May, 1953

Somewhere in Korea

The four-man multinational reconnaissance team had slowly and cautiously worked its way back into South Korea. For two weeks, the members had hardly spoken to each other; even a whisper would have betrayed them to the enemy. Now they were more tired than they had ever been, and more than ready to say anything to anyone. Silence for these close-knit and naturally gregarious men was almost torture. The end of the mission was in sight. All of them looked forward to a long night in a bar, swilling beer that tasted of formaldehyde, singing bawdy songs at the top of their lungs, without fear of imminent death.

The leader of the group, a Canadian lieutenant with black hair, dark brown eyes with just a hint of green and mischief, a prominent chin, a medium but athletic build, and subtly powerful movements, signaled the men to stop. He crouched down in some tall grass, pulled out a topographic map, and began to carefully recheck their position. The front in this war had a habit of changing rapidly. The last thing he wanted to do was to prematurely break cover and silence. Before he did that, he wanted to make sure they were well within friendly territory. According to their position, the team was well behind the front of two weeks ago.

Without a sound, his second-in-command, a sergeant, had crept up to him, but the lieutenant had sensed his approach. The sergeant leaned into the leader so his full lips were just scant inches from his left ear. He whispered softly, "Napoleon, are we there yet?"

The lieutenant grinned and laughed to himself. Within his team, he preferred to forgo the usual military courtesy and use of rank; after all, they were all seasoned professionals. But he was amused at the use of his full given name. His sergeant, Michael Davidson, only called him "Napoleon" when he was tired or frustrated. This time, he was probably both.

Napoleon Solo turned his head to face Davidson. "Soon, very soon," he mouthed. This time it was Davidson's turn to grin. He gave his lieutenant an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Solo surveyed the rest of the team. Both were corporals, but definitely deserving of higher rank. Angus MacGregor-called "Mac" because no one dared call him Angus more than once-was a typical Highlander. A soldier in the British Army, Mac hailed from the highlands of Scotland. Though he was huge and boisterous by any standard, which only seemed to accent his ruddy complexion and curly auburn hair, he moved with great stealth and was an expert at concealment and camouflage, as well as demolitions. Giovanni Carlucci, from the Italian armed forces, was Mac's physical opposite-thin and wiry and short and reticent but possessing unexpected strength and amazing accuracy with any weapon. Johnny's olive skin, black hair and eyes, and other Roman features made him irresistible to most women, much to his lieutenant's (also of Italian ancestry) dismay. Both men, like Solo and Davidson, had the ability to think and act quickly, without hesitation and with positive results virtually every time. Solo had to admit many times that this characteristic was the most important one in their survival, much less in their success as an intelligence-gathering team.

The lieutenant turned his gaze back to Davidson. The American sergeant was average height and build, with dark brown hair cropped close to his head and medium brown skin glistening with sweat, thanks to the warm Korean sun. Davidson was a lifer, and the eldest of the team. Davidson seemed to be able to everything well. But what Solo valued most in this man was his maturity and sense of humor. Both qualities had gotten him and the rest of the team out of trouble in the field and in the bars of Seoul.

Solo mouthed the words, "Let's go home" as he gave the hand signals to move out. The short break had refreshed them. Now they were more alert and ready for anything. Solo could not help but appreciate the team Colonel Morgan had so astutely assembled. But they were not ready for the ambush they had stumbled into just two hundred yards closer to home.

A scout for a small reconnaissance patrol of North Korean soldiers had spotted them just as they had crouched into the grass. The Americans' break had given the enemy sufficient time to set up a kill zone. Solo, the third person to walk into that zone, was the first target. The bullet went through his right side, just above his utility belt. He spun about 90 degrees before he fell to the ground. The other three men dove for cover within that same second. Davidson, in the rear, elbowed his way over to his wounded lieutenant. By that time, the North Koreans had opened up with heavy fire.

"Lee," Davidson called out as he crept his way toward Solo, "are you with me?" Just as he touched Solo's boot, Davidson felt a hot explosion in his left calf, followed by numbness that he knew would be temporary.

Solo responded with a pained grunt. He turned his head to the sound of his sergeant's voice but saw nothing but blackness. Solo then realized he had his eyes closed tightly - his way of coping with the searing pain in his side. Forcing his eyelids open, he was rewarded with Davidson's worried look and bleeding leg. "I'll live-how're you?" He had to shout to be heard over the barrage of gunfire.

Davidson just nodded his head. They scanned the area for Mac and Johnny. Both corporals were belly-down in the grass ahead of Solo and Davidson, returning fire and rolling from side to side to prevent the enemy from getting a fix on them. Before Solo could call out orders, he heard a scream from Johnny, then silence. Mac responded by firing with renewed fervor; Solo could almost feel the anger emanating from him. Solo barked out, "Fire by three!" Mac automatically adjusted his field of fire to cover the left flank. Solo took the center, and Davidson took the right flank. Within a few seconds, the three team members had the entire North Korean line under brutal fire. Now the enemy was feeling the sting of bullets.

After a few minutes (though it felt like hours to the lieutenant), he heard Mac cry out. Shortly after, he heard Carlucci's weapon start to fire again. Solo inwardly allowed himself a sigh of relief. Just great - everybody's wounded now, he thought as he rapidly traded an empty magazine for a full one. We're so pinned down we can't even use grenades - I gotta get to some cover so I can flank these guys or we're goners. There was a small thicket of bushes to his right, about 30 yards. If he could get there, he would have enough cover to more effectively throw grenades. "Fire by two!" he yelled; Johnny and Davidson reacted immediately, expanding their fields of fire. "Cover me!" Solo rolled to his right, then pivoted so he faced the bushes, crying out quietly from the pain. A barrage of bullets slammed all around him. He lay still for a moment. Then, taking two deep breaths and grimacing with the increased pain that came with moving and with breathing deeply, he began to crawl his way to cover. He grinned when he heard Mac's weapon firing again. Solo grinned again when he heard Davidson call out, "Fire by three and cover right!" He knew the team was making the necessary adjustments.

