"Snowed in and no where to go" ~ for the Short Affair

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Challenge: The Short Affair

Prompts: glint/white

author: mrua7

title: All that snow and nowhere to go
word count: approx 1000

The snow had finally stopped and the sky became blue and cloudless, but it wasn’t warm enough to start melting the white that had blanketed everything during the night.

Napoleon Solo shivered, though he was in his small bubble tent, wrapped in his sleeping bag and safe, for the moment.

The lackeys of Professor Blitzer who had been chasing him through in the darkness would have no clue as to his location for now thanks to the storm.

The tent was covered in snow, and was protected by spruce trees of every imaginable size from the sides and read.

The agent had heard some explosions off in the distance during the night, not sure what to make of that but wasn't about to investigate it.

He daren’t step outside, letting footprints reveal his location, and a fire was most certainly out of the question. Given the fact he might have broken his ankle in a fall down into a gully while trying to escape made his movement a moot point.

Unziping the tent flap and brushing away some of the snow that had drfted across the opening; all Solo could do was peek out, keeping an eye on the treeless expanse in front of him.  He’d made sure when setting up that he had a clear view, just in case his pursuors located him.

It could be like ducks in a shooting gallery...if it came to that. Then of couse that was if they came by land; if they came by air, he was as good as dead.

Napoleon pulled his communicator, trying for the umptheenth timd to get a signal, but it was no use; the mountains were blocking it and all he heard was static.

It was late in afternoon when he saw it, a glint of metal reflected in the sunlight, and knew this was it; they’d found him.

He drew his Special, laying his two extra magazines beside him; quickly counting the number of rounds. Eighteen bullets, and three sleep dart remaining in the magazine still in the gun. Twenty-one shots between life and death.

There were at least six men who were after him Hopefully they’d retreated back to the Professor’s compound, but for how long before they resumed their search was only a matter of time.

Napoleon drew a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. Should he keep it intact or destroy it?  If they found him, he couldn’t risk it getting back into their hands. It was Blitzer’s formula for a deadly poisonous gas, and the only copy.

He returned it to his pocket, confident that he would outwit the Professor’s men; he’d done so already by stealing the document and escaping, so why couldn’t he do it again.

Napoleon watched as a single figure, dressed in white, barely perceptible against the snow, moved slowly in his direction.

Again there was a bright glint reflecting the sunlight. It suddenly dawned on Solo it was too bright to be gunmetal; it was a mirror, and it was flashing Morse Code.

“dot dot, dot dash dot dot, dot dash dot to, dash dot dash dash, dot dash.”

Napoleon thought for a second, translating the cryptic code. It spelled...’Illya.’

It had to be his partner, but how had he found him? His communicator had no signal...well no audio but could it be the homing signal Was working?  That was only when the communicator was active; he quickly opened it, activating it again.

Just in case, Napoleon removed his wrist watch and sticking it out in the sunlight, he used the reflective surface of the glass crystal to signal Illya.

Keeping it short, he signalled, “four dots, dot, dot dash dot, dot.” It spelled out one word, ‘here.’

Fifteen minutes later he heard his partner call to him.

“I’m here Illya,” Napoleon called, sticking his arm out from the entrance of the tent.

“Napoleon are you all right? Are you wounded?” Kuryakin called as he clearned the snow from the entrance.

He shoved his backpack inside first, then craweled in after it.

“Am I glad to see you tovarisch,” Solo grinned.

“And I you. We feared you dead, but Communications kept picking up your homing signal, but then it would cease.

“I was getting only static, but I kept opeing a channel in hopes it would eventually get through. I didn’t think the homing signal would be working either.”

“It is a different frequency and apparently it was able to get through,” Kuryakin answered. “Are you unhurt?”

“I might have a broken ankle.”

Illya immediate set about looking at his partner’s injury, and thankfully Napoleon appeared to have only a very bad sprain.

“So what’s the plan to get us out of here? Napoleon asked as the Russian wrapped his ankle with an elastic bandage. Luckily it wasn’t that swollen and Illya was able to get the American’s snow boot back on his foot.

“The plan is to open both our communicators, activating the homing signals. We have a helicopter waiting less than a mile away.”

“What about Professor Blitzer?”

“He and his compound have been dispatched by some well placed rockets, launched from the chopper.”

Napoleon’s face scrunched up. “Hey I could have been a prisoner in that compound.”

Illya smiled, “Ah but we suspected you were not, since your signal was coming up several miles away.”

Within ten minutes they could hear the sound of helicopter blades cutting the air.  It landed in the clearing, it’s pontoon landing struts keeping it from sinking too deeply in the snow.

From there, Solo leaning on his partner for support, made their way from the tent into the snow and finally to the safety of the chopper.

As it rose, snow blew up and around it, whipped up by the blades.

“This really is beautiful country here,” Illya commented.

“You can have it chum. I prefer a tropical island where I can sip umbrella drinks and play with bikini-clad beauties.”

“Ahhh, but cold weather makes for good snuggling with some naked beauties my friend,” Illya winked.

“Kuryakin, you dog. About time you came around.”

“Not quite,” Illya flashed his enigmatic smile.

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you, that's why Morse Code has survived for so long. Glad you liked the story. I didn't think I would be able to write one in time. This one came to me this morning.

I had a very long and exhausting weekend. March is the 'high holy days' for an Irish musician....'nuf said.