Night of the Hawk

Prologue

This was not the way the flight of the Old Dog was supposed to be ending First Lieutenant David Luger, United States Air Force, thought grimly.

Not at all.

And yet here they were, in the very northeastern tip of the Soviet Union, forced to land at this snowy, bitterly cold enemy backwater base to steal fuel because their B-52 (I) Megafortress was running on fumes. Holding a gun to the head of the base chiefs custodian, they had commandeered one of his fuel trucks and put whatever they could into the plane. The custodian had escaped and obviously put in a frantic call to the regional militia. Luger shook his head. During the course of this mission-one of the most highly classified in the annals of American military warfare-they’d successfully penetrated restricted Soviet airspace, fought off waves upon waves of surface-to-air missiles, swarms of deadly MiG fighters, and, with a Striker glide-bomb, knocked out the most sophisticated weapon the USSR had ever developed.

The mission should have been a success, but now they were going to be captured by the fucking Red Army. Luger was sure of it. Even in a backwater, the Red Army was going to protect the Motherland-at all costs.

The tall, lean, twenty-six-year-old Texas-born crew navigator was alone in the bitterly cold belowdecks section of the crew compartment aboard the Megafortress, an experimental B-52 “test-bed” aircraft that had been pressed into service on this unusual and dangerous mission. He felt an uncontrollable shiver of fear, frustration, and sheer anger take hold of his body. Maybe it was finally going to be over.

They certainly weren’t in any condition to fight-maybe they should just surrender. The stolen fuel they had pumped into their tanks was contaminated fuel oil, not jet fuel. One of their eight engines had been destroyed, and another was leaking oil so badly that it was all but useless. The Old Dog’s fuselage was full of holes, and their stabilators-the odd-looking V-tail assembly that served both as rudder and horizontal stabilizer-had been shot out. The plane’s wheels were frozen in knee-deep snow, and it was doubtful that the plane could even taxi on six engines, let alone attempt a takeoff on the short, snow-covered Soviet runway. The pilot, Lieutenant General Bradley Elliott, had been dragged upstairs by some of the other crew, unconscious and nearly frozen to death.

Now they were surrounded by Russian militia.

Luger had been strapping himself into his ejection seat in the downstairs compartment, but had stopped when he realized how ridiculous the idea of trying to launch the Megafortress seemed right now-not much use in strapping in if there was no way the plane would ever get off the ground-so he laid the straps aside.

There was a gaping hole in the downstairs crew compartment big enough that he could see footprints in the snow outside. Just a few hours earlier his right leg had been in back of that jagged hole. For the first time since arriving at the Russian base, Luger surveyed the damage on his leg-and felt his stomach turn at the sight. Even heavily wrapped in bandages from the first-aid kit, he could feel his kneecap gone, see the limb twisted and his right foot pointing at an unnatural angle. The leg had frozen into an unrecognizable stick, thanks to both the windblast inflight and then spending several hours in freezing temperatures outside. He was probably going to lose the leg or, at best, be crippled for life. Most of the navigation equipment was damaged or in reset, and the weapons were probably shut down. Were they kidding themselves, or what?

Luger’s partner, Captain Patrick McLanahan, had finished helping Lieutenant General Elliott and the two women crew members up the ladder and was going to strap into the seat beside Luger when copilot Lieutenant Colonel John Ormack called McLanahan upstairs. Ormack had kept one engine running while they had refueled the Megafortress, and incredibly had started engine number five just a few minutes ago. The contaminated fuel was causing tremendous explosions in each engine during ignition, but amazingly the engines kept running. Now more engines were starting. Luger thought McLanahan was probably acting as copilot with Elliott incapacitated. He put on his headphones to block out the bangs and screams of the engines. He could hear Ormack and McLanahan on the interphone.

“If we start a firefight here…” Ormack said.

“We may not have any choice,” McLanahan replied.

Maybe we are going to fight it out, Luger thought. But with what? Half the crew was injured, the plane was shot to hell, they were surrounded by Soviet militiamen.

“He wants us to shut down,” Luger heard Ormack say over inter-phone. “Patrick, we’re running out of time. …”

There were several loud bangs on both wings this time and the Old Dog began to buck and rumble as if its insides had been seized by a coughing fit. Down in the lower deck of the Megafortress, alone and shot up and half frozen, Luger felt useless to the crew who needed him the most. But they were continuing the engine start, and Luger realized Ormack and McLanahan weren’t giving up. They were going to get the Megafortress in the air or die trying. He smiled. Good old McLanahan. A real give-a-shit crew dog who was giving the finger to the Russians in their own backyard. If you’re gonna fight, this was the way to do it. The way they’d been taught. Never give up.