Solo slowly made progress. It seemed that fewer bullets were coming his way, especially since Mac had rejoined the fight. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and hold his aching, bleeding side in hopes of stemming the pain and bleeding temporarily. He heard Davidson call for a magazine count. Mac indicated he had two left and Carlucci had one. When he heard Davidson yell, "One! Switch to manual!" he resumed his crawl with fevered urgency. Then, mere seconds later, Solo felt a deep burning pain streak across his forehead, followed closely by warm stickiness in his left eye, then blackness slowly crept into his vision. Strange, he thought, even my hearing is going, as the sounds of the battle faded as well.

Lieutenant Napoleon Solo heard distant voices. He couldn't make out what they were saying; all he knew was that they had American accents and they were getting louder. Then he became aware of the most intense headache he had ever had - worse than his worst hangover. He decided not to even try to open his eyes; besides, the left one felt funny. He moved his head slightly to the left. Somehow that made the headache even worse - if that were possible - and his head went into a tailspin. Got to stop moving right now, and I will never drink again. When he tried to recall what he had been drinking, he drew a blank. The voices became distant again, and faded away.

Now a voice again - this time much nearer and definitely too loud. "Hey, soldier, you in there? Wake up! Move your left hand if you can hear me!" A woman's voice! I must be in heaven! Why does she want me to move…She began shaking his shoulders and repeated her demand for him to move. The shaking, though not hard, was enough to intensify his head pain and remind him of the somewhat lesser pain in his side. He raised his left arm in hopes this demanding, delightful, and fresh-smelling woman would stop the shaking.

She did. Her warm voice - less strident now - floated over him soothingly. "I'm going to wash some dried blood out of your left eye, so I can look at it better. Keep both eyes closed. This may hurt, but I'll be as gentle as possible." He felt a warm, moist cloth touch the inner part of his left eye then sweep across. It did hurt. He hissed a breath in through his clenched teeth and stiffened all over. This intensified the pain in his head and side even more. The woman sensed this easily.

"Just relax. Breathe slowly in and out through your mouth. Just think about breathing and nothing else." Solo began following her commands. The pains began to creep down to more tolerable levels of agony. I think I'm in love, he thought as she continued to coach him and clean his eye.

Finally the woman sighed and said, "Finished. I'm going to shine a bright light in both of your eyes now. The light might bother you but it's only for a few seconds. Open your eyes for me, soldier."

Solo did, with some effort. His vision was blurred, but he caught a glimpse of shoulder-length whitish blonde hair before a bright light waved in and out of his vision. "Pupils equal and reactive to light. Left eye appears to be uninjured. Doesn't look like a bad head wound, soldier." Head wound?

Then the memories came flooding back. The ambush. The entire team injured. God, why can't this be a hangover?

The woman's next question brought him back to her. "Who's the president?" He answered her question with a quizzical look. "Of America?"

"Ike." The hoarseness of his voice surprised him.

"Good. Where are you? The country will do."

Solo cleared his throat and was treated to an increase in head pain. He squeezed his eyes tightly and replied, "Korea, also known as Hell."

Nodding in agreement, the blond woman reached for his dog tags and asked, "What's your name and rank?"

"Lieutenant Napoleon Solo." He blinked a few times, clearing his vision. The woman was beautiful, as he suspected she would be. "Your name and rank?" he managed to croak out as seductively as he could.

She laughed. "Major Margaret Houlihan. And remember that rank, Lieutenant. You're at the 4-0-7-7 MASH. I'm going to check this other wound, and then we'll be getting you to surgery. I have the feeling that you'll do just fine." She began to peer under the saturated dressing when Solo reached out with his right hand and stopped her.

"Three others, like me. OK?"

"Well, if you mean the three others dressed like you in camouflage, yes, they're here. I don't know if they're OK. There are two other nurses triaging. We've got a lot of casualties." Her tone, though still reassuring, took on a bit of sadness.

"Please!"

"Oh, I'll try to find out about them for you, but I'm not promising anything." She turned away from the lieutenant's handsome and pleading face. Margaret Houlihan controlled her emotions as best she could. It never ceased to amaze her how devoted these men were to each other. As she did almost daily, she thanked heaven for the honor of helping them. She was relieved when she saw that Lieutenant Solo's side wound was not life-threatening. She couldn't help but be attracted to the man - even as bloody and dirty as he was. "Klinger!" she shouted at the top of her lungs.

"Oh yes, your loudness."

Napoleon turned his head slowly toward the speaker. He blinked twice, because he couldn't believe that this dark, swarthy man in army greens was wearing dangling, sparkling earrings.

"Klinger, get this man into x-ray stat for skull and abdominal films. I think he's okay, but you never can tell with head wounds. Make sure B J sees the films as soon as they're out of the soup." Houlihan turned back to Solo. "See you later, Lieutenant," she said with her most sultry voice. Then she flashed him a wide smile, stood up, and ran to assess the next casualty.

I am definitely in love, Napoleon thought as he let his imagination work on how he and this major could get better acquainted. His fantasy was rudely interrupted by Klinger shouting, "Hey, Igor, gimme a hand over here! Gotta get to x-ray stat!" Within seconds, Napoleon's litter was lifted off the ground quite gently, to his surprise. Then everything faded out again.

Solo was jolted to consciousness again when the foot of his litter was dropped a few inches onto a hard table. This made the pain in his side wake up with a vengeance, and he uttered, "Damn!"

"Hey, Igor, watch it, willya? This ain't no sacka potatoes!"

"Sorry, Klinger, sorry, Lieutenant, but it just slipped."

"OK, OK, I got it from here. Go on back out, Igor. I'm sure they could use you outside."

Solo watched the tall, lanky man named Igor shuffle away. Then he shifted his attention back to the earrings-wearing man.

"…that, Lieutenant. Igor is really our cook, if you can call what he does cookin'. Just be thankful he doesn't work in the operating room." Klinger moved around to Solo's left side. Solo stared unabashedly at the man.

