Comes second," Illya insisted.

"The project, yes, but not the lives in Viet Nam!" McCall insisted firmly. Paul Kobal in Southeast Asia meant sabotage, which could mean death for the team in the field. He didn't want to choose between their lives and Napoleon's. McCall sighed. "I think we can serve both ends at the same time. We have to notify Oscar about Rolf, and get a chopper out here for Napoleon."

Kuryakin nodded. It was agreed that all would travel in the jeep to the Clark's. They would phone from there and then wait for air transport at the ranch. The journey was complicated by the rivers flooding through the washes. It was mid-morning when they came to a stop at the road leading to the Clark house. A broken tree leaned into the telephone transformers. The crash probably took out the lines for miles around.

McCall shut off the engine and leaned on the steering wheel. He knew what they should do next. He knew it was logical, but not what the Russian would want to hear. They must face the harsh facts. It did not help for him to mentally remind himself about this being part of the Game, one of the liabilities of covert operations. Lives were lost -- sometimes close lives. It was a fact one accepted. It was never easy to live with.

"We've got to go into Glorieta," he finally said. "The phones should be working there."

Illya gave a tight nod.

McCall started the engine and turned the car toward the town. There was no use offering any advice or comfort. There was nothing to be said. Luck, good and bad, played with their lives. This operation seemed to hold it's share of the bad; the capture, the loss of communicator pens, the storm. He would try to salvage what he could of the mission. Of the lives of his friends -- those Fates he held no control over.

The thunder rolled past the house like a jet flying treetop level over the roof. The noise startled everyone awake. The three cousins had their heads on the table, spending their vigil together in the kitchen. Murphy thumbed through an old Boy Scout first aid manual while the others snacked and chatted and dozed. The shotgun was once more propped in the corner. Their guest was in no shape to escape. They sat up and watched the play of fingered light out the windows.

The storm didn't seem to be letting up at all, Lee thought. He looked down at the agent, whose intent brown eyes stared at him.

"Makes it hard to sleep, doesn't it?"

Lee nodded. "The thunder or the spy on our kitchen floor?"

Napoleon smiled in appreciation of the quip. "Always keep your sense of humor, no matter how serious the circumstances."

Murphy was eyeing the dressing that was tinged with red. "Should I try another bandage?"

The agent shook his head. "Best to leave it for now. By the way, I apologize for this sticky wicket we've embroiled you in."

Skip came over to sit on the floor by the agent. "When things get bad, that's what you do, you joke?"

"Sometimes it's all you have to get through desperate times. Aside from a good partner."

Lee would never forget the Russian's intensity. "Yours seems determined."

"We've been through a lot. He doesn't want to train someone new."

The image was confusing to Lee. "He's Russian. The Colonel... well, aren't the Russian's our enemies?"

"Politically, yes. Illya and I work for U.N.C.L.E., an organization that strives to rise above the ideologies of countries, to a higher level of crime fighting and law enforcement. We've bridged a lot of gaps."

Unwilling to accept the simplistic view of international cooperation, Lee tried to find arguments against the unity. After all, the Colonel had raised him to understand about the Cold War and the evils of Communism. He still believed in those precepts; to never compromise your principles just to get along with someone. But Solo and Kuryakin did just that -- ignored their patriotism for a different kind of loyalty. He would have to investigate this, but it was not a concept he was comfortable with. People could be individuals, yes. Could they be trusted? He wouldn't bet on it. Yet, his instincts told him there was no question Kuryakin would be back for his partner. Maybe there were some loyalties that transcended everything.

"You were telling us the truth, weren't you?" Murphy asked, moving to sit near Lee. "You're the good guys?"

"We do our best. It must seem a bit blurred when my friend has the bad grace to hold you at gun point."

Lee found he could generously excuse the actions which, a few hours ago, were frightening. "We didn't cooperate exactly."

"No. You four showed a lot of courage. What made you believe our wild story?"

