by LRH Balzer
Solo took his time, spreading out the map he had been given on a shaky card table which was propped in the comer of the narrow room. The lamp flickered and sputtered, as it had all evening, but Illya could still see enough to watch his partner's finger trace up the northern coastline, from the DEW line base at the edge of the Arctic Circle, three hundred miles north to Clyde, then another two hundred miles to Eclipse Sound and Pond Inlet.
"Napoleon? Put it away. Turn out the lamp. Go to sleep."
Solo stared at the map a moment longer, then folded it and put it away.
* * * * *
The next morning brought the priest to see them, walking across the dark compound, his snowshoes barely making a noise on the packed snow. "You fellas want some information?" he asked, a smile sending new lines through the wrinkles of his face.
They told him and he thought about it for a while, then said, "Don't know if this is what yer after, but doesn't hurt to pass it on... I was talkin' with Qumangapik and he said he saw three men in black shiny suits fall from their boat into the water south of here. The man who was left in the little boat stayed a short time, then rowed out to sea."
"Divers?" Kuryakin asked. "Where was this?"
"I can give you a general idea." The priest looked at their maps, muttering to himself. "I think Qumangapik was around here."
"Thank you." Solo marked the map carefully, and called the location in to Froebisher Bay.
Minutes later a call was forwarded to them from Mark Slate. "Silas just passed on your message. Where did you get this?" The British-accented voice was incredulous.
"Where are you, Mark?" Solo asked.
"The US Coast Guard is dropping us off just south of that location. We've plans to set up camp and take a look at a few of the icebergs in that very area. Expect to be there in two hours. Joining us?"
"Will do. We're heading out now. We'll be about—" Solo glanced to the priest, who shrugged and held up three fingers, "—three hours. We'll see you then. Don't do anything until we get there."
"We understand. April says hi."
Almost four hours later, Slate met Solo and Kuryakin at the designated place, pointed to an iceberg in the small bay, then led them back to the camp Dancer and he had set up. They left the snowmobiles to one side, covered in white tarp. Once they were inside, with their parkas off and a hot drink in their hands, Slate filled them in what he and Dancer had found. "Ready for this? That iceberg? What if there's a submarine attached to it? Maybe that November class sub Illya says the Soviets are missing or some other one?"
Kuryakin half stood as though he was ready to go back and have another look. "What do you mean, attached?"
"From the water or from the air, it's impossible to see it's anything but what it appears to be. Either that, or they've hollowed out an iceberg. We've verified that the signal is coming from within it or possibly, beneath it."
"Something is blocking our signals..." Solo mused, glancing to his partner, then back at Dancer and Slate. "We tried several times but couldn't contact you once we were within two hours of here."
"We had the same problem. I had to go south a few miles away from it before I could get a signal out. The entire area is under a blanketing effect. The Coast Guard boat will stay in the area, they said, in case we need assistance." Dancer looked almost comfortable, sprawled back on the furs, leaning on her elbows. "We think the iceberg is stuck at the moment. It's huge beneath the water, and wide. It's drifted into the area and has locked itself on the west side."
Solo pulled out his maps. "We need to contact the Ice Patrol on this one. They chart the larger icebergs, so it's quite possible they know where this one has been. Most of these bergs are calved from west Greenland glaciers. They end up heading north on the West Greenland Current, then make a turn when they get up by Ellesmere Island or Devon Island, and catch the Labrador Current south."
"Thule Air Base is at the north end of the West Greenland Current," Dancer said, pointing to its location on the map, north of Baffin Bay. They've had indications of a submarine in the area for the last two years, but have been unable to trace it. They think it's been regularly shutting down and coasting. We think it's tethered itself to the bottom of one of these icebergs—currently, the one in the bay here."
"One problem with contacting the Ice Patrol, Napoleon," Slate said, leaning forward around his partner. "They rarely go further north than the Strait of Belle Isle, and rarer yet for them to come into Davis Strait."
"I thought they were in charge of the whole area?"