Lights popped on in the belowdecks compartment as the generators were brought on-line. No, the nay equipment was okay-the GPS (Global Positioning System) satellite navigation system was working, the TDC (terrain-data computer) and COLA (computer-generated lowest altitude) terrain-avoidance computer was operable, even the AIM-120 Scorpion air-to-air missiles were on-line. Out of force of habit, if not by optimistic thinking, Luger moved the data cartridge lever on the TDC from LOCK to READ and got a TERRAIN DATA LOAD OK message on his computer terminal. But seconds later, when the generators popped off-line and put the entire system back into reset, he gave up trying to get the computers running.

The engines were now screaming louder than ever, up to taxi power and almost to full military power. The Megafortress wasn’t moving. But Ormack and McLanahan were running through checklists, starting more engines, putting internal power back on-line…

Suddenly the unmistakable rattle of a heavy-caliber machine gun split the air.

They’re shooting at us… the motherfuckers! Luger cursed to himself.

McLanahan, upstairs, went on with the engine start. Over interphone, he called, “Everyone on interphone? Report by compartment.”

The engines were cut to IDLE. McLanahan said, “Crew, we’ve got a Russian armored vehicle about a hundred yards off our left wing. They’ve got a machine gun. They’ve ordered us to cut our engines—”

Alone downstairs, Luger seethed. Cut our engines? As they say in Texas, when pigs fly…

Luger rose out of his ejection seat and pulled himself aft, dragging his shattered right leg like a sack of heavy wet sand alongside him. He glanced up through the between-decks ladder well and saw electronic warfare officer Wendy Tork kneeling beside General Elliott on the upper deck. She was removing her flight jacket and laying it over Elliott to try to warm him up. Wendy saw Luger and her eyes raised an unspoken question. Luger stared expressionlessly at her, then removed his flight jacket, passed it upstairs to Wendy, and gave her a thumbs-up — and her eyes widened in disbelief.

“Thanks, Dave,” Wendy Tork said, words that could not be heard over the screaming of the six operable turbofan engines. Luger smiled anyway, then dropped out of sight below the rim of the between-decks ladder well. She got a glimpse of his horribly injured leg and wondered where he was going. To repair a damaged relay? Close the aft bulkhead door? Double-check the lock on the entry hatch?

Then she realized that he was not just offering his jacket to help Elliott keep from freezing to death … he was going to leave the plane.

And she did nothing to stop him.

Luger dropped to his left side on the deck, reached down, slid the hatch-lock lever over, and pulled the latch lever back. The belly hatch flopped open. He swung his good left leg through the hatch and braced himself in the hatch for a moment, sitting on the rear sill looking forward at the navigator’s crew stations, catching his breath.

So the Soviets want us to cut our engines? No way. If Ormack and McLanahan can bite the bullet, then I’m sure as hell going to do my part. Sitting alone, strapped in my seat, freezing to death with a bad leg and a bad eye, isn’t doing jack-shit to help. But there may be a way…

Luger saw a trail of thick dark blood staining the entry ladder and lower deck and realized there would be rivers of blood pouring out of this black beast if he didn’t do something — and do it now.

Crew dogs rarely talked of things like fear, but he knew the rest of the crew had to be as scared as he was. But fear was no reason to bail out; fear accelerated one’s courage. It certainly did his. Feeling the blasts of frigid air rushing through the open hatch below him, hearing the scream of the engines, Luger reached down and felt the .38-caliber survival revolver strapped against his torso He withdrew it and counted the cartridges-five, with the hammer down on the empty chamber. It was a small gun, but it helped melt the last of his fear away. He slipped off the entry hatch rear sill, dropped down to the hard-packed snow below, and closed the hatch behind him.

Upstairs, the HATCH NOT CLOSED AND LATCHED light on the forward instrument panel snapped on then, and before either Ormack and McLanahan could react it popped out.

“What was that?” asked Ormack.

“I don’t … Dave, did you open the hatch?” No reply. “Luger. Report.”

There was no answer.

Luger had never been outside a B-52 with the hatch closed and the engines running. It was a weird, almost overpowering feeling.

For an instant he visualized the faces of everyone he had just left behind. But one look at the menacing-looking armored half-track parked between two hangars off to the left of the nose of the bomber and he knew what he had to do.

The roar of the engines was deafening, acutely painful. Staying under the left wing, careful not to get either in front or behind the running engines, oblivious to the ear-shattering noise, he moved away from the Megafortress and toward the half-track, the gun in his fist.

Luger was only a few feet from the Megafortress’s shattered left wingtip when he inadvertently tried to put weight on his right leg. It immediately gave way, and he sprawled to the snow into a patch of black oil that had spilled out of the damaged number-two engine. The shock of the slimy snow on his face sent a surge of energy-or panic-through his body, and he half-stumbled, half-crawled to the fuel truck, which was still parked just off the left wingtip.

