England
The traditional English bobby, in his 1960's blue uniform, strolled on his regular morning beat along the River Coln, running at that point through the small village of Bidbury, Gloucestershire.
"Hey, Sam!"
The bobby looked across the road. "Morning, Dave. What's up?"
"Those bloody ducks last night: making a hell of a racket."
"I'm not sure I can arrest a duck for quacking," Sam laughed."
"I thought someone may have been egg-stealing."
"I'll keep an eye out," Sam said, grinning. "See you later."
PC Sam Reed continued on his way, keeping a careful eye on the river. The only unusual thing was the lack of ducks around. "Must be further along," Sam muttered to himself.
However, once around the bend, PC Reed forgot all about the ducks. It was the body floating face down in the water that caught his attention. He splashed into the river and pulled the body onto the bank. The bobby struggled to turn the corpse over.
"Sweet Mary," PC Sam Reed breathed, when he saw the body's face. "It's Harold Wilson. It's the bloody Prime Minister!"
"Quack."
Sam Reed looked up. A large duck looked back at him. It opened its beak. "Quack."
UNCLE HQ, New York.
"Gentlemen, the world faces a grave new threat."
Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, UNCLE's top agents, paid close attention to their chief, Mr Alexander Waverly.
"What is it, Sir?" Solo asked. "THRUSH with a new plot?"
"No, an new organisation, even more deadly than THRUSH. In fact they have destroyed several THRUSH satraps."
"Who is it, Sir?" the blond Russian inquired.
"They are members of the Dastardly Underworld Criminals and Killers Society," Mr Waverly said gravely.
Solo and Kuryakin stared at Mr Waverly, who took out a pipe and started to fill it.
"Dastardly Underworld Criminals...erm, and what?" Solo began.
"And Killers Society," Kuryakin finished.
"DUCKS!" As Mr Waverly said the word a shiver of terror ran down the spines of the two UNCLE agents.
"DUCKS," they whispered, glancing fearfully at one another.
"The British Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, was found dead at eight o'clock this morning, their time. He had been drowned. Two hours ago the French President, Charles de Gaulle was found in similar circumstances. We believe DUCKS were responsible.
"I want you, Mr Solo, to go to France. Mr Kuryakin, you will go to England. Keep in contact with each other. Gentlemen, DUCKS must be stopped."
Somewhere in Paris
Twenty-four hours later Napoleon Solo spoke his first report to Mr Waverly. "It looks as though DUCKS are using ducks! An eye witness said that President de Gaulle was feeding mallards, as he does every morning, and the ducks suddenly swarmed up around him, dragging him down into the water. They wouldn't let him up."
"Trained killer ducks," Mr Waverly said, considering the idea. Reports have been coming in from across the world of important state personages being killed, usually drowned in rivers or lakes. Sheikh Hussan was attacked by desert ducks with portable paddling pools."
"Do we know who's behind DUCKS, Sir?" Solo asked.
"Not yet. You'd better join Mr, um, Kuryakin in England to follow up on his lead," Mr Waverly instructed. "Oh, and Mr Solo, we have received a threat."
"What, Sir?"
"Quack." Mr Waverly read the small, slightly damp business card that had been delivered by carrier duck.
"I can see things are really getting serious." Napoleon said gravely. "I'm on my way, Sir."
Somewhere in Gloucestershire
"I trailed the duck to this lake," Illya indicated the spot on the map.
"What made you suspect that particular duck?" Napoleon asked.
"There was blood on its beak. And I saw it hiding something."
"What?"
"This." Illya held up a tiny black mask. "Have you got our disguises?"
Two hours later Solo and Kuryakin were crawling through the wooded area Illya had pin-pointed on the map.
"I feel very stupid with this plastic duck strapped to my head," Illya complained.
"You look very stupid," Napoleon said, not bothering to conceal his snigger as he glanced at his partner.
Illya called Napoleon a rude name, in Russian. "At least I have a plastic duck that merely sits on my head. I think that your one with the flapping wings is childish."
"Well, I like it." Napoleon was proud of his flapping wings. At that moment the wings fell limp.
Illya laughed. "I think your batteries have run out!"
Ten minutes later Solo and Kuryakin were demonstrating a classic example of eyeballs on stalks, as they watched the crazy scene before them.
Shoveller ducks were hard at work digging trenches. Mean looking shelducks were putting green beret mallards through their paces on an assault course.
"How's it going out there?" A small man with a slight limp came out of one of the huts in the camp.
"Quack," a shelduck answered.
"That's Fingers-Hutchinson," Napoleon whispered in awe. "He was running an underground bank-group."
"Good investment?" asked Illya.
"Well, his vaults were the only ones that never got broken into!"
The UNCLE agents moved further around the compound.
Small tufted ducks were practising rifle-shooting at targets. Directing them was a tall, thin man with one eye.
"Dead-Eye," breathed Napoleon. "He was running a world-wide contact assassination group. Had some of the top men."
"And now all the top ducks," Illya said dryly, as all the ducks on the range hit their targets.
"I always thought tufted ducks were sort of cute," Napoleon commented.
