Colony 4: River, Chapter I, by DarkBeta

(UNCLE is not mine. Nevertheless i'm taking it out to play . . . a long, long way from home.)

[Upstate New York, Memorial Day, 1967]

"It's not fair! Absolutely everybody else in town is going to be at the picnic grounds this year. I know Paul Tennings is there, 'cuz I asked his sister! Just because Grampa has this bee in his bonnet about a get-together that's just for family, we're stuck in the middle of the deep, dark wilderness! Midge, I'm so-o-o sorry you got dragged out here just 'cuz you're my friend!"

Dramatically Libby threw herself back across the khaki wool blanket. She glared at the blue sky and overhanging green branches as if they were the ones conspiring against her.

"It's not like he cares about family anyhow. He just works all the time. I don't think I've met him more than three times. Gammer was on her own a lot, until Aunt Jane moved back in. So I don't think he's got any right to say what we do."

Midge hugged her knees and blinked behind her glasses.

"He's got a really cool car. And a chauffeur. What does he do? Is he, like, rich or something? If he keels over, are you going to be a heiress and have parties in the society pages and stuff?"

Libby snorted. She sat up again.

"Yeah, right! He's something boring in the city, like insurance. He's just trying to look important."

The pale-haired chauffeur was concentrating on his book. He had a pen out for notes, but his lips moved. He was cute, but not very smart.

A dark green convertible came up the road, and slid in behind the silver limousine, her Dad's station wagon, and the yellow Beetle Aunt Jane drove. Three smartly-suited women got out, and the driver waved to Grampa. He stood up out of the folding chair. In the chair beside him Gammer didn't get up, but she looked unhappy. Grampa's bulldog barked. Gammer put a hand on his head.

Libby's two cousins had been playing near their feet. Robin picked up Ginny and backed away when Grampa stood up. Grampa looked around. He wanted somebody to keep an eye on the little kids. Libby knew she should volunteer. She held her breath, hoping he wouldn't look over and see her and Midge in the shade.

This was all Grampa's fault. Now he was going to run off like usual to some silly emergency at the office. Let Gammer do it, the way she put up with all Grampa's absences. Or make Aunt Jane take care of her own kids for a while, instead of sniffling into a handkerchief and making Gammer and Mum and Aunt Ruth dither around her.

"Mr. Solo!"

The black-haired man who'd come out from the city with Grampa was talking to Aunt Ruth and her date. Flirting with Aunt Ruth, really, and avoiding Mr. Gilbert's attempts to stand in between them. He said something that made them all laugh, and ambled over

He hadn't expected to get baby-sitting duty. He argued. Grampa Waverly pointed firmly downslope. Libby's cousin Robin jumped up and down. Little Ginny leaned against the Solo's crisply creased trouser leg and hugged it with muddy hands. Libby started to giggle.

Finally Solo followed his boss up to the limousine. While one of the women showed Grampa some papers, his employee handed his briefcase over to the driver and began to roll up his trouser legs. He didn't seem to notice the little boy stalking him. When Robin landed on his back the dark-haired man wobbled about, flailing, until Ginny was shrieking with laughter, and then he scooped her up too. Ginny leaned against his shoulder.

"He made the squirts laugh though," Midge said. "Your cousins have been kind of spooky up to now."

"Midge, can you keep a secret?" Libby asked.

"Posilutely."

"No, can you really, really, cross your heart, never tell even if they stick needles in you, keep a secret? I think there's something scary going on in my family, but I can't tell you unless you promise not to tell anyone!"

"Promise!"

Midge's eyes were wide behind her glasses. Libby looked around to make sure no-one could hear them, especially her Mum and her aunts.

"I'm not sure, cuz everybody starts whispering when they see me, but I think . . . I'm almost certain . . . Aunt Jane is gonna get divorced."

"No!"

Libby nodded.

"It's going to be so humiliating. What if people think I'm some kind of Women's Libber or something? What am I going to do?"

"Oh, gosh!"

Libby folded back onto the blanket again. She rolled over on her front and stared at the silver river. Noodle-brain was digging at the water's edge. Her father was casting and re-casting a line down by the river's bend, trying to place a fly in exactly the right spot.

