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section7mfu2016-04-27 08:48 am
Water - A little late entry for Picfic Tuesday
The Prompt:
Occupational Hazards: Water
The blond man stood on the pier, the violent winds lashing at his wiry body, tangling his bangs and forcing them into his eyes to obscure his vision. He appeared ill-prepared for the vicious storm that railed around him, his black turtleneck moulded to him like a second skin by the driving rain which pricked his pale skin like needles as it soaked him to the core.
His hands, both raised above his head in an age-old gesture of submission did little to shelter him as his teeth chattered savagely. He ruefully concluded that the Belgian coast was in fact, not a prime holiday destination in the middle of a record-breakingly cold November. Although, he considered as he impassively regarded the bleak shoreline and the dismal buildings dotted along it, it did not appear as though the application of sunshine would do a great deal to improve the place in his standings. Over the howling gale that whistled through his ears, the young man struggled to hear the voice of the large man that stood before him peremptorily brandishing a THRUSH standard issue rifle directly at his chest.
"What are you doing here, Kuryakin?" The question was snarled, accompanied by a sharp gesture from the weapon.
"Sightseeing," Illya Kuryakin, Number Two, Section Two of the UNCLE answered drily, looking pointedly at the camera heaped in a pile with his other possessions, most notably his UNCLE special, his communicator, and most gallingly of all, his waterproof jacket. Deder Vanden Bergh, was undoubtedly not the smartest THRUSH leader Illya had encountered in his time as an UNCLE agent, but regrettably for the Russian he was savvy enough to recognise the heavy sarcasm, which earned the slender man a breath-stealing blow to the stomach.
"Restrain him," Vander Bergh snapped to his guard, as Illya fought to regain both his breath and his balance. One of the two guard flanking their boss stepped out of sight and wrenched Kuryakin's arms behind him, securing them with a thick length of rope.
***
It was supposed to have been a routine affair, survey and destroy. THRUSH had been suspected of running weapons from Europe to America via the port and Kuryakin and his partner, Napoleon Solo, had been dispatched to investigate, gather to allow a strike force to commandeer the vessel if at all possible. As darkness had fallen late that afternoon, Illya had slipped out of their shared hotel room to investigate activity around the harbour, while Napoleon had headed for the town bars dotted along the seafront hoping to gather information one who might be spearheading the operation and when the next shipment might be due to depart. Not for the first time in the tenure of their partnership Illya now found himself wishing that their roles had been reversed.
Illya had made it to the private dock without incident, evading THRUSH security with practiced ease. Stacked crates littered the dock, providing a hidden vantage point which allowed him to view the activity taking place, and photograph both the docked vessel, and those who appeared to be crewing it. Vanden Bergh's presence on the dock was of particular interest to the keen blue eyes, he had been the subject of a number of recent intelligence briefings coming from UNCLE Europe, thought to be a relatively junior, but ambitious, THRUSH official, not afraid to use violence and cruelty to achieve his goals. Longer observation indicated that the ship was being loaded, and Illya suspected that it was due to depart on the next high tide. Uncapping his communicator, Illya made a whispered report to the New York office. Unfortunately, his momentary distraction, coupled with the restricted visibility caused by the terrible weather meant that he did notice that the crate that shielded him was next to be loaded, and he suddenly found himself staring directly down the barrel of a THRUSH rifle.
***
Napoleon Solo was indisputably a lucky man. That luck, or more likely his seniority, meant that he was safely ensconced in a small, cosy, bar sipping on a Trappist ale, in the company of an extremely pleasant barmaid, while Illya Kuryakin shivered outside in the pouring rain. He played the role of tourist like a consummate profile, asking just enough questions to maintain a steady flow of conversation, but not enough to arouse the suspicions of any potential THRUSH sailors patronising the bar. That and the application of a few tactically distributed free ales, allowed him to learn a great deal about the goings-on at the private pier that was currently being occupied by THRUSH. Bar gossip told him that a new shipment had been delivered in a series of trucks that afternoon, and the ship was scheduled to depart on the next high-tide.
Solo expressed his surprise at this, waving an incredulous arm at the rain that lashed nonstop against the window. Older sailors in the bar simply laughed and shook their heads at his naivety and muttered disparaging comments about those who lived a land bound existence. With a private smile, Napoleon imagined the acerbic comments that his partner, with his notoriously poor sea-legs, would make in response were he present.
Napoleon's thoughts turned then to his partner, no doubt grumbling miserably outside in the rain. In fairness to Solo, it hadn't actually been raining at the time Illya had left, but somehow his partner possessed an unerring habit of finding any source of water possible on a mission and either falling in it, or being drenched by it, and shortly after he had left the heavens had opened. Moving to a quieter corner of the bar, Solo removed his pen communicator from his coat pocket and opened a local channel to his, doubtless miserable, friend. He heard the chime of the communicator making a connection, and braced himself for a barrage of complaint. However, he was met with nothing but silence. Brow furrowed in concern, Napoleon shouldered into his coat and headed back out into the storm.