"Look at their beady yellow eyes, they show their true nature," Illya told him.
There was a sound behind them.
"Quack, quack," said a large mallard drake.
"Quack?" Illya responded hopefully.
(Unfortunately, the password for that day was 'Quack', not 'Quack', as Illya had said.)
Three more mallards appeared.
"I'll take the two on the left," Napoleon decided.
Illya dived at the largest mallard. He grabbed its beak, but the mallard hit back, using its wings.
Napoleon was stepping backwards, on the defensive.
Illya realised the mallards intention. "They are trying to drive us into the water!" he warned.
More ducks had joined the fight and feathers flew in all directions.
Illya recalled a dim childhood memory of fresh chicken meat. He reached out and caught a duck by the neck. Holding the neck taut with both hands he gave it a sharp twist. There was a sound like someone crunching into fresh celery.
The duck fell limply to the ground. Illya caught another duck and repeated the procedure. He worked his way enthusiastically through the storm of ducks, tossing the ones with freshly broken necks over his shoulder.
Napoleon, meanwhile, had come up with his own tactic. "Duck a l'orange!" he shouted. The ducks attacking him fell silent.
"Duck a l'orange!!"
The ducks took several steps back. A small pochard fainted.
"Duck a l'orange!!!" Napoleon shouted a final time.
In a flurry of eiderdown all the ducks vanished. The only ducks left were those on the ground with slightly crooked necks, and the small pochard making whimpering noises as it regained consciousness.
Napoleon, having finished his verbal report to Mr Waverly, put his pen-communicator away. "DUCKS have made a second threat," he told Illya. "This time it was 'Quack, quack, quack'. Worrying, isn't it?"
Illya was not listening. "I am sure we were followed." He opened their hotel room window and gasped in horror at the sight before him.
On the window ledge was a dead pigeon's body, its head a foot away. A duck, its beak flecked with blood, stared intently at the two UNCLE agents.
Illya gave it a violent push. The duck plummeted toward the ground for several seconds, before spreading its wings and flapping off, quacking loudly.
"Let's get out of here," Napoleon suggested.Illya was only too willing.
They decided to go down to the river and plan their next move.
Illya stopped and shivered. "I think we are being watched."
A small green feather drifted past his nose. There was a small "plipping" sound.
Napoleon looked down at the white mess on the toe of his white shoe. "Damn duck has bombed me!" he said indignantly.
Illya, however, was more concerned with the bomb that was whistling. "Duck!" he yelled, diving behind a low wall.
Napoleon looked up and around. "Where?" Then he, too spotted the small silver bomb whistling down towards them.
Nano-seconds later Napoleon joined Illya behind the wall, well and truly ducked down.
There was a large BOOM as the bomb hit the path.
"That was too close," Napoleon decided.
Fingers hit the teal across the beak. "Bird-brain, I told you to go before you left on the mission. If you hadn't fired that warning shot we'd have got those two UNCLE agents cold."
"Let's carry on along the river," Illya suggested, when the local fire brigade had put out the blaze caused by the bomb.
Several hundred yards further down the path Illya stopped again. "Duck," he whispered.
Napoleon dived behind a bush yelping as he landed on a prickly bit.
"No, duck over there," Illya said, pointing.
Napoleon emerged from behind his bush, took a running jump over the duck that stood on the path and tool cover behind the wall opposite the bush.
The duck Illya had been pointing at quacked.
The Russian was taking no chances. He drew his gun.
He held the picture up. "Maybe I should get it framed," he mused.
The duck quacked again.
"Everyone's a critic!" Illya fumed as he shot at the duck with his UNCLE special.
The first bullet took the duck high in the left shoulder, the force slamming it against the wall that Napoleon was cowering behind. The second bullet hit the duck in the chest. Blood spurted out. The duck slid limply down the wall and came to rest on the path, feet in the air.
Satisfied, Illya looked down at the blood and feathered mess on the ground. Gradually he became aware of the approach of a small girl in yellow pigtails and a blue gingham dress.
She looked at the dead duck and the gun in Illya's hand. "You killed Donald!" she accused in a small voice.
Illya blinked. "Donald?"
"My duck. You killed Donald."
Illya looked worried. "I thought he was a member of DUCKS," he tried to explain.
"Of course he was a duck. He was Donald and you killed him. Murderer!" The girl's voice had grown louder.
Illya glanced around, seeking help. All he could see was Napoleon Solo, chin resting on the wall, grinning widely.
"You're a mean, horrible, nasty man. You killed Donald and I hates you!" the girl yelled.
Napoleon took pity on his Russian friend and decided it was time he sorted out the situation.
He produced a lollipop from his secret supply and popped it in the girl's mouth. "There you are, little girl," he said, smiling his most charming smile.
The little girl removed the lolly from her mouth and looked at it with disdain. She then wiped it down Napoleon's tie. "And I hates you too."
Illya smirked. Napoleon's usual charm with the ladies had failed him.
The little girl picked up the bloody corpse and walked off. (She would have walked off into the sunset, but it was only three o'clock in the afternoon.)