Murphy shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe that Andy went with your partner." The others looked at him. "Well, if Andy wanted to, he could out ride anyone in this country. He'd have been back here a long time ago if he didn't take your partner to the Torreses."

"You story's pretty fantastic for a lie," Skip added.

The veteran agent scanned the youthful faces. Their innocent lives were being abruptly interrupted by a nasty slice of danger. If they weren't lucky, things could get worse. For the sake of the boys, he hoped the enemy spies were trying to complete the sabotage mission and not track the U.N.C.L.E. agents. He was confident that Goldman and McCall could stop Rolf at White Sands. He hoped. He didn't want the danger to seep over to the third part of the team in Viet Nam. The combat units faced their own multiple dangers, without adding complications.

The only positive thought he could manage was the surprising grit displayed by the young men. He might not be able to help them much longer and they would need to call on their own courage.

"Just don't believe every stranger who bleeds all over your kitchen." There was no response to his grotesque, sardonic comments. He shook his head. "Don't mind me. I always get delirious after I'm shot." That quip did not help their nerves at all. "Sorry. Just ignore me."

Murphy grabbed the glass of water he kept nearby and gave the agent another drink. He'd adopted the responsibility of taking care of the wounded man in these last hours. He was appalled at his easy acceptance of the irreverent sarcasm creeping into his thoughts. The man's black humor was rubbing off.

"Anything else we can do?"

Solo almost refused them, then changed his mind. "Yes. In case... things turn sour... you have to promise something."

"What?" they all asked warily.

"First... make your safety top priority. We have possibly placed you in harm's way. If I can't help you, you must help yourselves. Promise?"

The three nodded.

"Second... find out if Illya made it to White Sands. It's very important."

"Why," Lee wondered.

"It's better that you don't know," Solo cautioned. "There's an agent we're supposed to meet there. He'll know what to do. Just promise that you'll do that for me."

"We will."

"Good," the agent sighed. He patted Lee on the shoulder. "You never know how things will turn out, as you can see. Who would have guessed we'd be spending -- what is today? Friday? Good Friday like this." He closed his eyes and settled against the blanket. "Not much good in it, is there?"

The three cousins quietly sat back at the table and alternated their attention between the wounded man and the tempest outside. There was the faintest hint of dawn at the center of the darkness in the east. They whispered quiet hopes that the storm would pass come daylight. None of them were optimistic.

The dog raced into the room, barking frantically, scratching at the door. Thunder cracked like a cannon shot, rattling the cupboards. The echo took several seconds to fade and finally die. In that instant the silhouette of a man was outlined against the window and the pale gray sky. The bright light splashed across the kitchen, then faded, the room left in the eerie glow of the candles.

"Down!" Lee hissed.

Everyone fell to the floor and watched with captive breaths as the knob jiggled.

"Give me the shotgun," Solo whispered, alert and sitting up.

Lee hesitated.

"I have a little more experience don't you agree? I'm still capable of getting off a few straight shots."

Lee handed him the weapon.

"Douse the candles and get in the other room. Keep the pooch with you."

The lock on the door snapped and the rain-soaked man entered the room.

"Freeze!" Solo ordered as he clicked back the hammer.

The form turned, clearly displaying a pistol in the left hand. In the faint gleam of a lightning flash, Solo recognized the man as one of the enemy agents. The handgun discharged an instant before the U.N.C.L.E. operative pulled both triggers of the shotgun.

The stranger was blown out of the doorway, prone and still in the mud, rain pelting off his figure.

"Everyone all right?" Napoleon called.

"Fine," Skip answered for them all. He was the first into the room. "Who is it?"

The dog growled at the inert form. Andy took the hound away to lock him in another room.

"One of the bad guys," Solo identified. "Close the door -- carefully, don't allow yourself to be seen. Put a chair against it." He glanced at Lee, who was crouching next to him. "Get all the ammo you can find for this." To Murphy he said, "Go double-check all the doors and windows. Anything even slightly amiss, hightail it back here. Got it?"