On the sandy beach a dark-haired woman and a sandy-haired man lay sunbathing. The woman had a very tiny bikini. The two of them had to wish Libby's family hadn't turned up.

"Look at the couple making out. Grampa's so dumb. He makes us drive all the way out here to get together, and he still can't find any place just to ourselves."

"Libby, you know, um, we'll still be friends. Even if people are talking about you."

"I don't want them to talk about me! Why do things have to change?"

She felt a few tears squeeze out at the horribleness of it all, and kept her head down so Midge wouldn't see.

oooooooo

He was casting very badly. Thomas Duclos watched his fly skitter away from the swirl of water he'd tried to land it in, and began reeling in his line for another cast. Perhaps another rod . . . ? He'd brought three, since he wasn't sure what kind of water his father-in-law had picked out.

A stronger man would have insisted that his family would picnic by themselves this year. Tom hadn't argued. His father-in-law intimidated him. He could still remember going to ask him for Elizabeth's hand. He'd been absolutely sure that if the old man shook his head, Elizabeth would walk away without a backward look.

He didn't know why Waverly gave that consent. Thomas was a hard worker. He had no doubt of his ability to provide for his family, and no doubt of Elizabeth's happiness. All the same, he knew he didn't meet Waverly's standards. After sixteen years, when his father-in-law called him "son" it was policy, and not affection.

Ned was still safely away from the deep water, building a personal Venice on the sloping bank. He'd made a road and bridges out of river stones, and zoomed toy cars along them. Was it too early to start checking out good engineering schools? MIT? California had a couple places, but it was so far away.

With a car in each hand, Ned staged a mid-air smash. The yellow car dropped into one of his canals.

"You're a submarine," he told it, and began snaking it along the waterways.

On the warm sand nearby, the family dog yawned and rolled onto her back. Trixie had been less energetic than usual, the last few days. He'd have to ask Elizabeth to schedule a veterinary appointment.

Liberty was still talking with her friend from school. She'd been sulky all morning. It couldn't be fun for a child, cleaning the graves of people she didn't know, dead in a war that happened before she was born. Maybe she'd cheer up after they opened the picnic basket. From his limited experience, food made a big difference in keeping a teenager happy.

The young man from Waverly's office came down to stand near Ned. He had Jane's kids with him. Robin started a canal system of his own alongside Ned's. The little girl clung to the man, with her thumb in her mouth. They both looked more cheerful than usual.

Thomas turned, and found Elizabeth watching him, smiling. He waved. She waved back, before she bent to listen to her sister Jane's complaints again.

That smile was always lucky for him, one way or another. The next cast went exactly where he wanted it.

Jane's family was worried about her. The vivacious girl who danced at his wedding had turned into an insecure, frightened woman. She and the kids had turned up on Mother Waverly's doorstep after midnight, three weeks ago. All three were hollow-eyed with exhaustion. Jane wouldn't sleep until Gammer got out a remarkably well-kept hunting rifle and promised that she or Elizabeth would stay on guard until morning.

Alexander (still at work, at one in the morning) had said he'd deal with the husband. There hadn't been a sign of Olivares yet. Thomas wouldn't be entirely surprised to find out that a New Jersey landfill had about 190 pounds more fill than expected. Thomas himself took care of getting sleepers for the kids, and toothbrushes, and fruit and Malt-O-Meal for their breakfast.

He felt the thrill of contact along his line, set the hook, and began to play his catch. It was big, whatever it was, and stubborn. It didn't fight like trout. He couldn't get a sense of familiarity at all.

Ruth wasn't helping, turning up with that Negro as her date. It was disrespectful, using Memorial Day to make a political statement. Ruth shouldn't have brought a date to a family picnic at all, not unless she was serious about him.

Good Lord! She wasn't, was she?

This was no time to get distracted. He brought up his rod to keep the line taut, seeing the shadow of something huge under the water. A slick black curve broke the surface.

Catfish, he thought for a moment, and then he recognized the surface as black rubber.