Napoleon removed his tie and held it with his thumb and forefinger at arms length. "Thank 'eavens for little girls?" he queried. "I don't think so."
"Napoleon, I have a suggestion." Illya's eyes were cold and hard. "Let us blow up the training camp and finish DUCKS off once and for all and all for once!"
The two top UNCLE agents based at New York, currently on operations in England, collected their requested ammunition supply from a local UNCLE base. They refused support, determined to end the threat from DUCKS on their own. Napoleon Solo wanted revenge for the stain on his right shoe. Illya Kuryakin was just getting paranoid about ducks in general.
Clad in their duck disguises (Napoleon had put new batteries in his flapping duck hat) the two UNCLE agents separated and crawled through the wood to reach the training camp.
In addition to his hat, Napoleon had a new toy to play with: a large duck call whistle.
He experimented. "Kcauq." He took the whistle out of his mouth and turned it around. This time he got a "quack". Satisfied, he continued on to the forest, grinning contentedly.
Illya started to set the explosives around the perimeter of the camp. As two men approached the wire fence he ducked...[Illya twitched. "Please do not use that word." Sorry.]...um...he lay flat.
"Eh, Fingers," Dead Eye's voice was easily overheard by the Russian, "Everything sorted?"
"Yeah." Fingers consulted a notebook. "Every duck and human member of DUCKS are here. We'll begin the briefing on phase C in half an hour. Just think, within a week we'll have replaced all the world's leaders with ducks" (Would anyone notice? the authors mused.)
Illya grinned a maniac's grin. He could hardly believe his luck. One explosion and DUCKS would be wiped out. He finished setting up the explosives.
Illya was halfway to the rendezvous point when his attention was attracted by an excited quacking. He gripped his UNCLE special tightly and began to stalk his prey. He was soon rewarded with the sight of a large duck flapping its wings.
"Donald," Illya called softly, to be certain he did not shoot another innocent duck.
The duck just quacked.
Illya took aim and fired.
The duck's head disappeared. There was an alarmed quack. The wings flapped once, then fell still. Then the duck cursed loudly.
Napoleon stood up. "You killed my duck!" he said indignantly.
"I could have killed you, duck-brain," snarled Illya.
The two UNCLE agents glared at each other. Finally Illya asked quietly, "What time is it?"
Napoleon looked at his watch. "Fifteen seconds 'till..."
"Sh...ugar!!!" Both men yelled, diving for cover behind the ever-handy wall.
Soon the air was filled with the smell of roast duck. Stray bits of duck - the odd webbed foot, a beak, several heads and a flurry of eiderdown - fell around the two UNCLE agents.
It took six fire crews to get the blaze under control.
Back in their hotel room Napoleon finished his report to Mr Waverly.
"Um," came Mr Waverly voice came over the communicator. "Slightly excessive measures, perhaps, but at least the threat is over. Elections are taking place all over the world to replace the political leaders who were assassinated. We are monitoring them carefully to ensure no ducks are put in power. You will both return to New York at once. I have a new assignment for you."
Napoleon, who had been hoping for a couple of days leave, said nothing.
The silence was broken by a loud "Quack." A single green feather drifted through the hotel room.
Illya promptly resigned from UNCLE. He opened up a rifle range at Blackpool Pleasure Beach, using live ducks as targets.
It took a second quack to persuade Napoleon to resign also. He tossed the communicator out of the window and moved to Paris, where he opened up a restaurant specialising in duck a l'orange.
Fifteen years later.
Blackpool.
The man made his way through the fairground amusements at Blackpool. He was in his late forties, dark hair slightly greying at the temples. He walked purposefully, eyes darting left and right. He was looking for an old friend.
Eventually he arrived at the stall where he had been told he could find his old friend. He glanced at the sign and winced as painful memories came flooding back.
Illya's Kill-A-Duck rifle range, using live ducks as targets, was proving very popular. There was a long queue, but eventually the man was at the front and able to make contact with the stall owner.
"Illya," he said quietly, to the older (but still cute) blond Russian.
"Napoleon!" Illya stared in amazement. He gestured for someone to take over the stall, and he and Napoleon moved to one side.
"What are you doing here?" Illya asked.
"UNCLE approached me. They want us to go back into the field."
Illya shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know."
"UNCLE needs us. A..." he stopped as there was a sudden commotion at the stall.
An orang-utan had pushed its way to the front of the queue. He paid the fee, picked up a rifle and took aim at Illya's newest target - a large furry duck wearing a nappy.
Six shots later the green duck was a blood-splattered mess, plastered against the back-board. A nappy pin fell to the floor.
The orang-utan grinned as he handed the rifle back. "Ah 'ate that duck," it said in a strong Yorkshire accent.
Napoleon stared. "Isn't that..."
But Illya interrupted him. "Why do UNCLE need us?"
"They have received a new threat."
"Not...quack?" Illya stepped back in horror.
"No, no," Napoleon hastened to reassure his former colleague. "Not quack. This time it was..." he paused for dramatic effect.
"Yes," Illya prompted, not having time for Napoleon's dramatics.
"It was...oink!"
The End...?