***
"Search the area," Vanden Bergh ordered gruffly, pointing imperiously at his guards, "If Kuryakin is here then so is Solo."
The Russian looked at him with an inscrutable expression.
"I told you," he commented blandly, "I'm here on vacation. Solo is not here."
He expected the fist that smashed into his face, but that didn't stop the flare of pain that told him that he had broken his nose.
"Where is he?" Vanden Bergh demanded again, his tone deceptively light. Illya shook his head to clear it, ignoring the scarlet trail of blood that mixed with the rainwater puddled at his feet.
"California dreaming," Illya shrugged, "On such a winter's day."
He rocked back on his heels with the next blow, but that wasn't enough to prevent him losing his balance and sprawling across the sodden wood. He knew with certainty, by virtue of far too much past experience, that the next assault would be a kick to the ribs, that he would be powerless to intercept. Being right in his prediction did nothing to dull the sharp stab that told him that at least one rib had broken.
Vanden Bergh's guard returned, empty handed and shaking their heads, and Illya offered a silent thanks to a God he did not believe in, that Solo had not chosen that moment to reconvene with him. His gratitude was short-lived as his communicator chose that moment to emit the piercing whistle that alerted him to an incoming signal. Illya gritted his teeth as the questioning increased in intensity.
***
There was a steady flow of activity over the secure pier at the end of the harbour, validating the locals' theory that the docked cargo vessel was due to leave imminently. Again, Solo retrieved his communicator from his pocket, sheltering in a shop doorway to stave off the worst of the rain.
"Open Channel D," he ordered, "Overseas relay. Priority."
There was a momentary silence before the gravelly voice of Number One, Section One, Alexander Waverly came through the speaker.
"Report Mr Solo."
Solo outlined the situation concisely, continuing to monitor the activity on the pier as he did so. At his current distance he was unable to make out the slight figure of his partner, although there were several piles of crates which would have provided more than adequate shelter for the shorter man. Solo reached the end of his report and waited patiently for the Old Man to respond.
"Very good Mr Solo," he commented, after a long moment, "Your report concurs with that of Mr Kuryakin, who has advised that Deder Vanden Bergh is leading the operation. I will have a strike team dispatched to be with you inside the hour, it would be something of a coup to be able to deny THRUSH access to their weaponry without Mr Kuryakin resorting to his customary pyrotechnical proclivities."
Solo held back a chuckle at Waverly's assessment of the situation. His partner did have something of a predilection for bringing their cases to something of an explosive conclusion, and on a boat with a hold full of weaponry, that would be doubtless be a sight to behold.
"Mr Kuryakin has reported in already then?" he asked, curiously, wondering why he had been unable to make contact with his bond partner.
"Indeed, Mr Solo, although we did lose our connection to him," that sent a prickle of concern directly to Napoleon's gut, "although meteorology tells me that the weather there is currently somewhat inclement."
Napoleon rolled his eyes at the understatement, grateful that Waverly was unable to see him.
"It is quite... unpleasant, sir," he acknowledged, still uneasy about Illya's location. "I'll rejoin Agent Kuryakin and await the strike force."
"Very good, Mr Solo, if you could be so good as to remind him that we would like to take the vessel intact. New York out."
Solo was about to acknowledge the order when he realised that the connection had been terminated from the other end. Shrugging, he pocketed the communicator and headed back out into the rain.
He moved towards his objective in the shadow of the buildings, the darkness covering his approach. The rain worked in his favour, as the few hardy souls he passed had their heads bowed against the blustery wind. The pier was secured, but not extensively, and Solo had no trouble in duplicating his colleague's route onto the slippery wooden structure. What he saw before him made his heart sink.
***
Illya spat blood from his split lip onto the boarding he lay upon, and glared up at his assailant as menacingly as he could manage around his rapidly developing black eye. When it became clear that Illya did not know, or at least was not willingly going to reveal, the location of Solo, the THRUSH leader had seemed content to pass the time by using the Russian as a convenient punch bag substitute. He groaned as another well-placed kick found his right kidney, and found himself once again wishing that Napoleon would hurry up. His bound hands, coupled with the slippery wood and the relentless blows were making it impossible for him to stand any chance of regaining his footing and the frustration at his own helplessness was mounting rapidly. He looked up from the latest assault, the frustration in his cobalt eyes turning to relief as his gaze met a figure blessedly familiar, despite being shrouded in wet weather gear, slowly advancing towards him using the stacks of crates as cover.