"Oh, I guess you're curious about the earrings. It used to be part of a dodge to get out of the army - you know, Section 8 and all. I even wore dresses and hats. The heels were murder. But then I became company clerk. Well, it just didn't seem right to keep doin' that. But every once in a while, I do get sentimental about the good old days and I'll clip on a pair of my favorites. Keeps 'em guessin', too. You're next up for x-rays-they're just finishin' up with another guy. Where you from, Lieutenant?"

Solo was beginning to like this man, strange as he was. He wet his lips and replied, "Canada."

"No kiddin'. We get your countrymen in here from time to time. Wouldn't know it just from listenin' to you folks-you sound American."

"Check on others dressed like me? Three of them."

"Sure, no problem. I'll look for 'em while you're gettin' filmed. Which is now. Hey, Henderson, this guy's up next."

Solo felt himself being lifted again and carried into another part of the large tent. His head swam furiously with the movement. Next thing he knew, he was being told to hold still, followed by a whirring sound. Must have been out again. Don't even remember getting put down. He was beginning to really dislike having a head wound. He was a man who liked - no, needed - to have control of the situation, to know all that was going on at any given minute.

"That's it for the head, Lieutenant. Now I gotta put a hard plate behind you. May hurt a bit." The masculine voice was soothing and patient.

But the movement wasn't soothing. The pain in his side roared up again and he couldn't stop himself from shouting, "Shit!" But he remained conscious.

Almost instantly, another woman's face popped into view over him. "Take some deep breaths and I'll see if I can get you some morphine." She stroked his cheek and gave him a reassuring smile. Then she checked a paper tag on his shirt that he hadn't noticed before, and walked quickly away. In the near distance, he heard her say, "Dr. Honeycutt, I've got a patient with head and side wounds who hasn't had any pain med yet. Major Houlihan triaged him and neurologically he is intact. Can I give him just a touch of morphine?"

"Has he had his skull series done yet?"

"Here are those films, Doctor." Solo recognized Klinger's voice. "I promised the major I'd have you look at these pronto." Another whirring sound again.

"OK, Lieutenant, gotta take the plate out. This won't be as bad, promise." Again that soothing masculine voice. And he was right - it wasn't as bad.

Solo sensed someone approaching his position this time, and turned his head slightly. A tall, lanky man wearing bloodstained white clothes and a mustache greeted him. My God, what a cheesy mustache…"Hi, there. I'm Dr. Honeycutt. Well, Lieutenant, I'm pleased to tell you that you don't have a skull fracture and you can have some morphine for the pain. Kellye," he said to the much shorter person standing next to him, "give him four milligrams of morphine I.V. and then get him to the O.R." The physician turned back to Napoleon. "You'll be going to the operating room very soon. If you're nice, maybe one of the people there will perform the surgery. Maybe you'll even get one who graduated from med school. Kellye here will give you that pain medicine real soon." He patted Solo's hand and walked away.

Solo returned his attention to the woman named Kellye. He watched her swiftly withdraw some fluid from a small bottle into a syringe. As she pulled out the needle, she asked, "Ever had any bad reactions to any medicine?"

"No."

"I'm going to give you something for the pain. It will make you sleepy, so don't fight it." He watched as she jabbed the needle into a rubber stopper in the tubing that was running into his arm - When did I get that? - and slowly pushed in the contents of the syringe. Within moments, he felt his chest was sinking and his legs were rising. Got to be the drug. While trying to decide if he liked or loathed these sensations, the woman grasped his hand in hers and said, "You're going to be just fine. We have great surgeons here." He felt his eyelids grow heavy, but he resisted. He found looking at this round-faced, wavy-haired woman with almond-shaped eyes quite pleasant. Finally, he yielded to the effects of the drug, but not before thanking the nurse.

Just before he hit drug-induced unconsciousness, Solo heard Klinger say, "Hey, Canada, one of your guys is in surgery already, and the other two are on the waiting list, doin' OK." He fell into relief - from pain and from worry. He and his team were still alive.

Solo was next aware of being carried into a room with a lot of commotion. Since everyone was wearing masks, he assumed he had made it to the operating room. Again, he heard Klinger speak, "Got a head and abdominal case here. Who gets him?"

"Lucky me, I just had a table open up."

Solo was placed on yet another table. Though everything was hazy and just out-of-focus, the best he could make of his surgeon was a fringe of black hair peeping out from under a white cap and dark, twinkly eyes above the mask. He thought he detected a slight New England accent.

"Hi, there," said the cheery voice behind the mask. "I'm Dr. Pierce - great name for a surgeon, wouldn't you agree? I was going to be a seamstress, but I flunked the sex test. I decided to go to doctor school instead. I just love to sew!" Solo, unaware he had tensed up, noticed he had relaxed as he listened to this man. Walking away from the table, Pierce said, "Let's have a look at your x-rays….hmmm, no major problems, but then, he's not a major. Baker, I'm ready for gloving. And let's get Kellye for anesthesia. Sandy had to leave to help out with a few problems in post-op."

A masked woman Solo did not recognize appeared out of nowhere and snapped the gloves on Pierce's upheld hands. The surgeon returned to the table. "So, where ya from, sailor?"

Solo was really beginning to like this irreverent guy. As best he could from a dry, cottony mouth, he replied with some slurring, "Canada."

"Oh, yeah, great state, Canada. Been there often. I'm from Maine. Where in Canada?"

"Most recently, Toronto."

Pierce sensed that talking was increasingly difficult for this patient, so thought it best to change the dialogue to a monologue. "Well, from the look of things, you won't be here too long. Pretty straight forward stuff here. Ah, Kellye, welcome. Whenever you're ready, you can put him under. Just relax, sailor. We'll take good care of you and you'll be back doing whatever it is sailors do in no time."

"Hi, Lieutenant." The familiar voice came from the head of the table. "It's me again. I'm going to put you to sleep now." She put a molded black mask over his nose and mouth and instructed him to breathe slowly and deeply and to relax. His last thoughts as he drifted to sleep were of his team and that this is what wet, dirty chicken feathers must smell like.