Another damn innertube. Lady Bird Johnson's campaign to beautify America hadn't done much that he could see! Thomas tried to drag it in toward the shallows, hoping to retrieve his fly.

The frogman stood up. His eyes were invisible behind his glass mask. He held some kind of bulky gun, and he pointed it at Thomas. A harpoon. He was pulling the trigger. Thomas couldn't move.

A patch of red appeared on the frogman's arm. He stepped backward and sat down in the water. A loud crack echoed over the water.

"Move. Come on, move!"

Two more frogmen stood up behind the first one. A girl in a bikini pulled at his arm. She had some kind of shiny rifle. There were more cracking noises. Shots. The first man had been shot, to keep him from shooting Thomas.

"Ned!"

Frogmen trampled like Japanese movie monsters across the city the boys made. He couldn't see Ned.

"He's safe, Mr. Duclos. Napoleon has him. Come on!"

Who? Napoleon? Thomas actually looked for a blue uniform and cocked hat, but he saw the young man from Alexander's office zig-zagging up the river bank. Robin and Ginny shrieked in his arms, and he pushed Ned ahead of him. Thomas let himself be pulled to cover.

Was this what Alexander saw in him, that he would freeze in danger? That he would see his son in danger and not be able to help?

"What's happening? I don't understand."

"Thrush," the girl said. "Worse than ants for ruining a picnic!"

oooooooo

"I know field agents would usually be assigned as couriers, but the agents are needed at HQ right now. Parton thought it would be a good idea to send some ancilliary personnel out of the way."

The back of the limousine seemed the best place for Waverly to examine the report, away from the breeze. He shook his head at the pages spread across the seat.

"THRUSH plans are frequently unreasonable, but this is irrational. They gain nothing from attacking the Milan office."

"Eight dead," Heather said.

Six of the dead had been staff, like her. They'd been armed, as she was, but not trained to deal with a military incursion.

"Yes, with nearly twenty dead on their side. The attack was repulsed without appreciable losses to Sections One, Two or Three, or discoverable looting of information or material. Every other UNCLE office is on full alert by now. Scheduled anti-satrap operations may proceed with, ah, an excess of rigor, but THRUSH is unlikely to consider this a desirable outcome. It all seems dreadfully whimsical."

In the driver's seat Kuryakin sniffed. His face was impassive, as he snapped a load of sleep darts out of his Special and replaced them with bullets. The trainee Jessamine Scott, who'd probably never before been this close to the upper echelons of UNCLE New York, looked from face to face in bewilderment.

"They sound crazy to me," Tina muttered.

"Do they gain anything in Europe by angering UNCLE?" Heather asked.

Kuryakin unfolded his communicator and tried to activate it. He changed a few settings, and tried again.

"Perhaps not in Europe . . . . The frequencies are jammed. Wait here, sir."

When Heather saw him circling the convertible she'd checked out from the UNCLE pool, she began to understand what the field agent suspected.

"No. Oh, no, sir. The car was checked before we left UNCLE."

She couldn't find any faith in her own words though, even before she watched Kuryakin lie in the road and pull himself under the front bumper. He walked back to the limousine with his Special in his left hand, and a small disc in his right.

"Tracer, sir. Affixed with a quick-setting adhesive."

"The lady with the stroller!" Tina blurted. "Remember, I said I'd never seen a baby that ugly? She stopped in the crosswalk and put the sunshade down, right in front of us."

"A well-trained child, or very small adult," Kuryakin agreed.

"What would be your estimate of their schedule?" Waverly asked.

"No more than ten minutes."

"It will be difficult to evacuate in that time. Try to delay their progress, Mr. Kuryakin."

"I can block the road, sir."

"Do so. We have little chance of exit in that direction."

Tina and Jess looked bewildered, but Heather didn't have the time to explain. She swallowed.

"This is my fault, sir. I'm so sorry."

She knew she'd gone pale. She must have looked almost as shattered as she felt, because Waverly patted her shoulder.

"Please don't concern yourself, Miss McNabb. It was a remarkably subtle plan, from an enemy I generally consider painfully unsubtle."