He heard several rapid-fire pop-pop-pop-pop shots coming from the Megafortress, turned, and saw Colonel Ormack firing a big pistol — General Elliott’s big .45, he realized — out the left cockpit window. Luger couldn’t see what he was shooting at, but he assumed it was the half-track. The heavy-caliber gun would slice the cockpit into ribbons in a few seconds …

Luger reached the fuel truck, crawled around to the driver’s side, and was about to get in when he saw the half-track’s gunner take aim at the Megafortress.

Luger threw himself forward onto the hood of the fuel truck, took aim, and fired his .38 at the gunner. The gun’s puny reports nevertheless sent slaps of shock waves against his face and eyes, but he held the gun as steady as his frozen fingers could manage. He wasn’t sure if he took proper aim or even opened his eyes, but to his amazement Luger saw the Russian gunner clutch his chest and fall down into the half-track.

“Luger! Get back here!” It was Ormack shouting at him over the roar of the engines.

In pain, Luger dropped the pistol and made his way around to the front of the fuel truck, starting back for the Old Dog. He had taken only three steps when another soldier appeared from behind the half-track, lifted a rifle with a long, curved cartridge magazine, and fired. Suddenly his left leg was thrust violently to his right and out from underneath him. He collapsed onto his left side, screaming at the pain from his left thigh-a bullet hole the size of a damn Ping-Pong ball had carved out a gory tunnel in the side of his thigh. He screamed again as the sounds of gunfire erupted all around him, and he kept on screaming-for Patrick, for his mother, for help from God-as he clawed to the relative safety and protection of the fuel truck.

Ormack could only fire his pistol again, forcing the Russian at the back of the half-track to retreat, but he didn’t notice another soldier sliding into the machine-gun mount on the half-track.

The soldier took aim on the Old Dog and let the machine gun rip.

The 20-millimeter shells plowed through the Old Dog’s left side.

Somehow Luger pulled himself up inside the cab of the fuel truck and lay down on the frozen bench seat, peeking out the side windows at the horrifying display outside.

The left cockpit windows were gone, and little black puffs of fibersteel were bursting all over the nose and left side of the crew compartment. A huge cloud of smoke erupted from the number-four engine, the one closest to the pilot’s side windows, and the bomber was shaking and bucking enough to make the big wings flap.

They’re killing the Old Dog, Luger thought. Ormack couldn’t have survived that gunfire-my God, the whole cockpit was gone. “You sons of bitches,” Luger screamed at the Russian half-track’s gunner. “You’re killing them!”

Luger’s shattered right leg touched the fuel truck’s accelerator and the engine revved — McLanahan or defensive-systems officer Angelina Pereira must have left it running when they’d used it to get the stolen fuel. Luger found the parking brake, eased it off, then reached down with his hand to lift his bloody left leg onto the clutch. He put the transmission into first gear, eased his left leg off the clutch, and stomped with all his might on the accelerator, leaving his near-frozen right leg on it, and steered the fuel truck toward the armored personnel carrier.

The fuel truck lurched ahead, bouncing and clattering on ages-old springs. He was about ten meters from the half-track before the gunner noticed him coming, swiveled the gun turret around toward him, and opened fire. Nearly passing out from the pain and the shock, screaming like an animal caught in a trap, Luger dived out the open driver’s side door…

… just as a fusillade of bullets shattered the windshield and ripped the interior of the truck apart.

Luger was lying facedown in two feet of snow, unconscious, when the fuel truck plowed into the half-track. Bullets from the half-track’s gun tore open the fuel tank, igniting the fuel-oil fumes inside, which turned both the truck and the half-track into balloons of fire. The concussion of the double explosion tossed Luger’s body another fifty feet away like a rag doll, but mercifully the young navigator was not awake to experience that final blast.

The bullets from the half-track had continued to walk down the left side of the Megafortress, eventually reaching the leading edge of the left wing and causing a terrific explosion as the red-hot shells found the fuel oil in the mains. Luger hadn’t stopped the half-track-it had missed, or the fuel truck exploded before reaching it, he didn’t know what had happened-but the Megafortress was dying. The left wing was afire and the left-center wing tank exploded and sheared the entire wing off Wendy and Angelina scrambled out of the hatch just as the Old Dog flopped onto its right wing, crushing it instantly and causing a huge explosion as the rest of the fuel tanks ruptured. The resulting fireball was at least a mile in diameter, swallowing up the two civilian women and engulfing the huge bomber in sheets of flame.

“Patrick!” Luger shouted “Patrick! Eject! Get out! Patrick! Patrick!”

Luger’s muscles convulsed. They quivered uncontrollably, but for some reason none of them wanted to function — he could move each one only a centimeter or two before they retreated into fits of spasms. Gasping for air, Luger fought for control, trying to ignore the waves of fear rising in his chest.

Something was wrong …

Slowly, the spasms ceased, and Luger was able to breathe evenly again. He felt as if he had run a marathon-his entire body felt weak. His fingertips felt puffy and soft, and the slightest exertion, like lifting the index finger of his right hand, caused the spasms to return. He decided to lie quietly and get his bearings — at least his eyes still functioned.