He heard a feminine voice say, "Hey, Kellye, you are being paged. And he's cute, too!"

Within moments, he felt someone touch his right hand. "How are you doing, Lieutenant? Bet you're hurting. I'll get you something for the pain." His pain faded some with just her touch and her voice. She checked his pulse at his wrist, then laid her hand lightly on his chest for a full minute. "OK, it's safe to give you something. I'll be right back with the medicine."

He felt her move away, and the whole room seemed empty. He was trying to decide whether he should call for her again when he felt a new presence - not soft and comforting like hers, but brisk and self-assured.

"Ah, Lieutenant Solo, my Canadian neighbor. Your nurse tells me you're coming around just fine. No problems in surgery, but I do want to check a few things out. Open your eyes."

This time, Napoleon Solo was able to open his eyes. After blinking a few times and allowing his eyes to adjust to the light, he finally focused on the man speaking to him. He recognized the eyes. "Dr. Pierce."

"That's right! One point for you! Please, call me Hawkeye. I'm gonna shine this bright light in your eyes for just a few seconds…." Pierce intently watched the reactions Solo's eyes had to the light. "Great! Two more points, one for each peeper. Haven't passed the test yet, though. Where are you?"

Solo croaked out, "4-0-7-7 MASH."

Hawkeye Pierce grinned and slapped his thigh. "You pass! Nothing wrong with your head that a little morphine couldn't help. And you can have some sips of water as soon as Kellye says it's OK. Ah, Kellye, you're back. Go ahead with the morphine and continue to monitor his mental status. I don't expect any problems, though. He's doing fine." Hawkeye stood while he waved good-bye to the injured man. "I'll check on you later. Get some rest. And let the nurses do their work." Then he left in a swirl of white lab coat.

Lieutenant Solo watched as Kellye injected some fluid in his intravenous line. Within seconds, he realized it was morphine. His pain began to ease, and he felt himself drifting off again, but he fought it off-he had to know about the rest of his team. "My men? How are they? Davidson, Carlucci, and MacGregor? OK?"

Kellye smiled, which emphasized her full cheeks. Napoleon was smitten. "They're all here, right around you. One of the orderlies arranged it so you could be together."

"Klinger?"

"Yes," Kellye replied, somewhat surprised that this patient would know that.

"Good man. Even with earrings. Well, how are they?"

"Well, Davidson has a leg wound and a pretty minor arm wound. MacGregor has a fairly deep shoulder wound, but he should be OK. Carlucci suffered a chest wound. It's pretty serious, but he ought to do OK, too."

Solo, unaware that he had tensed his muscles, felt them relax almost immediately. So far, everyone had come through. But he had to know one more thing before he let the pain medicine win. "How did we get here?"

"Best as I can tell, there was a patrol of British soldiers in the area. They caught the North Koreans from behind. You were close enough to us that you and your men came in by truck and ambulance. But that's enough right now. Get some rest, and when you wake up again, I promise some nice, cool water." Kellye smiled reassuringly. She stayed with him until he closed his eyes and his breathing became slow, deep, and regular. She couldn't help but notice that he seemed only concerned about his men, that he put them first. She decided she liked him.

Thirty hours later, the team members were sitting up in their beds, discussing the ambush they had walked into so unwittingly.

"Lee, don't blame yourself," insisted Davidson. "You did nothing wrong. There is no way you could know there was that North Korean patrol so far south. Even the Brits that saved our cans were surprised they were in the area. The only reason those North Koreans were where they were was because they were doing recon, just like us."

"I know, I know, Michael. But maybe this wouldn't have happened to us if I had taken a more conservative route, with more cover. I was too anxious to get back, and I threw caution to the wind!"

Mac angrily thumped his bed with his fist. "Ach, Napoleon! Michael is right! Ya had no way of knowin' they was out there. We was so close ta home!" The other three team members knew Mac felt strongly about what he was saying - they knew because his Scottish brogue got thicker, and he called his lieutenant by his full first name.

"But…"

"No buts, Lee," Davidson interrupted. "You can't second-guess this thing. It just happened. Don't let it get to you. You can't be goin' conservative on us now. Bein' too cautious can get you killed quicker than not. I won't have that it my LT. I don't want to get to heaven before my time."

Carlucci cleared his throat and coughed, grimacing with the pain that activity brought him. Softly, he said, "They are right, my friend, and you are wrong to doubt them or yourself. You are very good soldier, very good leader. Doe not-a change." Then he directed himself to Davidson: "What makes-a you tink that you gonna get to heaven, Michael?"

The other three men burst out laughing. Johnny always seemed to know when to get the group to stop taking itself so seriously.

"Hey, guys, what's so funny? I love a good laugh, too." B J Honeycutt had walked over to that area of post-op once he heard the laughter.

Solo was the first to recover. "Ah, Dr. Honeycutt! We…"

"Please, call me B J."

"OK, B J. And I'm Lee. We were just discussing that mustache of yours."

"Oh, yeah? Well, if you think this is bad, you should have seen the other ones in the Sears catalog."

Solo and Davidson began laughing again. Carlucci and Mac looked at each other, not quite understanding what was obviously funny to the others.

B J noticed their lack of participation in the festivities. "Lee," he said, "I don't think all your friends get it."

Davidson quipped, "That's what happens when you're raised in Scotland and Italy, Doc. They just don't know about all the good things in life!" With this comment, both Carlucci and Mac enthusiastically gave the other three a variety of obscene gestures. This sent all five into peals of laughter.

Exasperated at the loud behavior but pleased at the same time that these men were feeling so much better, Margaret Houlihan charged over to the group. "Shhh! Keep it down in here! There are other patients in here trying to rest."

"Sorry, Major Houlihan. I guess we're all just happy to be here." Napoleon Solo gave her one of his brightest and most charming smiles.