***
Vanden Bergh might be tipped for great things within THRUSH, but he lacked the necessary brainpower, Solo assessed as he closed in on his prey. He was so occupied with his assault on Illya, that Solo had managed to fell the guards between them with well-placed sleep darts, the firing of his weapon obscured by the booming crash of the incoming waves. The guard at the far end of the pier remained active, but was impossible to reach without advertising his presence. Pausing for a moment, Solo considered his options, before silently signalling his plan of attack to his watching partner, waiting for his imperceptible nod before acting.
Napoleon slipped silently behind Vanden Bergh, whose attention remained riveted on the downed Kuryakin. He raised his weapon, preparing to take a shot that went wild as a guard at the far end of the berth yelled a sudden warning to his boss.
Vanden Bergh spun, alerted to Solo's presence by his guard's sudden shout, a lucky well-placed roundhouse kick disarming the agent before he had the opportunity to fire a second time. Napoleon hit the deck, grappling with his opponent's legs, dragging the THRUSH agent down along with him. The two traded fierce blows as they rolled across the jetty, first one, then the other gaining the upper hand. Frantically, Illya rolled out of the way, finally gaining the space he needed to regain his footing, his face abruptly brightened by a feral grin, that increased in intensity as he realised his partner had gained the upper hand, before fading abruptly as he saw the rifle aimed at Solo's back.
There was little time to act, and bound as he was, only a few courses of action left for him to take. The guard's finger whitened as it tensed on the trigger, and Napoleon sent Vanden Bergh spiralling into oblivion with a fierce right hook, Illya launched himself with a guttural yell towards the rifle. Napoleon looked up, a triumphant smile on his face, in time to see the THRUSH guard, and Illya, disappearing over the edge and into the churning sea below.
***
He hadn't known cold until this moment. The needles of rain water had been replaced by knives spearing every inch of skin. Icy fingers, strong as steel tightened around his chest, forcing the air from his lungs in a sudden, desperate burst. Buffeted by the surging tide, he lost all sense of where the surface lay, aware only of the burning of his lungs and the agony of freezing water sapping his strength, second by second. Frantically, he kicked, forcing himself to move, hoping against hope that he was propelling himself towards the surface. Spots danced in front of his eyes, but still he kicked, his heart almost bursting with relief as his head broke the surface, allowing him to gulp a few precious mouthfuls of air, before an iron grip tightened around his calf, pulling him back into the depths.
***
Napoleon scrambled to his feet, picking up his discarded pistol as he did so, and scanned the maelstrom before him in fraught terror, desperate to see a glimpse of his partner in the wild sea. After a heart-stopping, private eternity, a blond head broke the surface, gasping for breath, only to disappear almost immediately as the THRUSH guard desperately clawed his way up from beneath the water, using Illya's body to provide the buoyancy he needed to breach the surface. Napoleon doubted he even realised, not that he would care, that it was the UNCLE agent that he was trapping beneath the surface, so desperate was his need for air. He remembered doom filled water-safety instruction he had received as a child, packed with stories of what a panicked human would do in their bid to prevent their lungs filling with water. He'd had sympathy for them, these people so overwhelmed with their own survival instinct that they had risked the lives of their own loved ones.
Now there was no sympathy, Illya was trapped, unable to breathe, by the man that had tried to kill Solo. With a long breath to steady himself, Napoleon took aim. And fired.
***
Illya struggled, wildly beneath the water, unable to give up until the fight for life was lost. His ears rang, his blurred vision darkening, when suddenly, miraculously, the weight holding him down, disappeared. With the last of his strength he kicked out, feeling the strength in his legs ebb away as he did so.
***
Napoleon could only watch, his heart in his mouth, for signs of his partner, fighting the urge to dive into the water, in a bid to find him. Seconds passed like hours, days, as he waited for -
With a spluttering gasp, Kuryakin's head once again broke the surface, his tortured lungs greedily sucking in air. Waves crashed around him, making his struggle for oxygen more desperate, and frantically he looked around him for a safe harbour. He continued to kick, to fight desperately against the swirling water, only realising as his feet hit gravel beneath him, that the incoming tide had finally, mercifully carried him to shore.
He felt, rather than saw, strong warm arms wrap around him, lifting him bodily out of the surf, before tenderly sitting him against one of the pillars supporting the pier, far away from the water, as his tormented chest tried to expel the water within. With superhuman effort, he forced his eyes open, meeting the concerned gaze of both Napoleon Solo, and several members of the arriving UNCLE strike team.
"Tovarish?" Napoleon's voice was heavy with concern, but Illya found he couldn't summon the strength to smile in reassurance.
"'Poleon?" he finally ground out amid the coughing, relieved to feel his partner's fingers curl round his released wrists in reassurance.
"Illya?" Napoleon answered, as he shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around the stricken agent.
"How are you still dry?"
With that plaintive question, adrenaline released its stranglehold on Illya Kuryakin and dropped him into blessed darkness.
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