"Got it."

Skip secured the door and peaked out at the yard. There was no sign of anyone else. No movement at all. He stayed at the post awaiting further instructions. Lee carried two boxes of shells and stacked them on the floor.

Solo handed him the gun. "Load it. Are there any other weapons?"

Lee shook his head. "I don't know..." He pointed at the agent. "Your neck is bleeding."

He wiped at it with the back of his hand. Now he could feel the wetness trickle into his collar. "I'm just one big pin cushion this trip," he sighed. "I don't think it's bad."

"All secure," Murphy reported.

Lee told him of the agent's wound. Despite Solo's protests, Murphy set about cleaning and bandaging the crease. With the air of an expert, Murphy declared it was not too serious; the bullet furrowed a shallow slice through the fleshy part of the neck. He even dug the slug out of the wall and pocketed the souvenir.

Lee returned with a box containing a .22 target pistol with shells.

"I found this in J.J.'s room," he announced.

In the gray morning light, Solo told each boy to take a turn in loading the weapon and snapping off the safety. By the time weak sunlight filtered through the clouds, he was more confident about his companions' abilities.

"Still no sign of anyone else?"

"No," Murphy confirmed, now the window look-out.

"I'm afraid, I have an unpleasant task for you three. You'll have to move the body out of sight. The barn would be best. Then I want you to find the vehicle he drove. Get the keys out of his pocket and get out of here."

"But we..."

"Don't argue, Lee!" was Solo's sharp interruption. He grimaced at the pain caused by the outburst. "This could mean your lives, damn it! Can you drive?" Stetson gave a tight nod. "Go to the nearest neighbors and phone White Sands."

All three started to protest, but Solo overrode them. "Only go to people you can trust absolutely."

"Torreses," they agreed.

Solo gave a nod of consent. "Now, help me up. I'll guard you."

"You shouldn't move," Murphy cautioned. "Every time you do it could cause more internal..."

"Please, Murphy..."

"There could be irreparable damage..."

"Thank you, Murphy, but someone's got to keep an eye out. It will take three of you to move a dead -- excuse the term -- weight. I can't help, therefore, I will be the guard. Let's get to it."

The young men seemed to display more agony over the move than the agent. Stoically gritting his teeth, Solo was silent as they eased him to his feet. His face was a terrible shade of gray by the time they supported him to the door. He'd bitten his lip so hard it bled.

"Check first," he cautioned, his voice tight, breathless.

They assured him all was clear. Then they dashed into the rain and struggled to drag the body to the barn. Strength spent, Solo's knees buckled and he slid to the floor. The boys returned after a long time, their own expressions tight, their faces pale. He suspected one or all had thrown-up from the grisly task.

Lee opened his fist and displayed a set of keys.

"Once more, I apologize," he told them when they had dried off. "Did you find the car?"

"A truck, behind the barn."

"Did you check for others?"

Skip related their search of the area and mentioned that Murphy even looked for footprints. They assured the agent Murphy was the eagle-eye of the group and could be counted on to notice details.

"Do you really expect more enemy agents?" Lee asked.

"Maybe," Solo replied soberly. He directed them to help him to one of the kitchen chairs. "That was one of our jailers. Only one other man survived," he said as he leaned back and caught his breath. "The man who was here earlier... yesterday. Despite Illya's paranoia, I don't think there were others in the area. These guys were here for a reason. Rolf is probably trying to accomplish his mission at White Sands. That's why I think it'll be safe to let you go to your friend's place. But that's only a guess. They could have completed the sabotage at White Sands and returned to eliminate Illya and me."

"If the other spy is nearby...

"I'll cover you," Solo assured Stetson.

"What about you? After we're gone..."

"I can take care of myself. Get your gear together. I'll go with you out to the barn."