The major melted perceptibly. She's beautiful when she's mad and won over, Napoleon thought. I must remember to look her up…

His thoughts were interrupted by the approach of two men. One of them was Colonel Allan Morgan, the commanding officer of the intelligence group of which the team was a part. He was not quite six feet tall, but his military bearing made him appear much taller. In his early forties, his hair was just beginning to gray and thin out a bit. His eyes revealed a dark, intelligent, and cunning nature when he allowed his guard to be down. The colonel's companion was a slightly smaller man, a civilian who was non-descript, just average, the kind of person easily overlooked or ignored. Though no one in the team knew him, they all pegged this guy as CIA.

"Ah, Napoleon, men," Colonel Morgan said with exuberance. "I am very pleased to see you looking so well, considering your ordeal. Now I've come to take you home for debriefing and continued recovery. He quickly turned to Honeycutt. "Are you the doctor? I want these men released immediately. They must report their findings from the last two weeks without delay."

B J held his hands up and motioned for Morgan to back off. "Well, now, hold on, Colonel. I'm not sure any of these men are quite ready to leave yet. I think they all could use just one more day, and a couple of them need more than that."

Morgan moved in closer to Honeycutt. "Doctor, I'm not a man whose orders are ignored. We can take care of them where we are going. Now do what you must to get these men out of here within the next hour."

Without taking his eyes off the intimidating colonel, B J said, "Uh, Margaret, go get Hawkeye and Colonel Potter stat." Margaret nodded and hurried out of post-op. "Colonel, that's not the way we work around here. The doctors who worked on these men must be the ones to sign them out. And even a general can't override their judgments."

"But…"

"Sorry, Colonel, I can't, and won't, help you. However, you are more than welcome to visit with your men. If you have any questions, I'll be right here making rounds on the other patients." Honeycutt's gaze lingered slightly on Morgan before he turned to examine a nearby patient in traction.

Colonel Morgan huffed and said, "Oh, all right. I guess we can wait a few more minutes."

B J looked over his shoulder at the colonel. He smiled without showing any teeth, then turned his attention back to the soldier he was examining.

"Colonel Morgan, it's…" Solo began but the man accompanying the commanding officer interrupted him.

"Excuse me," he brusquely said to the lieutenant. Then he leaned closely into Morgan. "We don't have much time, Morgan," he whispered with a great deal of urgency. "I'm positive that nut Colonel Flagg has heard about this and is bound to be here any minute. We must get these men out of here before he arrives. And don't forget the scheduled visit with 'Uncle Alex.' We only have a few days."

Morgan looked condescendingly at his companion. "I know that, McNeely. But there is a time to play by our rules, and a time to play by theirs. We can spare a few minutes to play by theirs." He then regarded the four-man team. "Good to see you, men. It would have been better to see you without so many bandages."

Solo cleared his throat. "Uh, we would have to agree with you 100 percent, sir. I'm afraid this was all my fault." Davidson, Carlucci, and MacGregor all began talking at once, each intending to remove any blame of their team leader for their injuries.

"Now, now, gentlemen," tut-tutted the colonel. "We can discuss this all in the debriefing. What is most important is what you have discovered in your two weeks 'abroad.' But we can't debrief you here. We want to take you to a more secure facility as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir." Solo, slightly relieved that Morgan's top priority wasn't pressing formal charges against him for practically leading the team to their deaths, allowed himself to relax. He began surreptitiously to study McNeely, the very unextraordinary man with Colonel Morgan. He had never seen anyone so plain, so without distinguishing physical or behavioral characteristics. Napoleon wasn't sure he would recognize him if he ever saw the man again. What a good spook this guy would make, he thought. No one would ever notice or even remember him.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Pierce." The six men focussed their attention on the newly arrived surgeon. "I understand someone wants to take several other someones out of here before those someones are ready. I guess that someone would be you," Hawkeye said to Colonel Morgan.

"Yes, Doctor, you are correct. These four men are in my command, and have been on a long reconnaissance mission. We need to get the information they have in a much more secure environment."

While Morgan was stating his case, two more men arrived, both in white lab coats. The shorter of the two was also older, but had a sturdy, military bearing and an aura of authority about him. The other was balding, with rounded shoulders and belly, but carrying an attitude that was unequivocally pompous.

"Gentlemen, if I may interrupt this here conversation," the older man began, with hands clasped behind his back and rocking on his feet. "I'm Colonel Potter, the commandant of this camp. One of my orderlies informs me that you want to take a few of our patients out of here toot-sweet without anyone's approval. Well, that's not gonna happen until we say it's gonna happen. Discharge or transfer is up to the operating surgeon, and in his absence, the chief surgeon, who you've already met."

"Colonel Potter, I'm Colonel Morgan. I am in the information-gathering business, and these men have very important information we need. I assure you, if it weren't of the utmost importance, I would have no problem having them stay in your fine hospital until they were discharged properly. What they have to tell us could save dozens, even hundreds of lives. But we must debrief them in a secure facility, which this is not." Morgan was emphatic without being threatening-his tone and his body language almost commanded agreement.

But none of the doctors were taken in by Morgan's compelling plea. They, too, were people of strong beliefs and commitment to their patients. Without even glancing at his colleagues, Potter said, "No dice, Colonel. These men stay until we say they can go. One of these men I operated on-that strapping young fellow over there," indicating Davidson. "He needs some more antibiotics and he won't be ready to use crutches until his arm wound has a few more days to knit. Winchester, what about your fella?"

"Gentlemen," said the previously silent surgeon in a distinct Boston accent, "I am Major Winchester. My patient, the corporal from Italy, suffered a very grievous chest wound. It will be several days before he is ready for transport to an evac hospital for further recuperation and convalescence." He put on his best Cheshire cat grin.

"And I operated on the other two," interjected Hawkeye. "Even though both are doing well, they will need at least 24 more hours here, for antibiotics and monitoring. The big guy over there," pointing to Mac, "will probably need some physical therapy on that arm of his. The bullet came awful close to some very important nerves. And the lieutenant has a head wound, which warrants monitoring of his mental status for a while longer. We won't be discharging them now, and that's final."