"Well, yes, they are, but Thule base said we are talking about two Lockheed Hercules aircraft and one oceanographic vessel to patrol the whole area—and that is limited to March to September. The International Ice Patrol concentrates on the shipping lanes."
"So this area is virtually unmonitored?" Kuryakin asked.
"You got it, mate." Slate shrugged at their continued staring. "Don't look at me. I didn't come up with the plan."
"Well, let's see if this iceberg has a parasite," Solo said, finally. "Then we can figure out how to get rid of it."
* * * * *
"Piece of cake, April," Mark whispered, as he caught the nervous tension in her movements. Slate and Dancer were trying to make their way across the ice floes to the north side of the iceberg, while Solo and Kuryakin handled the south side. Mark had one hundred feet of cable over his shoulder, and Dancer had one of the two powerful cameras they had been lent from the US Coast Guard.
"Maybe you think it's easy, but I haven't done any of this kind of work before. Walking over ice floes wasn't covered at Survival School. Especially with this thing under my arm."
"It's good experience then. You're doing fine. We're almost done." They moved quickly, prepared for their presence to be challenged; however, if they were noticed at all, no one came above the surface, and at present, there was no way to monitor what was happening beneath the surface. They got to the edge of the ice floe they had been aiming for and lowered the underwater camera into the icy water, hoping it would drift low enough for them to see what was below the iceberg. Mark fussed with the dials, but all it was showing was murky whiteness. It seemed to hit something after sixty feet and stopped. As much as they tried, all the camera photographed was the massive underwater portion of the iceberg.
They had just brought the camera to the surface, when Solo's frantic waving caught his attention.
As soon as he realized what had happened, Mark dropped the camera and cable onto the ice floe, dragged his partner to her feet, and they started running. Illya was in the icy waters. It took them a few minutes to reach him across the breaking ice floes and Mark skidded to the side of the one closest to their friend.
Napoleon was spread out along the floe, arm outstretched as Illya tried to make his way to him.
"April, get me the strap from the travois!" Mark called over the creaking and screeching of the breaking ice.
Moving now as though she had spent her life racing across ice floes, April reached the shoreline, secured the strap he wanted, and raced back. He took the long strap that she handed him, looped the buckle on the end and tossed it out to Illya. The Russian didn't have enough strength or coordination to grab hold of it, but with urging, he was able to get his arm through the loop and they tugged him to the edge. He had been in the water for almost five minutes before they were able to get him out of the frigid water, the limp, unresponsive body already stiffening from cold and exposure.
It was a relief to see that Napoleon had stayed calm, though his quiet swearing showed the force of his emotions. Mark had worked with others who panicked when their partners were injured, but just as Illya had remained under control when Napoleon had been injured a few weeks before, the Chief Enforcement Agent was doing everything by the book. There was no time to strip the frozen parka from Illya, and no way to call for help in the magnetic static Thrush had set up to hinder detection. The buffer had obviously been set up somewhere nearby, but not on the iceberg itself.
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Napoleon waved back in the direction they had come from. "We've got to move. We can't leave anything to say we were here, in case they check on the movement."
Mark nodded, looking back across the bay to where his own supplies were. "Agreed. Get him on to the shore, and I'll help from there."
Napoleon retrieved his camera and cable, then April helped him place Illya on the travois. Solo dragged the travois across the fragile ice field, while Dancer ran ahead trying to find the clearest path for them. It was still early in the season; the ice floes were connected by a thin layer of ice that had not yet solidified enough to hold their weight—and it was on one of these bridges that Illya had broken through.
Mark, in true nick-of-time fashion, tossed Napoleon the camera and was forced to leap across the growing chasm. For a moment, as he wavered on the far edge, unable to get his balance, he thought he was going to suffer the same fate as his Russian friend, but Napoleon and April were able to each grab a handful of parka and pull him away from the edge.
