Illya Kuryakin swatted at the bothersome flies that swarmed around his head. Why was it that once again he was wading knee deep in the muck of a nameless swamp while his partner was yachting?  Off the coast of the Florida Keys, no less.  Knowing that the swamp was probably concealing a Thrush cell didn't help. South-central Florida, in mid-July, was NOT on the
tourism lists, Illya was certain. He smacked at his neck again, killing a half-dozen of the mudges, leaving hundreds more to regroup and attack again.

A low rumble somewhere nearby alerted him to the fact that mudges were really the least of his worries.He swung himself up into a low-hanging branch just as a dark shape, at least fifteen feet long arrowed through the murky water beneath him. The snap and disappointed bellow of the alligator made the small Russian swallow hard. Bad enough he had to fight off minions of Thrush, enormous reptiles was definitely on his  'don't go there' list. Only, here he was, feet dangling just out of reach. He hoped. Well, maybe not, he thought, scrambling higher on to the heavy branch as the gator came back for another try, thrusting its snout, gaping mouth open, high into the air. When it splashed down, empty, it evidently decided to try elsewhere because
he saw the streaming wake flow away from his perch, further into the swamp.

Looking down at his soaking trousers, he saw several large black leeches had found latched on to him at the ankle, just above his soaking hiking boots. " Next time, I'm wearing wading boots, and I don't care if they say I'm being dropped in the middle of the Sahara", hethought bitterly, prodding one of the creatures with his UNCLE lighter. The thing doubled as a small
camera, which is why he carried it, since he didn't smoke. Right now, it's primary function was more useful. "I don 't think Mr. Waverly wants any photographs of leeches. " As the last fell off his skin, the blonde vaguely rubbed at his ankle and thought about the 'plan of attack' as his partner, Napoleon Solo, had called it.

Naturally, Napoleon had taken the high road once again. Looking suave and urbane, he'd flown into Key West and wormed his way into polite, rich society. What there was of it at this time of year. Most didn't summer this far south, but those that could afford  the air conditioning changed the climactic conditions to suit themselves, and they were the ones that UNCLE
suspected of supporting a new Thrush nest in southern Florida. Stirring up trouble with the Cuban immigrants, the drug smugglers, and the local fishermen. Oh, the pattern of disarray resulting from several political rallies, some busts gone wrong for  the DEA, and some fishing boats that didn't come back from calm seas, all pointed to the fine feathered friend that UNCLE was constantly thwarting.

So, Napoleon was somewhere on an enormous yacht, more like a small ocean liner, Illya thought with distain, while he tried to contact the backwoods native Americans here in the swamps, where satellite photographs revealed an unusual and artificial construction. A blip that no one in the US government could confirm as one of theirs.

Scanning the water below for signs of danger, Illya  waited out the passing water moccasin, a brute of a water snake.  'What did Napoleon always say at times like this?  Something like, don't forget to put on your galoshes. " Yes, some smart American saying that was designed to confuse and frustrate the Russian. With a grunt, he dropped back down into the dark, oily  water, minimizing his splash by hanging from the branch until the last moment.

He pushed aside the hanging strands of tropical vine that hung, together with Spanish moss, from most of the tall, contorted trees.  A few more feet would put him in range of the outer perimeter of that strange satellite image according to the small screen device he fished from his hunting jacket's inner pocket. Eyes locked on the telltales on the screen, he nearly
jumped out of the water at the sudden barrage of sound.

An enormous machine appeared in front of him, like a floating platform with an industrial strength fan behind it, topping a large outboard motor. Five men stood in khaki shorts and tank tops, shrouded in some strange camoflage netting, stood on the deck. All five were aiming rather large automatic weapons at them.

They did not look very friendly. Kuryakin eyed the small black silhouettes of a bird on the cuffs of their shorts. Looked like it was time to join the party. Standing in the ripples of water, with resignation Illya raised his hands.
 

To be continued....