Lieutenant Napoleon Solo and his team watched the exchange with fascination. None of them had ever seen anyone stand up to the force they knew as Colonel Morgan. They gained new respect for their doctors, and appreciated that these guys had some brass balls. But they still had to hand it to Morgan-he was unfazed, undaunted by the united front of the surgeons. He seemed as determined as ever to gain custody of his men.

Quietly, through clenched teeth, McNeely said, "Colonel…"

Morgan blasted the man with an angry keep-out-of-this look. "Colonel Potter, I have an alternative plan. Suppose I can commandeer an ambulance, a doctor, and at least one nurse. They would be told to carry out your doctors' orders to the letter. Also, once at our destination, everything they need will be provided. Would you then release them into our care? I am willing to do whatever it takes not only to protect my men's health, but to safely get the information they have that could likely save many lives. You have my word, doctors, as an officer and a gentleman."

"Colonel, I'm not sure this is a good idea," McNeely whispered. But he couldn't help but notice the change in demeanor in the surgeons.

Napoleon Solo simply smiled. Colonel Morgan always had a back-up plan. Yet another lesson to learn and remember after he, Solo, left the service.

"OK, Colonel, give me a moment with my doctors here for a pow-wow." Potter turned toward Hawkeye and Winchester, signaling them away from the beds into a more private part of post-op. He waved for B J to join them.

"Well, men, the colonel makes a good point. If what he says is true, we could be helping to save more lives than just these four. But the decision has to be unanimous. And all four go or none at all."

"Colonel, I've never trusted these military intelligence types. How with it could they be when the likes of Colonel Flagg graces their ranks?"

"I agree with Hawkeye," chimed in Honeycutt. "My experience with army spies has taught me that they are not the brightest or sanest people. They're manipulative and they raise the art of lying to new heights."

"If I may interject here, gentlemen," said Winchester. "We have to consider if moving these patients now would truly be jeopardizing their well-being, and then weigh that against what good the information they hold would be. Why don't we ask them how they feel about the matter? They may be up to this."

Potter said, "Good idea, Winchester. And I must admit that their barging in here demanding these boys' release rubbed me the wrong way. It might have clouded my judgment. Whadya say, B J, Hawkeye?"

Hesitantly, Hawkeye said, "OK, since two of these guys are mine and I am the chief surgeon, I want to lay down some criteria here. First, they have to feel up to going. Second, we examine them again to determine if they can tolerate the transport. And finally, the doctor and nurses have to meet our muster. Agreed?"

Potter and Winchester nodded their agreement.

Meanwhile, Morgan and his companion turned their attention back to Solo and his team.

"Colonel," Napoleon said with some amazement creeping into his voice, "you sure make it hard to say 'No' to you. If I may be so bold to ask, sir, was this alternative something you already had waiting in the wings, or did you think of it on the spot?"

"Actually, this was my original plan all along, Lieutenant. I would never think of loading you men up in a couple of jeeps. Coming in as I did, then backing off somewhat allowed the doctors to save face and cooperate more willingly." It was Morgan's turn to exhibit a Cheshire cat grin. "Everybody's happy."

The group fell into a comfortable silence. In a few moments, as they watched the doctors approach them, they sensed the probable outcome of the doctors' meeting. The team would not be guests at the 4077 MASH much longer.

In the ambulance, Margaret Houlihan and Kellye Nakahara were tucking in their soon-to-be-former patients. They had gone over doctor's orders with the receiving nurse at least five times. All four members of the team felt flattered over what they considered too much concern on the part of the MASH nurses.

Both nurses found themselves at Solo's side simultaneously.

"Just one last check, Lieutenant." Margaret straightened undetectable wrinkles in the blanket covering Solo. "You take care of yourself." She spoke softly, then placed her hand lightly on the back of Napoleon's. She hoped Solo hadn't felt her heart pound through the touch. Though she knew he was a hopeless flirt, she would have gladly succumbed to his advances in other circumstances.

"Ah, Margaret, you have made getting wounded a priceless experience." She blushed, he laughed gently. "One of these days, perhaps I can give you an experience just as priceless, but without the - you know." She blushed even deeper.

Kellye cleared her throat to remind the chief nurse that she was not alone with Napoleon. "Lieutenant, I wish you luck and good health. Aloha," Kellye said with just a trace of shyness. She, too, was very attracted to this Canadian, but so was her boss and her boss would win.

"Kellye," Napoleon said warmly, "I'm glad you're here." He slid his hand out from under Margaret's to reach for Kellye, who then took his hand in both of hers. "It's a good thing I'm leaving, because I couldn't possibly choose between the two of you." It was Kellye's turn to blush. Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon saw Davidson roll his eyes and shake his head. "Thank you both, ladies. Without you, my men and I would have had a much harder time getting better." He raised his head slightly as he pulled Kellye's hands toward him so he could deliver a kiss. "I will thank you both properly at a later date. I have your addresses safely stowed away."

"Hey, you two nurses, will you quit salivating and get out of there so they can leave?" chirped Hawkeye, who was leaning against the back door of the ambulance. Both MASH nurses self-consciously pulled away from the lieutenant. "Solo, I'm glad to see you go - you're too much competition for me."

Margaret, closely followed by Kellye, jumped out of the ambulance. "We were just saying good-bye, Doctor," Margaret retorted.

"I'll believe that one when Charles here stands on his head and sings 'De Camptown Races' with a Greek accent." Winchester looked peeved at Hawkeye's comment.

Colonel Potter walked up. "OK, boys and girls, let get this show on the road. Time's a-wastin'."

"Ah, Colonel Potter, we were waiting for you. Any last words to our gallant spies?"

Potter leaned into the ambulance and surveyed the four men closely. "Looks like you're ready to go. Take care, men. Nurse, I'm sure you'll take great care of them." The nurse, a shy, mousy-looking woman dressed in fatigues, nodded slightly.

Potter stepped back, closed the door, and banged on the vehicle twice. The driver started the engine and began to pull away slowly. Solo and Davidson, the only two men who could see out of the back window, both noticed the worried and concerned expressions of the medicos. Potter, Pierce, Winchester, and the two nurses waved until the ambulance was out of sight.