Lee carried the shotgun and pistol, while, Skip and Murphy supported the wounded agent as he came to his feet, only to collapse to his knees between them.

Solo shook his head. "No more strength," he said between gritted teeth. "You'll have to leave me here. Prop me in the corner there." Lee was about to refuse, but Solo overrode him. "No choice. Take your chance and leave. Go on. You've got a higher priority."

"What?"

"Your cousins are depending on you. I know you won't let them down."

No he wouldn't. He didn't expect to have to make this kind of decision, either. He felt if he abandoned this agent, Solo would die. All this mysterious secret stuff seemed a poor reason for a man's death. He wondered how anyone could face death with such calm acceptance. Courage, was the word that came to mind. In the face of this kind of bravery, he could do nothing less than fulfill his own duty. His cousins and Solo were depending on him.

Against Solo's arguments, the cousins left the .22 pistol with the agent. Murphy did his best to staunch the side wound to slow the bleeding. They wrapped Solo with blankets and propped a pillow against the wall. He was amused at the fussing. Danger was a powerful bonding agent. He was sorry to admit he would probably not live to see these young men again. They were going to turn out well. He would have liked to seen them, maybe even recruit -- no -- not into this nasty business. They deserved better.

"We'll be back for you," Lee promised.

Napoleon gave a nod. "Just take care of yourselves. Be careful. And remember -- make sure you contact White Sands."

"What do you want us to tell Illya?" Murphy asked.

There was too much to say, words he never could relay. He wouldn't burden these boys, or his partner, with some melodramatic final phrase of profound philosophy. Illya would remember the best of their partnership -- no, Illya would never forgive him. Illya would be angry he had given up.

A smile twitched at his lips. "I'll tell him when he gets here."

"Okay," Skip hesitantly accepted.

"I'm very proud of you boys. Now get out of here."

They muttered thanks and filed out. Lee paused for a moment. He wanted to say more, but could not find the words. With a nod of farewell he closed the door.

Solo listened for the sound of a truck. There was only the pounding of the rain. Soon the prattling rattle of drops lulled him to a dazed, drifting plane of semi-consciousness. He heard the pistol clatter to the floor. The cascading rivulets of water on the window blurred to an opaque veil and he closed his eyes against the out of focus world.

"Oscar, there's an urgent phone call for you," Dr. Wright relayed to the director in the flight control room.

Goldman raced to a private office, sank into the chair, and sighed with relief when he heard the voice of Robert McCall. The bad news relayed on the crackling phone line was disheartening and he sagged against the desk.

"Rolf is here? At White Sands? How could he breach security?"

"He's gotten to someone on your staff," Kuryakin answered. "He has some kind of fake I.D."

"What does he look like?"

"He's tall and Aryan, but is known to disguise his appearance. You must shut down the project," Kuryakin warned.

"We can't," Oscar snapped back. "We're in the middle of a test --"

"You're showing him the whole project, Oscar!" McCall shouted back. "Pull the bloody plug!"

"Do you know how much we lose if I shut this down now? I'm on satellite link with Charles and J.J.! It'll endanger the SOG team! Three Congressmen are here! Control will be here anytime! If this fails, you know he'll take it right out of my hands, Robert. And the good it could do those troops in Viet Nam..."

"Oscar..."

"This test is vital!"

"Pull a plug somewhere!" McCall barked back. "Buy some time till we can get there and I.D. Rolf!"

"He'll be spooked by the delay." Illya muttered several foreign comments. "We'll lose him," was Illya's savagely bitter observation. "We have already lost too much."

"What do you mean by that?" Oscar shouted.

"Napoleon's badly wounded. We need an airlift to the nearest hospital."

Oscar shook his head and leaned his forehead into his palm. One disaster after another it seemed. They worked so hard on this... Now Napoleon down -- maybe dying. Stetson, Devlin and J.J. Michaels, were in the bush on the front line. They could easily be killed during this test. It would be meaningless if they were unable to salvage something. He could accept defeat if he had to, but would not tolerate the waste. He was, however, not about to give up now. They were so close. He had to pull this off somehow.