He moved up to Solo, taking one of the tethers of the travois and the two men moved up the slope quickly, over the frozen icefield, and back to the base camp. Getting Illya into the warmth of the tent was imperative. The parka had frozen in the water and was stiff, it would be difficult to take off. They worked awkwardly trying to get Illya through the narrow, low entrance and into the tent. Once he was inside, Napoleon opened the front of Illya's parka and tried to listen for his partner's heartbeat.
"He's alive," Solo muttered, then looked across to Slate crouched in the entrance, repeating it loud enough for the British agent to hear over the shriek of the wind.
"Where do you want me to go for help?"
"Not for him," Solo replied, fumbling with his partner's jacket. "You were right! It was hard to tell, but there is something down there. Something metallic. If that is a submarine, and if they're impatient to get going, they might very well let go of the iceberg and head to open waters, maybe try to find another one. Mark, you're going to have to go south and try to contact the Coast Guard. Tell them we need about five limpets, especially ones with an AC Time Delay detonator or something that will work in these waters. Get them brought in if you have to. Highest priority—Waverly will back you."
"What about Illya? The nearest doctor is at Pond Inlet. It took you almost four hours to get here from there, and you have to go almost two hours before you're out of the jamming field. The wind is blowing out there now ..."
"We'll take care of Illya. You get the supplies we need and meet us back here. I'm counting on you, Mark."
"I'll get there." Mark retrieved the map of the area, and a compass, checking the exact location of the rendezvous point on his map. "As soon as I'm out of the buffer, I'll call in and see who I can get a hold of." He gestured to where his snowmobile was parked. "I have an emergency shelter in the side compartment, if I need it, and more than enough rations, so I'll be fine."
"Be careful, Mark. There are all kinds of gullies around here. Go slow." Napoleon peeled off his coat, rubbing his hands together before touching the ice skin of his partner.
"I'll come back as soon as I can. I promise. Limpets and AC Time Delays. And a couple of Arctic-issue frog suits."
Mark gave April a rough hug and gave Napoleon a quick intense look that said he better keep both Illya and April alive and safe, then Mark wiggled back out of the tent, stripped the cover off the hidden snowmobile and sped away. As he went over the first hill, he looked back at the white/gray twenty-foot high iceberg, looking for all the world like a grave marker, considering what was tethered to it, submerged beneath the vast depths of the Arctic seas. Even if an aircraft flew directly overhead, they would have no way of knowing what hovered beneath the waters.
With a last look back at the virtually invisible camp, Mark turned his face toward the wind and headed south along the coastline.
* * * * *
Taking only a moment to make sure the tent was secure and to turn on the portable propane heat unit, April and Napoleon gently stripped the frozen clothes from Illya. He looked dead, his skin a pasty gray-white, but they could hear the slow heartbeat and knew he was still alive. Napoleon stripped off his own heavy jacket and layers of clothing and pulled his partner's frigid body against his own. He shivered violently, first as the unbelievably cold skin touched his, and then as the adrenaline rush of the past twenty minutes caught up with him.
April moved around the shelter purposefully, her movements concise, drilled. She silently wrapped sleeping bags and furs around the two men, had coaxed more warmth from the propane heater, towel dried Illya's damp hair as he lay face-down on Napoleon's chest, and then she pulled off her own sweaters and t-shirt and crawled into the sleeping bags with them. Napoleon rolled onto his side, Illya's back now warmed by April as they prayed their combined body heat would be enough to rewarm his core temperature.
Napoleon Bonaparte had lost 500,000 men to hypothermia and cold during the Russian campaign. Napoleon Solo was not about to lose one Russian if there was anything he could do about it. Survival School had taught them the procedure and they held the unconscious man between them, front and back, both listening for, and feeling, the faint heartbeat and irregular breathing.
They lay silently, unable to voice their fears. Both had their guns close by. The odds of someone knowing they were there was slim, but the two U.N.C.L.E. agents were too professional to risk being caught unprepared. Mark had activated a security parameter, so they would have at least a minute or two warning on a direct attack.