Then all but Hawkeye left to return to business. A few moments later, B J approached his colleague. "Hawk, you don't look too happy."

"Yeah, well, I'm not. I hope I made the right decision. I guess they'll be OK, but I got a bad feeling about this anyway, Beej. What if…"

"I feel it, too. But Morgan had a point, and the doc and nurse seem to know what they're doing. Nothing you can do now. They'll be fine," Honeycutt said, as much to reassure himself as Hawkeye.

"Yeah, they'll be fine," Hawkeye muttered, obviously not convinced. He reached up to take Honeycutt by the shoulder, and steered him to the mess tent.

In the ambulance, Napoleon Solo began to have doubts, even a sense of impending doom. Something didn't feel right. Somehow, I feel betrayed, he thought. He had no idea how right he was.

Moscow, USSR

Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin had begun to despise being in port. Ever since he was tapped for KGB membership, he was expected to spend every spare moment in Moscow, training, when not at sea. He had proven himself all too well during the war, even though he was just a boy (he was still talked about in Kiev), and now was forced to spy and kill for a cause in which he did not believe. All he wanted was to serve in the Soviet Navy and to study science, particularly physics. But, as he had learned so well in fighting the Germans, one cannot always do want one wants.

Kuryakin decided to take his time getting to the gymnasium. He was scheduled to practice martial arts with Dmitriy Popov. Popov was his least favorite sparring partner. He was about 195 centimeters and weighed at least 115 kilos-all muscle. Illya, who was easily 20 centimeters shorter and roughly 45 kilos lighter, knew better than to be intimidated by size. After all, virtually all the martial arts he was studying did not rely on brute strength for effectiveness. What concerned Illya about Dmitriy was that he was cruel and brutal, and enjoyed making others suffer. And in practice, he often "forgot" to pull his punches and kicks, especially when he was working out with Illya. Though everyone agreed that both men would go far in the KGB, Popov would succeed on savageness and Kuryakin on brains and discipline.

"Oh, Illya Nickovetch, I have finally found you! Wait!" he heard someone call from behind him. Kuryakin stopped and turned around. Inwardly, he smiled at the small, plain, excited man who was rapidly approaching him. "Comrade Korolev, what can I do for you?" Kuryakin said.

Breathless, Sergei Korolev stopped just inches from Kuryakin. Grabbing Illya's left forearm, Korolev took several very deep breaths and launched into his news. "Illya Nickovetch, I am so excited. You know how much I have wanted to get to outer space but our previous leader wanted me to do something else." He stopped to catch his breath again. Illya waited patiently.

"Now that Comrade Khrushchev is our leader, he has directed me to build a rocket that could bring nuclear missiles to America! Do you realize these missiles would have to be powerful enough to actually reach outer space? I will finally get to realize my dream, Illya Nickovetch! And I want you to assist me!" Korolev looked expectantly into Illya's face.

Before replying, Kuryakin gently pulled away from Korolev's increasingly tight grip. "I am truly honored that you would ask this of me. And I am happy for you, Comrade Korolev, but I am behind in my studies and am not ready to help you on such an important project. Plus, I think, the government has different plans for me." At that moment, Illya was thankful for his KGB affiliation. He could gracefully bow out of such a horrendous project.

Korolev's high spirits plunged immediately. "Yes, you are correct as usual, Comrade Kuryakin. We must go where we are needed and do what we are ordered. Ah, but you would have been a great asset in the development of this rocket, I am sure. Perhaps we will have tea before you must ship out again?"

"I would like that very much, Comrade. Shall we say tomorrow?"

Korolev seemed to perk up a bit at getting the opportunity to visit with his occasional protegé. "Excellent! I will see you in my office at tea time tomorrow!" He bowed slightly to Illya, who returned it. Korolev went back the way he came, albeit less enthusiastically. Kuryakin watched him leave for a few moments, then sighed, imagining the agony Popov was going to put him through. Just remember Kiev, and the journey to the gypsy camps, Illya thought, and this will be a trifle.

"You are late, Comrade Kuryakin," boomed the instructor at the gymnasium entrance. "What is your excuse this time?"

Kuryakin groaned to himself and shuddered at the thought that Alexei Renko was instructing today. Popov, standing with him now, was his favorite student, and Illya his least favorite. Popov will get away with a lot today.

Illya bowed. "I am sorry, Comrade Renko. I was stopped on the way here by Comrade Korolev, who was on business from the new premier." Kuryakin watched Renko's and Popov's eyebrows levitate a few millimeters.

"Very interesting, Kuryakin. I sometimes forget how special you are." There was no mistaking Renko's sarcastic tone. "Change clothes and begin your warm-up immediately. We have much to do and less time to do it in." Renko's change to belligerency did not bode well for Illya.

"Yes, Comrade Renko," Illya said without emotion, hoping not to provoke any more animosity from the instructor. He bowed again, then proceeded through the gymnasium door with parade posture. As he continued on to the changing room, he could feel their eyes bore into him.

As Illya Kuryakin walked away, Renko muttered softly to Popov, "That man from U.N.C.L.E. - Waverly, I think - is due here soon to recruit a Soviet citizen for that organization. I hear that Comrade Kuryakin is a primary candidate. Let us do our best to make him look pretty, shall we?" Renko narrowed his eyes and snorted.

"Whatever you say, Comrade Instructor. If you desire it, it will happen." Popov's green-blue eyes were expressionless as he watched the smaller man turn walk through the changing room threshold. Inwardly, Popov was ecstatic - he actually had permission to go after this man who seemed to excel at everything. He would not waste this opportunity.

Illya Kuryakin changed his clothes quickly. Before leaving, he stood for a few moments at the mirror to psychologically prepare himself for what was sure to be a no-holds-barred "practice" session. Looking back at him was longish - at least by Soviet Navy standards - blond hair, a high forehead, and sky-and-sea-blue eyes that were now adopting his cold stare. He reminded himself again that he had been through worse. And he tried to convince himself that what he lacked in size, he compensated for in speed and cunning.