"All right, give me the location, and your number. I'll send two copters and a medic, whatever I can find on the base."

"We can go in with Napoleon's chopper," Illya offered.

Goldman shook his head. "No, it'll take too much time. I'll send separate birds. You get back as soon as you can. I can't stall for long. I've got to hold up the whole project until you can get here."

"Just don't let anyone do anything until I'm there," McCall warned.

The storm in the north was still violent and thick. The choppers flew into Glorieta and landed just outside of town. It was still too windy for them to venture into the thick of the bad weather. The doctor was willing to try to make it across country in a jeep. McCall volunteered to drive him, against the vociferous protests of the Russian.

"Illya, I know the country. I can get there with the jeep in one piece along with the doctor. That's our goal, right?"

"I should be the one to return."

"I promise to bring Napoleon back with his shield, not on it. Now, you go see what you can do for friend Goldman, right?"

The Russian still resisted.

A pick-up truck skidded onto the muddy shoulder of the road. Lee, Murphy and Skip piled out of the filthy truck. Andy leaped from the shelter of the chopper and waved at his cousins. After a quick explanation, McCall decided to relent and allow the U.N.C.L.E. agent to return to his partner with the young men as guides. He would fly back to White Sands and see what he could salvage of the mission. This was an important project for him as well as Goldman -- more important. The lives of his friends might depend on the success of this scientific effort.

The door opened. Solo reached for the weapon, knowing he could never seize it in time to save his life. The blur stepped into the kitchen.

A hand covered his and took the weapon from his grip. "Napoleon, I'm on your side."

"Illya?"

The Russian knelt beside his friend while the doctor did a quick study of the situation. It was grim indeed.

"Can you help him?"

The medic nodded confidently. "Sure. He's suffering from shock, blood loss and infection, but I've just graduated from the medical school of butchery in South Viet Nam. This guy's a piece of cake."

It was simple enough for Goldman to delay the test. No one knew where to pull the plug better than the director of the project. He did some minor damage to outside cables and blamed it on the storm. No one suspected a thing. The Viet Nam liaisons were told to stand by. The congressmen went for a coffee break. Oscar took the time to survey the control room. Everyone looked familiar -- technicians he worked with on this project for several weeks. Most he knew by name, all by sight. No one seemed suspicious. Momentarily he doubted the validity of McCall's and Kuryakin's fears, but instantly swept aside the questions. The field situation was desperate. Two veterans like Kuryakin and McCall would not both be wrong about a foreign spy.

By the time he made a full circuit of the room, stopped for coffee, and returned to his master monitor, the repairs were completed. He turned to check the clock. Robert McCall was standing beside him.

"Spot him yet?"

"No."

"Let me circle the room," McCall suggested. "Do your stand-by checks."

McCall had taken the time to change into a clean flight suit so he didn't look like he was dragged through most of the mud of New Mexico. No one would have suspected this morning's adventure, or his casual stroll was actually a tense spy-hunt. McCall was good at his job.

One mustached technician left his post and made his way to the observation room where coffee and snacks were kept. The congressmen loaded their plates and sat down at a table to watch the test.

For a moment McCall was afraid Rolf, the bogus technician, would take a few high-level hostages. Robert strolled the control room, feigning disinterest in the spy. The technician slipped out of the room, and McCall rushed out after him. The hallway was empty, but McCall could hear fast footsteps heading toward the elevators to go up to the ground floor of the building. McCall raced in the opposite direction, running up back stairs. He hoped to head off the spy before he left the building.

The technician briskly left the elevator and headed toward the reception area. As he passed the double doors of a conference suite, he was snagged from behind and dragged into a room, punched in the face, then thrown to the floor. McCall stood above him, a pistol aimed at the man's forehead.