Kuryakin slid into the driver's seat of the station wagon, bent down briefly, and then drove away downhill. Mr. Waverly shook his head.

"Elizabeth will be unhappy with me. I believe she and her husband are fond of that car."

He stepped out of the limousine.

"This vehicle, on the other hand, has the advantage of being resistant to gunfire. Please wait here while I retrieve my family."

As he turned away a shot rang out, followed by a series of them. Waverly and the three secretaries watched THRUSH assassins rising out of the river, no more than yards away from his wife, his children, and the grandchildren.

oooooooo

He'd marked the spot as they drove up, a place where the narrow road was narrowed even further as it cut between high banks. Just below it was a sharp turn, difficult for the limousine to make. Napoleon had fallen against the side of the car, and told Illya he was a poor excuse for a chauffeur.

This wagon had picked up a good speed, moving downhill. Illya wrenched the wheel and touched the brakes, and let the car's momentum send it sliding sideways into the cut. It ended where he had planned, with the nose against one bank and the rear against the other. He did not think THRUSH would be able to move it easily, but he let the air out of two tires to be certain.

He reached a vantage on the left bank as a vehicle roared up the hill. A sports car took the turn too fast, and braked a moment too late. It skidded into the side of the station wagon.

The wagon was wedged a little more tightly into the gap. The front of the sports car crumpled. After several minutes, its occupants forced a door open and squeezed out like clowns from a car in the Moscow Circus. Alone and well hidden, Illya allowed himself an ironic smile. THRUSH had known Napoleon would be guarding Waverly. Predictably, they'd aimed for his weak point.

A blonde, a brunette, a redhead and a raven-haired exotic, uniformed in shorts and halter-tops, dark glasses and scarves, looked about nervously. Surely even Napoleon would have been suspicious, if this carload of strayed tourists turned up by the river? Illya knew they were THRUSH long before the redhead made the error of taking a pistol from her useless-looking straw bag.

They deserved no consideration of their sex. Thrush gave none to UNCLE's people. It was the ghost of his partner at his shoulder -- the weary, almost betrayed expression that Napoleon got when a woman was killed -- that made him switch back to sleep darts before he fired.

The redhead was the last to fall, the gun tipping from her lax hand. Illya felt a twinge of fellow feeling. He'd been there too, taken down without a chance to fight back. Would they wake to UNCLE interrogation, or to THRUSH self-congratulations?

He told himself he was conserving ammunition. Their expanse of skin meant he could be sure each of the darts hit its target. A guess at their body-weights said that they'd be out for a couple hours, well beyond the probable duration of the conflict.

In the moment's silence he heard shots behind him. THRUSH had set up a pincer movement. He looked back, tempted for a moment to go and help. He heard the familiar snap of the Specials, against the harsher bark of THRUSH weapons.

He also heard the growl of a second wave of the attack. It was motorcycles this time, and heavy engines behind them. He could take down the riders, but the vehicles would be armored. Now, it didn't matter. THRUSH would have to leave them at the blockade, leave the road.

Waverly had given him an assignment. He had to stay here. A knife in the woods, was work Illya knew well.

oooooooo

On the drive up Illya mentioned the glaciers covered New York once, and the boulders and gravel they left behind. Napoleon felt very grateful to glaciers. He'd gotten the kids sheltered behind a tumble of half-buried boulders. Thrush fire chipped the lichen from the downhill side, but Napoleon's answering shots discouraged the frogmen's advance.

For a while. He was down to half a clip of bullets. He had a full clip of sleep darts, but those were useless against the half inch-thick rubber suits. The Thrushie in charge was sending out individual forays now, to draw Napoleon's fire.

The dozing red setter had yelped and scrambled for cover at the first shots. Napoleon felt a certain sympathy.

Once he was disarmed, and dead or crippled, THRUSH would have the children. Once they had the children, they'd have Waverly. Could UNCLE survive that?

Waverly had run down to his wife and daughters. They lay flat by the checked tablecloth and the picnic basket, the tub of ice and bottled sodas, the pie basket and the cake carrier. The youngest girl's boyfriend had moved in front of Waverly. The non-combatants weren't targets yet, not unless Waverly seemed likely to escape.