He was in a dimly lit room. He saw light fixtures overhead, and out of the corners of his eyes he saw hospital beds. So he was in a hospital ward. Luger could make out dingy white curtains surrounding some beds, a few intravenous bottle stands — thankfully, none near his bed. By straining, he could see railings on his bed and, thank God, even his feet under the white linen. Whatever had happened, they had saved his shot-up legs.

And then he realized there were sounds of pain coupled with the sights. A lot of men in pain. He could make out a door at the far right side of the ward, and by the sound and numbers of men moaning, he expected a nurse or doctor or even an orderly to enter the room — but none did. Luger waited several minutes, but the men’s cries went unanswered. He could see shadows move past the doors, but no one entered.

What kind of hospital was this? If this was a Russian military hospital, Luger could understand getting poor treatment as a prisoner — but these other men weren’t foreigners. Some of them cried out in the Russian language. Didn’t they bother taking care of their own?

Luger extended a shaking hand to the railing on his bed. It rattled easily. He continued to rattle it and was rewarded a moment later with the rail collapsing alongside the bed. The sudden noise caused the moans to intensify, as if the men knew a nurse was nearby and wanted to be sure they were heard. Luger waited for what he thought was a few more minutes to see if anyone would come, and was surprised to find he had dozed off — for how long, he did not know.

But the brief rest was helpful. He found he now had the strength and control to move his legs to the edge of the bed. As first his right leg, and then his left emerged from under the sheets, he was overjoyed to see little evidence of his injuries — a lot of deep scars, large hairless spots where skin grafts were taken from farther up his thigh, thick bandages all around his legs, but little pain or discomfort. Skinny as hell, but all in one piece. He commanded his toes to wiggle, and after having to wait a measurable moment, was rewarded with a faint movement. He was weak and obviously emaciated, but he was in one piece, and the collective pieces seemed to be operable. Thank God for that.

With renewed vigor Luger swung his legs off the right edge of the bed and onto the floor. The linoleum was gritty and cold, but at least he could feel it. The movement forced his torso to turn to the right, and he let his body roll right until he was facedown on the bed with his knees almost touching the floor. Luger dragged his feet closer to the bed, took a deep breath, braced himself, and began putting weight on his feet. His legs immediately began to shake, but with a lot of effort he managed to push himself upright.

Success!

Luger found a plastic hospital I.D. bracelet around his wrist, but there was not enough light to read it. He was dressed in a long armless hospital gown, much like a poncho, made of rough white cloth with the back slit open but with no ties to close it. No matter — he was going right back to bed anyway, right after he explored a little and got someone’s attention at the nurses’ station outside. The thought of escape crossed his mind, but the room was really cold and he didn’t think he had a chance — even if he did manage to get out of the hospital, he was probably still in eastern Siberia. Where was he going to go? Alaska? Yeah, right. Not even if he had two men’s strength.

For an instant his mind drifted back to the Old Dog. Had the rest of the crew made it out of Siberia? Or had the Old Dog given out before they could take off? And if so, where was McLanahan? Ormack? Wendy and the rest? Were they here as well? Or had the Soviet Union already “dealt” with them? He blocked out the thought. If the latter had happened, he could only imagine … Glimpses of those final moments, hazy as they flow were, drifted through.

No, Luger decided, they must have made it out.

He was the only one who had not.

Depressed by the thought, Luger took in more of the room. There wasn’t a condition chart at the foot of his bed, which was unfortunate. It could have told him a lot about himself. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t find out about himself on his own. He heard voices coming from outside the room. He didn’t want to get caught wandering around the ward, but he had to get to know this room and then slip back into bed — then, at least, he could figure out a way to escape while his body rested. After all, he was going to need his strength to resist the interrogations he knew were waiting for him. Luger counted the other beds, noted the other doorways, found lockers and washbasins, a bathroom, and a drug cabinet. Perfect. Steal a little something every opportunity you get, hide it under the mattress — you never knew what could be used as a weapon, or an escape tool, or a signaling device.

Painfully, unsteadily, he made his way over to the cabinet and tried the first large stainless-steel knob. Locked. He tried another, and this one opened. All right, let’s see what we got.

“Ay!” a voice shouted from the bed to his right. “Stoy! Stoytyee yeevo!”

The voice startled Luger and he stumbled backwards, bounced off the adjacent bed, and fell forwards. His jaw slammed on the cold linoleum hard enough to draw blood and send a shower of stars obliterating his vision.

The man kept on screeching, “Ay! Vrahchyah! Ay! Pahzahveetyee bistrah kahvonyeebood nah pomahshch!”

His head pounding, Luger said, “Oh, shut up, will ya?” His voice was raspy and hoarse, barely audible. The alarmed Russian looked at Luger in shock, muttered something, then continued his shouting even louder, more in fear than in warning. Luger wiped blood off his chin from a fairly deep gash — and was suddenly blinded as the ward lights snapped fully on. The lights made him dizzy … weak.