"Hello, Rolf. It's been too long." McCall snatched off the fake mustache and stared at the East German spy with all the malevolence he felt for this evil man.

"McCall," Rolf breathed. "Not long enough."

"Not for you. Too soon for me." Rolf edged up on his elbows.

"Careful," McCall cautioned.

"A little nervous, McCall? Afraid of me still?"

"A little fear is a good way to stay alive," was the even reply. He would not give in to the intimated memories of Rolf's savage murders of Agency operatives. Rolf and his partners, Durkin and Kobal, were infamous in Western spy circles. "But I don't instill any fear in you, do I?"

"No, McCall. You've spent too much time with your American friends. You're soft. Like Solo. You called him in on this, didn't you? He's dead because of you, McCall."

Robert refused to be baited. "Where are the other ducklings? Huey and Dewey?" Rolf was silent. "Kobal and Durkin? Meeting you at the airfield in Santa Fe?"

Rolf laughed. "They wouldn't waste their time on you and your stupid project here, McCall. They can take it out in Viet Nam." Rolf eased up to sit against the wall. He wiped the blood from his nose. He pointed to his shirt pocket. "A handkerchief," he identified.

McCall shot him in the head. The German's head flung back against the wall, then the body slumped to the floor. Blood smeared along the cream colored paint.

The door burst in, Oscar Goldman and several armed MP's rushed into the room. McCall knelt and cautiously pulled a handkerchief from the bloody pocket. Inside the cloth was a tiny electronic chip about the size of a fingernail. Also in the pocket was a fountain pen.

"Are you all right?" Oscar asked.

"I bloody well am now." He pointed to the pen. "If he would have gotten this in my face, I wouldn't be here to answer that." He handed the chip over to Goldman. "I suggest you replace this at the station where Rolf was working. Do it before you run the test, old man. I think everything will go just fine now."

Goldman patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks, Robert. Good work."

"It was a pleasure," he admitted as he looked at the dead spy.

"By the way, I just heard from Illya. The storm cleared enough to airlift Napoleon to the hospital."

"He's alive?"

"For now. I've got work to do. You want to come?"

"Absolutely." He paused at the door to instruct the A.P.'s. "Clean up the mess, will you boys? We've got better things to do."

A grimy delegation filled the small waiting room at the hospital. Illya Kuryakin leaned against a wall in isolated silence. Andy and Skip sat in the corner on the floor and played a lethargic game of war with a deck of cards. Lee and Murphy occupied two of the four chairs and quietly talked.

"No word yet, I guess?" Oscar asked Illya as he and McCall arrived.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent shook his head. "Still in surgery."

McCall patted his arm. "Keep the faith, Illya." He walked over to chat with the boys, glad to see they were no worse for the amazing ordeal. "I've talked to J.J. He said to say hello to you all."

"How is he?" Andy asked.

"Is he fighting in the war?" Skip wanted to know.

"He's hating jungle life and trying not be eaten alive by insects," McCall related. He turned to Lee. "I talked to the Colonel, as well. He's fine and sends his regards. He's very proud of you -- all of you, for your courage in this incident."

"You told him!"

"I could hardly keep it from him."

Oscar came over and introduced himself. "McCall's version was just a bit edited."

"As will be our story to your relatives."

"Oh, yeah!" Andy breathed. "Grandma and Grandpa. They must be worried sick."

"No, it's been taken care of," Goldman assured. "We contacted the sheriff. He notified your family that you came into town with Robert, since the electricity and phones were out at the ranch."

"And all evidence of intruders has been erased," McCall added. "They won't know anything happened."

"How did you manage that?" Andy wondered.

"You mean we should keep this a secret," Skip translated. he was beginning to get the drift of this government stuff.

"It would be a big help," Oscar admitted. "And in return, I'll arrange for a tour of the base for you four."

"Great!" Murphy agreed.