April and Mark had pulled the son-in-law to shelter, if not safety. Mark's fire discouraged any approach to the Waverlys. Napoleon had lost track of April, which probably meant she was circling around to support him. He appreciated the thought, but he doubted a bikini offered more storage of spare clips than his own suit had.

Heather, Tina and the new girl had ducked behind the limousine. They'd be safe, unless or until combat moved up in that direction. They weren't trained as field agents. He doubted they could intervene.

Ginny shrieked, Robin sobbed, and the older boy stared behind coke-bottle glasses. He was probably in shock. This was shaping up to be a lovely family holiday.

"Shh, honey. Sweetheart. Don't cry. I'll get you back to your mother, in just a little while."

The little girl stopped in the middle of a screech and stared at him. After a brief pause she started to hiccup.

"Who are you?" the older boy asked.

Napoleon peered over the top of his boulder. This was a good time to emulate his partner's marksmanship. He shot once, and the THRUSH frogman dropped. The team commander started shouting. He'd need a few minutes to chivvy another stalking goat forward.

"Napoleon Solo. I'm a friend of your grandfather."

He held the Special left-handed a moment, so that he could shake hands. The boy just stared. His messy black hair hung down almost to his eyes. Napoleon brushed the hair back from his own forehead and switched the Special to his dominant hand again as he looked over the barricade.

"You work for Grampa."

"That too."

"Why are those men trying to shoot us?"

"That's THRUSH. The bad guys. They aren't trying to shoot you kids, though."

Just me, Napoleon thought. A round of covering fire spanged off the boulder. Thrush was starting another attack. The boy looked dubious. It gave him a remarkable likeness to Waverly, though he didn't have the bushy eyebrows yet.

"They want you alive, so your grandfather will give up."

A fern twitched, by a fallen log farther up the bank. April was in position. If he ran he'd draw the Thrushies' fire. They'd be distracted from the children. April wasn't his partner, but he trusted her to seize the chance and get the kids to safety.

Getting himself to safety would be a challenge, but he was a lucky man.

"Get ready to move. A gorgeous young woman is going to come rescue you."

"She's not gorgeous!" the older boy said. "She's my sister!"

Napoleon looked again. A teenager peered over the top of the log, and gestured incomprehensibly. Napoleon ran a hand down over his mouth and chin. Now what?

A white mountain fell out of the sky above them. The setter reappeared, running in circles and barking. With a whine it rose into the air, pawing at emptiness.

And Napoleon rose, and the children, and the agents, all of them sucked into the monolith.

From the THRUSH point of view, the campaign should have been successful. UNCLE was paralyzed by the loss of Waverly. THRUSH had a real chance to eradicate its chief opponents, and dominate the world as planned. However the mass disappearance caused the Council to suspect Waverly was still alive. He'd escaped and was planning a particularly effective counter-strike, or the local satrap leader was pumping him for information to support his own bid for power, or another member of the Central Council had him . . . .

Angelique blamed the loss of Napoleon Solo on one of her current lovers. She wasn't sure which one, so she had them all killed. Two were members of the Council. Accusations and counter-accusations led to internecine attacks. THRUSH decimated itself. Several agents (including Angelique) decided that surrender to UNCLE was safer than continuing in THRUSH.

They bought their way out of execution with information. UNCLE had time to re-group, exact intelligence, and an even stronger desire than usual to see THRUSH go down. Satrap by satrap, THRUSH vanished.

A few fragments of the organization survived. An assassination squad re-named itself HIT. A cabal of information brokers called themselves Salamander Four. One group of researchers, horrified by details they'd never understood before, set up a foundation to try to mend the harm THRUSH had done. They named it after the phoenix, the bird purified and reborn in fire.

UNCLE had been a single man's vision. The loss of Waverly, and of Waverly's heirs and confidants, took the heart from it. The group limped on for a few years, seeing its influence wane and funding vanish, but eventually the secret headquarters were locked and abandoned.