He sighed deeply and left the changing room. At least he knew what awaited him.

Within two minutes of the start of the Kuryakin - Popov bout, all other activity in the gymnasium had ceased and all eyes were on them. Popov's frustrated scream had drawn their attention. He had screamed because Kuryakin had somehow managed to avoid any of the numerous kicks and punches by retreating with the swiftness of a cheetah. Kuryakin just stared back coldly. Popov interpreted this as a taunt, and it fed his anger.

"Popov, that is enough! Control yourself," snapped Renko. "Now, get on with it."

Popov nodded at the instructor. He faced Kuryakin again, who remained safely out of reach. Within moments, the opponents nodded at each other, signaling their readiness to begin again.

Though he was determined not to draw first blood, Illya did want to score some points, if Renko was even bothering with that. He moved in, making sure he kept his weight and center of gravity at just the right places to effect an escape. Popov did not budge. Illya noticed that Popov appeared to be off-balance and decided to take advantage of this. Without telegraphing his move, Illya jumped and lunged forward, hitting Popov in the lower chest with his foot. Popov grunted and spun, quickly hitting the floor. He rolled away, then effortlessly got to his feet. He saw that Kuryakin was already back on his feet and ready to attack or be attacked.

Popov became even angrier because he had not made first contact. He was almost ready to charge at Kuryakin again, but he caught Renko's perturbed look in his peripheral vision. Popov calmed himself somewhat. He decided that if were to even touch Kuryakin at all, he could not have his anger taking charge. Renko was right - he had to control himself, and then Kuryakin would be his.

Illya could see the change come over his opponent. He knew that once his anger was controlled, Popov would be quite formidable. Illya decided to take the offensive and attack again. Within a heartbeat, he took a few paces in, jumped, spun 360 degrees, and lashed out with his foot.

The big man did not see it coming. Kuryakin's foot connected with his jaw, and he staggered back, but did not fall, because Illya had not come full force. Dmitriy tasted blood, and knew he had bitten his tongue. He saw that Illya had not landed on his feet, so Popov immediately moved in and caught Illya with a vicious kick to his left side as he tried to roll away.

Involuntarily, Kuryakin cried out and curled into a fetal position. The pain was so intense that he thought he might have blacked out momentarily. Then he endured another kick - this one to the left knee that was guarding his injured side. He couldn't let the match end like this, so he willed himself to roll away, but not before blocking a third kick with his right arm. Fortunately for Illya, his arm found a tender spot in Popov's shin. Popov stumbled back and almost fell. This gave Kuryakin enough time to finish his roll. He got up with no small effort, splinting his side with his right hand. He found he couldn't put much weight on his left leg, either.

Fully recovered, Dmitriy regarded his handiwork. Kuryakin seemed pale under the flush of activity, and Popov thought he could read pain in that cold, blue, unnerving stare. The smaller man was breathing hard and sweating profusely. Popov could taste victory in addition to blood now. He allowed himself a slow grin as he planned his final attack with the focus on Kuryakin's face.

Illya concentrated on breathing and reading Popov's face and body. Because Dmitriy had not yet learned to control his non-verbal communication, Illya continued to have some advantage despite his injuries. He knew he had to fight for real, now, maybe even for his life. He could tell Popov would launch a full frontal assault against him.

He was right. Popov, though a big man, could move quickly, but not quickly enough. Illya was able to leap out of the way at the last second, avoiding the rain of punches. As Popov roared past him, Illya slammed his left fist into his kidney. This time, Popov cried out, since Illya didn't pull his punch.

Popov staggered before coming to a halt. By the time he turned around, Kuryakin had repositioned himself several yards away. Popov wondered why Kuryakin had not continued to pound him while he had the advantage. Then he realized that Illya didn't have the strength to attack yet and was biding his time because he was using his energy to control the pain. He knew it wouldn't take much longer, perhaps only a minute or two. Kuryakin's ability to control and endure pain was legendary.

Popov sneaked a peak at Renko. He was obviously displeased. Popov knew why - he was communicating his every move to his opponent, and Kuryakin was reading him with ease.

Determined not to let on his next move, Popov worked hard to mask his thoughts and control his body. When he had achieved this, he formulated his next attack.

Kuryakin became alarmed when he realized what Popov was doing. Reading Dmitriy was his only chance at surviving this ordeal, and now that chance was fading quickly. He fought to triumph over the pain, because he would need everything in the next few minutes. I must take him out now; I must not give him a chance.

Kuryakin took one step toward his opponent, then purposely fell to the ground. With his right leg, he swept the much larger man to the floor. Popov cursed and pivoted rapidly in an effort to set up a kick at the wiry, smaller man.

Illya beat him to it. He had anticipated the move, and was ready with his legs. With near-blinding speed, he encased Popov's head and neck in a choking scissors hold.

Popov sputtered a scream and tried to break Illya's hold on his neck. When that didn't work, he punched Kuryakin's left knee with his considerable might.

Kuryakin responded with a painful grunt and the release of his hold on Dmitriy. The latter spun on his butt to position himself for a kick at the former's head. Popov lashed out with his foot, connecting hard with Illya's forehead. That opened up a deep cut over Illya's right eye.

Illya felt the room spin and the blood flow easily from the laceration. This slowed him even more. He fought the unconsciousness he realized was overtaking him, because he knew he must defend himself against a bruising beating from the cruel Popov. Another kick to his ribs came next, and he had no choice but to yield to the darkness.

Popov unleashed his fury on the smaller man who truly had bested him. Renko stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, smirking. When it became apparent that the coach had no intention of stopping Popov's attack on Kuryakin, several of Illya's friends intervened to subdue the barbarian. Another friend tended to Illya. "Ah, my good friend," whispered Anatoly, "you will have many bruises and a scar for your efforts to play fair. I hope you learn that one cannot always play fair."

Illya Kuryakin, unable to respond but somehow able to hear Anatoly, knew his friend was correct, and chided himself for forgetting that same lesson he had learned during the war.

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