"And another ride in a helicopter?" Skip hoped. His eyes were bright with the prospect of another thrill ride better than anything ever offered at Disneyland. "Do you think I can sit in the cockpit?"

Goldman gave a brief nod. "I'll see to it."

"Wow," Skip shouted, then covered his mouth. "Sorry," he apologized quietly. "You must be pretty important, you and McCall."

"We know the right strings to pull," McCall responded.

The operating room doors opened and a doctor in blood-smeared surgical greens joined them. Illya straightened, his fists clenched beside him.

"Your friend lost more blood than I thought possible," was the physician's initial statement.

The words paled the U.N.C.L.E. agent's already wan face. "Is he alive?"

"I don't know how, but he is alive and it looks like he'll stay that way." Kuryakin released a long sigh and the others murmured comments of relief. "He'll be here for a while. We've got to get rid of his infection and we're still transfusing him. Next week he can walk out if all goes well." The doctor congratulated the boys for their first aid skills. The cousins patted Murphy on the back and the doctor shook his hand. "There was some internal damage, but nothing I couldn't patch together. He's in post-op. You can see him this evening."

The doctor left. McCall told the boys they needed to get back to the ranch. Goldman was required at the control room. Kuryakin opted to stay at the hospital. The group shook hands and dispersed, used to the brief encounters with associates that never lasted long. They were in a common business where assignments were often urgent and at the far quarters of the world.

The four teenage boys did a commendable job of entering the room with a minimum of noise. Solo was jolted from his doze and smiled when the four whispered not-so-quiet apologies.

"Don't worry," he assured, "I don't mind a little noise. I didn't think I'd hear anything but angel's wings."

"Angels?" Kuryakin asked from the doorway. "As usual, Napoleon, you have an elevated opinion of yourself, even in eternity."

Solo scowled at his partner and turned to the cousins. "I've heard Oscar gave you a tour of the base?"

"It was great!" Murphy beamed.

"The chopper ride was the best part," Skip added.

"And Uncle Jake thinks McCall arranged it all for us just as a favor," Andy explained with a laugh.

Napoleon turned to the silent Stetson. After finding out the boy's last name, he didn't mention his acquaintance with the Colonel. Their relationship was professional and cloaked in secrecy. No need to let the lad in on more than he should know. Still, he knew from McCall's cryptic comments that the Stetsons were not close.

"You've done a commendable job, all of you," he congratulated, bringing his gaze to rest on Lee last. "I wish we could pass that along to your families."

"Can't you tell us anything more?" Murphy questioned. "I hate unsolved puzzles."

"You know more than you should," Illya commented darkly. "Fortunately, those who could be a threat to you are no longer a problem."

The boys looked at the agents, and each other, with expressions mixed with surprise and disturbance. They probably guessed what Illya's euphemism meant.

"All we can offer you is our thanks. And if you ever need character references, let us know."

McCall entered the room and greeted the agents. A frequent visitor in the last few days to report on U.N.C.L.E.'s investment, this time he reported on the mission and the status of the spy ring. He mentioned none of the real details with the boys in the room.

The boys shook hands with the agents and McCall escorted them out. They would never see the young men again, would never have occasion to meet the teens under ordinary circumstances. They did not lead normal lives. Each agent muttered terse comments of regret that they were part of a transitional moment; observing the youths pass, in the space of a night, from childhood to maturity in an ugly and trying situation. It robbed them of innocence. Perhaps, if they were lucky, it would instill in them a strength they could lean on in their future years. It was a hope the agents strove to believe, a hope that made it easier to live with the damage they caused to four innocent lives.

Sadly, they would never reap the rewards that might come with this crossing of paths. They predicted someday these boys would be strong, confident men who could make a positive difference in the world. So often they saw the harsh, deadly side of life. It would be something to see -- gratifying to know they were a part of something really good. Such were the unfulfilled dreams of men living in the covert operations of espionage.