They waited. Shivering. Touching each other for strength. Napoleon's arm found its way beyond his partner to her, holding them all together beneath the covers. In response, April rested her hand on Napoleon's shoulder, her arm draped protectively over Illya, completing the circuit.
Time passed; the temperature dropped and the wind picked up and they knew that no one could survive that long without shelter. The designers of the U.N.C.L.E.-issue arctic tent knew their stuff and the portable heating unit fought to keep the air inside the tent tolerable. They tried not to think about Mark, out there, alone, battling the weather.
The wind had howled, sounding like an ungodly creature of the night, sweeping its way across the glacier fields. Faces inches apart on the pillow they shared, Napoleon and April stared at each other and listened to the winter storm, their bodies wrapped in unspoken fear around the unconscious agent, willing him to live.
They started talking, about their lives, their dreams, their fantasies. Anything to shut out the unnerving sensation of the motionless, too-cold skin against their own. The need to feel life in each other was overwhelming. They were in two places at once: in the unreality of the loneliness of the wind and the cold, and the body between them, and their dreams whispered into the pillow; and in the reality of how near their friend was to death in the face of their helplessness.
Time lost meaning. How long had it been? How long had Mark been gone? One hour? Two?
How long would it take him to travel the seventy miles in this weather? Three hours, maybe four? Then to radio for help. And then how long would it take for someone to come?
April drew away and took Illya's temperature again, relieved when she saw it was 93°—he was slowly warming up. They kept him between them and huddled back under the furs. It took forever for Illya to start shivering, but their eyes widened finally as they felt the first tiny tremors signaling the body was fighting for survival.
Then the tremors became more violent and their fear intensified. Illya's blank eyes opened but he refused to acknowledge their presence, his body twitching in spasmodic bursts. Napoleon talked to him, trying to focus him on what was happening, and Illya calmed, listening to the familiar voice, but he was unable to comprehend the words, his lightly-stubbled cheek pressed against the warmth of his partner's chest.
Another hour passed and Illya reached the next stage of rewarming. He looked at them blearily, confused, and yet, with coaxing, answered most of the
ir questions correctly, his voice a halting croak. His name. Their names. His address. Waverly's first name. But he couldn't tell them where he was or what day it was or what assignment they were on.
They slowly rubbed his arms and legs, gently returning circulation to his limbs, all the while making sure his torso stayed warm, their locked gaze determined to win this battle. He was too exhausted to shiver any longer, so they laid him back between them.
And waited...
Chapter Ten
May 1958
Montreal, Quebec.
"Family? What is family?" Antonio Solo looked up from his after-dinner sherry, and stared across the table at his two friends. "1 have no family."
"Your son—" Claude Renault began.
"No. He is not my son. Others have that privilege, not I."
Alexander Waverly puffed silently on his pipe, letting the moment go. "So what will you do? "
Antonio shrugged. "I don't know. I have my father 's inheritance; it has been sitting in a bank for many years now. I thought to return to—"
"She is dead, Antonio. When will you accept this?" Claude slammed his empty glass to the table.
"They cannot tell me for certain. Yahns Van Schueller found his wife after—"
"Yes, we know. We know. It was a miracle he found her after so long. But that was one man out of a hundred thousand." Claude looked to Alexander for help, but the older man merely shook his head that he had nothing to say.
"Then what would you have me do? " Antonio said softly. "I have nothing. I have no job. No family. This career took everything from me and left me nothing."
Claude persisted, "But if you could make your choices over again, what would you do? There is time yet. You are not that old."
"If I could have made my choices again? That is easy. That is one question Elizabeth and I both knew the answer to—only we waited too long. If we could have lived those years again, we would have left France the moment we discovered Elisabeth was pregnant. The Foreign Department would have had five years of our lives at that point, and that would have been more than our duty demanded. Instead, we were addicted to it, to the danger and the thrill, and we thought—in all our wisdom, we thought—we would just place our child in her parents' hands for a year... then it became two, then three, then before we knew it, the war was upon us and we couldn't go back."