Luger was lifted off the floor by two strong sets of hands and dragged back to his bed. He couldn’t see who carried him, but he could hear their voices, and they seemed surprised, not angry. He was effortlessly hoisted back onto his bed, and they held his arms and legs securely on it, obviously not realizing Luger didn’t have the strength to resist even if he wanted to. A few minutes later he felt the inevitable prick of a needle in his arm. That was unnecessary, too — his exertion had left him totally drained.

Seconds later he was once again unconscious.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Lieutenant Luger.”

David Luger opened his eyes. His vision was blurred, and he couldn’t move his hands to clear them. After a command was given in Russian, someone wiped his eyes with a cold washcloth, and he was able to focus.

He saw two doctors, two nurses, and a man in civilian clothes — no military uniforms around. One nurse was taking a pulse and blood pressure reading, while the other was copying the readings in a medical chart. When they were finished, the medical personnel were dismissed and the door was closed behind them.

“Can you hear me, Lieutenant Luger?” the man in civilian clothes asked. Luger noticed his ankle-length coat was rich-looking black leather, and the collar of the white shirt underneath it was clean and starched, with a gold clasp under the Windsor knot of his necktie. Luger’s eyes returned to meet the man’s eyes, which were bright blue, with lines around the corners. But the face was chiseled, the jaw firm, the neck was gaunt — a runner’s neck, the colonels back at Ford Air Force Base called it. Not a desk jockey.

“How are you feeling, Lieutenant?” The words were clipped and precise, with only a trace of accent. “Can you hear me all right, Lieutenant?”

Luger decided not to answer. He was not going to answer. Period. Lessons taught in the Air Force Survival School interrogation-resistance training facility — the “POW camp”—Fairchild Air Force Base, Washington, were mostly long forgotten, but one lesson wasn’t — keep your mouth shut. Getting trapped by clever interrogators was something no crew dog ever learned to forget.

“Please answer me, Lieutenant,” the civilian said. “The doctors have said you are fit and able to respond, but only you can tell us if your needs are being met. Are you well enough to talk to me?”

No reply.

The guy seemed perturbed but not angry. “Very well. I see by your expressions that you can understand me, but choose not to reply. So I will do the talking: You are in a hospital in Siberia, the location of which I am not permitted to reveal to you. You have been here for many months. We have cared for you as we would care for a Soviet fighting man, except no one has been notified of your presence here.

“By order of the Chief of Staff of the Military Forces of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, I am here to tell you that you are a prisoner of the people of the USSR. You are not a prisoner of war under the Geneva Conventions, but are a prisoner of crimes against the state and the people. Do you understand?”

Again Luger did not reply, but he heard the litany of charges against him: “You face fourteen counts of criminal murder, one count of attempted murder, willful destruction of government property, willful destruction of private property, violating the sovereignty of the state, and seeking to make war against the people of the Soviet Union, among other somewhat lesser crimes. Since the nature of your crimes does not lend itself to a public trial, and since you were deathly ill and in hospital for so long, a military tribunal was convened without your presence, evidence was presented, judgment was passed, and a sentence was delivered — a sentence of death.”

Luger had been only half-listening, staring at a corner of the room to take his mind off the man’s words, but “sentence of death” made him glare at the man’s face.

A death sentence?

Luger’s mouth became dry, and his heart pumped heavily. His blood pressure was rising, he could feel it, but for the first time since he’d regained consciousness, he was genuinely, truly scared. He tried to think — quickly — even in the glare of the lights and the foreign surroundings. Outwardly he fought to remain composed. He’d survived the explosion of the fuel truck which, hopefully, had allowed his fellow crew members an exit out to their final destination of Nome, Alaska, only now to be told he was going to die anyway.

Well, he had been prepared to die when he’d left the Old Dog… so what did it matter if he died now?

The civilian continued expressionlessly: “Since a criminal found guilty of murder and sentenced to death in the Soviet Union gives up all rights, you have no rights of appeal, not to the Soviet government or to any other government, nor are we required to notify anyone else of the sentence — and in fact we have not done so. Because of the severity of your crimes and the sensitive nature of the acts which you committed, you may not have the opportunity to have your sentence stayed, pardoned, or commuted. Carrying out your punishment cannot be delayed for any reason, even for psychological evaluation or to wait for your injuries to completely heal. A final review of your case will be accomplished by our civilian counterparts — only a formality, please understand — then witnesses will be summoned and a place of execution will be chosen. Within seven days, it will be done.” The man paused for a few heartbeats, then added, “Death will be by a seven-member firing squad, the traditional means of execution for one convicted of capital crimes against the military.”

Luger tried to hide the fear that was finally overcoming him, a fear far different from the adrenaline-rushed courage he’d shown during those final moments of the Old Dog mission. Then, he’d gambled not knowing What the outcome of his actions would be, if any. Now he knew. The outcome was predetermined. He was going to face death anyway.

Or was he? He avoided the man’s eyes, all the while trying to think. If they were going to execute him, why hadn’t they done so before now? Why go through all the trouble of trying to heal him, keep him in this hospital, only to kill him?

No, the Soviets had something else in mind. They were going to torture him, a fate often worse than death, depending on the techniques. They would do it for weeks, perhaps months. They wouldn’t sit still for the basic Geneva Convention crap like name, rank, serial number. Hell, they already knew his name and rank. He was a prize, he realized, and they were going to use him. They’d try to pull everything they could out of him — information about the Strategic Air Command, about “Dreamland”—the top-secret Nevada military installation run by General Brad Elliot where ideas became reality, theories became machines and weapons — or even what he knew about SIOP, the Single Integrated Operations Plan the U.S. had developed for fighting World War III.

He was, Luger realized, more than a prize. He was their guinea pig, their lab rat …

The Russian civilian saw Luger’s reflective eyes and struggled to repress a smile. He knew what the American was thinking. There he was, helpless in a hospital bed … Weighing his options, considering his chances, evaluating his life. Dependent on them. Yes, he decided, Luger would eventually talk. He might have been one tough bastard at Anadyr Base, but everyone has their breaking point. Even the Americans. Sometimes especially the Americans. And Luger would break.

And after that? The brainwashing would begin. The civilian was looking forward to that. It was, after all, one of his specialties, with a stellar record of success.

“If you talk to me, explain your circumstances, and agree to cooperate in our investigation,” the man droned on, “the tribunal may be inclined to show you some leniency, perhaps commute your sentence to one of imprisonment. They may decide to notify your government that you are alive so a prisoner exchange can be arranged. I cannot guarantee any of this — it all depends on your willingness to cooperate.

“But I will tell you that this is no time for silence, bravado, or misplaced heroics, Lieutenant. You are alone and far from home. Even your crew has given you up for dead.”

Luger’s eyes narrowed at that — he knew that was a lie. These bastards weren’t as smart as they thought.

“A court of law in a land foreign to you has sentenced you to death. You are alone, Lieutenant Luger. Remain silent and you remain alone. Speak to me, Lieutenant. If you do not, you will lose your identity — and eventually your life. Is life worth so little to you?”

Still no reply.

Stone-faced, the man continued. “I am not asking you to reveal military or state secrets, Lieutenant David Luger. We already know quite a bit about you. Frankly, I doubt if you have anything of real value to tell us. It would be a pity for you to undergo any … hardships for nothing.”

Again no reply. Luger licked his lips and tried to move his arms — they were securely fastened to the sides of the bed. This man had just given away his real intentions, Luger reminded himself — they were going to torture him. All this talk of execution was bullshit.

“We can start with your date of birth, Lieutenant. How old are you?” Silence. “Come, come, Lieutenant. Surely your age is of no military value to the Soviet Union. Your code of honor says you may reveal your date of birth, as does the International Red Cross. What is your date of birth, Lieutenant?” No reply.

The man’s mood suddenly turned dark. He moved a few inches closer to Luger’s face. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small round metal container and held it up so Luger could clearly see it.

“Do you know what this is, Lieutenant?” the man asked in a low, rumbling, menacing tone. “It is mentholated jelly. You place some of it under your nose, like so.” The man unscrewed the cap, dipped on index finger into it, and roughly smeared a small blob of it on Luger’s upper lip. Even through the jelly, the man’s finger felt ice-cold. The jelly smelled like stale, pungent grass — undoubtedly a drug mixed with it, perhaps a mild hallucinogen such as LSD. The scent was strong enough to make Luger’s eyes water — or was it from the jelly? “This is given to those who must work in this place because it filters out the stench of death. Prisoners come here to die, Lieutenant. Few prisoners leave this place alive … or as whole human beings. You can spend the last seven days of your life here, just another one of the breathing corpses, or you can stop this childish John Wayne game and speak to me.”

The man — Luger still didn’t know his name, or had forgotten it— stepped back but kept his eyes affixed on Luger’s. “Maintain this stubborn silence and we have no use for you,” he said, “in which case we will either be forced to attempt to make you talk or, if that proves to be too tedious, we will simply eliminate you. In any case, you will die within seven days. Speak to us as a soldier and as a man, and we will treat you like one and spare your life.”

Luger closed his eyes, trying to block out the gamut of emotions running through him. Luger knew the guy was playing with his mind, trying to get him to take that first step … One word, Dave, and you won’t be able to back away. One word leads to another, then a few more, then eventually idle chat, then substantive chat. Remember your POW training. Remember your country, your crew members, remember the Old Dog…

“I order you to answer me, Lieutenant!” the man shouted. Luger jumped at the sudden sound, and he sought to refocus his eyes on his captor. “I show you respect because you are a soldier and a professional — do me the same courtesy. Tell me your date of birth, a simple request, and I’ll see to it that your sentence is delayed for a month. Refuse me, and I will throw you to the wolves that wait outside. They do not see you as an officer and as an aviator — they see you as a tough piece of meat that must be tenderized Speak, for your own damned good, you fool. If I walk out that door unhappy, your days will be numbered …”

Luger’s pulse was racing, his breathing labored. He tried to block out what this sonofabitch was saying, but his mind … was cloudy. His neurons weren’t firing at their usual speed. They must have drugged him. Had, in fact, probably kept him pumped with drugs during his recovery. He swallowed hard, trying to focus, trying to think of his options, if any. But his thinking was muddled, fatigued,,

His captor’s patience ran out. “To hell with you, Luger,” the man said in a low, murderous tone. “Why should I show you any respect? You invaded my country. You attacked my people, you destroyed my land, you violated my rights,” he hissed, his visage turning darker and darker. “Yet here you lie, in a clean, warm hospital bed, receiving care from a physician that could otherwise be caring for a Soviet citizen. You deserve none of this, do you hear me? None of this!”

The man found a set of hospital shears on a nearby table — Dave did not realize the incongruity of those shears being so handy — and began slicing away at the bandages covering Luger’s right leg. “You don’t deserve these bandages… this dressing…” He exposed Luger’s right leg. “My God, look at this! They have given you an artificial kneecap! A Soviet citizen must wait years for surgery such as this, if he is lucky enough to have access to a hospital at all! What have you done to deserve such treatment? Nothing! Nothing!”

Luger’s weakened right leg jumped when he felt the cold steel of the shears against the side of his knee and the razor-sharp edge digging into a suture. “By God, I will not stand for this! I don’t care if I’m punished for this, but a dead man does not need a kneecap!”

Luger cried aloud as he felt the first stitch rip free. He tried to shake his foot free to kick the man away, but his captor held the leg like a carpenter holding a piece of lumber.

“Give us back what you stole from us, you American pig!”

His leg began convulsing, flopping against the restraints.

The man ripped open a second suture, and Luger screamed — not from the pain, but from the fear that this guy was going to open up his entire leg…

This time, though, his scream was answered by a shout from the doorway as the doctors and nurses rushed into the room. The shears were pulled from sight, and the man was escorted from the room. Luger heard him shouting, “Seven days, you filthy pig! Seven days and you’re dead! Seven days!”

The doctors and nurses were frantically examining Luger’s right leg. To Luger’s surprise, the doctor said in English, “Do not worry, Comrade. He did no serious harm. There is danger of infection, but we have the bleeding under control.” Luger was urged to lean back and ignore the pain as antiseptic and sutures were brought to the bedside.

“Is … is he crazy?” Luger gasped. “Will he kill me?”

The doctor appeared not to be surprised to hear Luger speak. The doctor looked behind himself as if to check to see that the door was securely closed, then said quietly, “He is in charge here … I cannot say more.

“That sonofabitch,” Luger muttered. “Sonofabitch.” He was shaking. The touch of those blades, the sound of his flesh ripping, the eerie feel of his warm blood running over his skin …

“Relax, Comrade, relax,” the doctor said soothingly. “My mission is to heal, not to harm.” Luger failed to notice that the physician’s English was just as precise as the interrogator’s. He held up a syringe of clear fluid. “This will help you to relax …”

“No!” Luger rasped. “No drugs! I don’t need drugs …!”

The syringe disappeared from view. “Very well, Comrade,” the doctor said. “If you insist. But you really must rest. Can you relax?”

Luger’s chest was heaving, his eyes wide with anger and fear, but he managed a nod. “Yeah… but no drugs, though. And wipe this stuff from under my nose. I think he tried to drug me.”

“As you wish,” the doctor replied, wiping away the jelly, all the while making mental notes about his patient. If Luger was concerned about drugs in the jelly, that indicated a couple of things: he was lucid and he was already paranoid, concocting grim scenarios about his “fate.” Good, that was just the way the doctor wanted it. He saw Luger’s eyes thanking him as the last of the jelly was wiped away. Thanking him was the first step, trusting him was the next. It was a building process, albeit sometimes a slow one, depending upon the subject. An American flyer like this, well, they were sometimes tougher. Like captured spooks. But eventually most turned. Especially if they bonded with their control, which was the doctor’s job. And if they didn’t, well …

“I will try to be present if Major Teresov—” The doctor stopped, closing his mouth as if he had just made a grievous error.

“Teresov? Major Teresov?” Luger asked. The American’s face was smiling now. “That’s his name? Teresov? Is he KGB?”

“I should say no more.

“Is he KGB?” Luger demanded.

“You did not hear his name from me,” the doctor said. “You did not hear it from me.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

The doctor looked relieved. He extended a hand, and Luger grasped it. “I am Petyr Kaminski.”

“You’re a Pole?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “From Legnica, near the German border. I was brought here to Siberia five years ago … how do you say it, ‘shanghaied’? Yes — shanghaied.”

“David Luger, United States Air—” Luger stopped, realizing he was talking too much — but the doctor was a glorified prisoner too, he thought. He had to find out if he was as real as he seemed. Besides, they already seemed to know he was in the Air Force. “—Force,” Luger finished. “I guess we’re both pretty far from home.”

“I must go,” the doctor said, and leaned conspiratorially toward Luger. “This room is not… bugged, now, but since you are now awake it will be, so we must be careful in our conversations. I will bring something that will mask our voices.” The doctor gave Luger a sly wink. “I have done this before.” He then held up the syringe and squirted its contents onto the wall behind the bed. “Act sleepy or they might be suspicious. I will try to help you. Be careful of Teresov. Trust no one. I will return. Be brave.” And the doctor rapidly departed.

Luger sank back in bed after the doctor left, feeling more drained than ever, but with a glimmer of hope that he clung to with all his might. Here, in the middle of Siberia, there was a co-conspirator, a confidant.

Or was there? How could you ever know? How could you be sure it wasn’t just another mind game? Luger, cold and aching from head to toe, had never felt so alone — or unsure — in all of his twenty-six years.

Maybe there was still a chance to survive …

“Dr. Petyr Kaminski” walked into his office a few minutes later. Inside were two plainclothesmen, and Teresov was sitting at his desk with headphones against one ear. Teresov stood at attention as Kaminski — otherwise known as KGB General Viktor Gabovich — entered. Teresov asked in Russian, “How did it go, sir?”

“Better than I ever hoped,” General Gabovich replied, taking the desk from Teresov. “The young fool couldn’t wait to talk to me — he practically kissed my hand when I told him I’d watch out for him. One, maybe two days, and he will be committed. It is true — Americans trust doctors without question. You could have sawed off his entire leg, but he will eventually tell me his whole life story simply because I appear to be a doctor.”

“Did he tell you anything else, sir?”

“If I started to interrogate him, he would have gotten suspicious of me,” Gabovich said. “No, but he will talk when he’s ready. He’s young, afraid, and facing death otherwise. What choice will he have?”

“So we proceed as planned?”

“Yes,” Gabovich replied. “Pump sleeping gas into his room in five minutes — low dose only. Then wake him up in two hours. He’ll think one day has already gone by. You’ll interrogate him some more, then I’ll come back and see what he has to say. The closer we get to his ‘execution’ day, the more he’ll talk. In five days, no more than six, he’ll be ready to move.

“Move?” Teresov echoed incredulously. “Sir, you’re still planning on taking him to the Fisikous Institute?”

“Of course,” Gabovich replied. “Luger is an aeronautical engineer, an honor graduate of the Air Force Academy, a highly trained aircrew member, a trained Strategic Air Command navigator, and his last assignment was the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center. If we turn Luger without destroying his intellect, he can supply enough information to put Fisikous in the lead in new aircraft technology. It will be the intelligence coup of the century — we can turn Fisikous into a bigger aircraft-design bureau than Sukhoi or Mikoyan-Gurevich.”

“But Lithuania is becoming a battle zone,” Teresov said. “The pro-independence movement there is gathering too much momentum — and attracting too much attention. Fisikous could be easily jeopardized.”

“We will never lose Fisikous,” Gabovich said. “The Party will never allow it. I think we will never lose the Baltic states, but even if we do, Fisikous will always belong to the Soviet Union, like the Baltic Sea Fleet headquarters in Riga and the Tupolev-92 bomber base in Tallinn. We built those places — they belong to us forever.”

“Are you willing to bet everything on that, sir?” Teresov asked. “The Fisikous design bureau is being moved to Kaliningrad in a few years— perhaps Luger should be transferred there or kept here in Moscow…”

“We are in no danger,” Gabovich repeated. “This independence movement will eventually die out.”

General Gabovich was being blind, Teresov thought, trusting another organization or unit for his own security. “But, sir.

“Luger can be moved quickly enough if the situation warrants — until then he belongs in Vilnius,” Gabovich insisted. “I will see to it. The government insists that Vilnius and the Fisikous Institute are secure — all KGB apparatuses have been moved there — so I can trust it.”

“Yes, sir,” Teresov said. Gabovich had made up his mind — there seemed no dissuading him. “Now, as to Luger…”

“He ceases to exist as Luger now, except to ‘Kaminski,’ “ Viktor Gabovich said. “From now on he will be known by his file designation, 41 dash Zulu. We will begin the disorientation cycle immediately. Wake him up in two hours for his first session, then drug him to sleep, then wake him up two hours later. He will think another day has gone by. After twelve hours, he will be begging us not to execute him — if he lasts that long,” he sneered.