For a moment, he thought he’d been shot. He felt a deep ache starting in his back, and he wondered which would kill him first — bleeding from the wound or hypothermia from lying on the ground. A few moments later, he realized that he’d been body-blocked rather than shot. The familiar oozing of blood was absent, although the ache below his left shoulder blade remained. He lay on the ground motionless, not daring to move.
A harsh voice barked out a short pause, evidently a command of some sort. Sikes turned his head slowly, aware now of the ache in his neck, to look at the man who had spoken. Something about the phrase — he tried to remember if he had ever run across it in his language schools. No, but it was tantalizingly close to something he did know.
The man barked out another sentence, and two of the paratroopers approached him from either side. One pointed the barrel of his Kalishnikov along Sikes’s head, while the other jerked his arms around him and bound his wrists with something rough, slipping it under his gloves and white parka. Even with that brief exposure to the frigid air, the skin on his wrists started to ache.
The man who’d bound his arms then yanked him to his feet, pulling the arms almost out of his shoulder sockets. Sikes repressed a groan. To show weakness this early — that couldn’t help.
A phalanx of men surrounded him, pressing close in. The urge to strike back, to lash out with his legs, was almost overpowering. He forced himself to stay calm and think. To attack any one of them now would be fatal. He might kill or seriously disable one, but the other multitudes would kill him. Quickly, he hoped, although he suspected that would not be the case after looking at their faces.
From the little he could see under the heavy-weather gear, the men bore a striking resemblance to each other, almost as though they were from the same family. High, bronzed cheekbones, narrow, almond-shaped eyes, and dark coarse hair peeking out from under their caps were the common denominators. They were alike in physique as well, broad in the shoulders, slightly shorter than the average American, and giving the impression of being heavily muscled.
Who the hell were these fellows? he wondered. He studied them again, trying to find any identifying mark, but each man wore the same solid white anonymous gear that he had on himself. A few differences in the manufacturing, perhaps. He saw metal zippers poking out along several pockets, a few ragged tears and rips that would have been immediately repaired in American forces, but evidently these men were not as careful with their gear. For what it was worth, that was a mistake. Above all things, SEALs are fanatical about their equipment. Too often their lives hang in the balance, depending on the reliability of a boat engine, the tensile strength of a nylon rope, or on the comprehensive and completely updated information on a routine chart. Had Sikes seen similar signs of wear on his own men’s gear, he would have had serious doubts about their qualifications to be a Navy SEAL.
He filed the fact away, along with the observation that there were no identifying marks of any kind on the clothing — not names, unit insignia, or even a country flag. Curious, but clearly indicative of the fact that these men were professionals. Wherever they came from, however they were trained, at least that much they had in common with the American forces.
A few of the men exchanged short phrases, but for the most part the group maintained tactical silence. Seeing that he did not understand, one motioned Sikes forward with his rifle, supplementing his instructions with another shove in the back. Sikes stumbled, then fell into a slow walk. A rifle butt prodded him in the ass, urging him to hurry. He feigned a stunned, disbelieving face, and stumbled slightly as he walked, hoping to convince them that he was in worse shape than he was. In reality, except for the now-fading ache under his shoulder blade, and the strength-sapping cold, he was in adequate shape.
The man who was in charge snapped out another set of orders, and three of the men traded a look universal to all military men — the look of disgust and disbelief when assigned some task they believe is below their capabilities. Without argument, they turned and walked back to SEAL 3’s body. The tallest of the three men handed his own pack over to a comrade, then slung the SEAL’s body over his shoulder. The ease with which he moved indicated massive upper body strength, a fact concealed by the heavy winter clothing. Another fact in the database, Sikes thought. He walked for fifteen minutes toward the base of the cliffs he’d seen from sea. Just when he was actually beginning to feel the chill he’d been feigning for those minutes, they all arrived at the base. Sikes studied the scree line at the base of the cliff, and then noticed the dark rectangle set into the base. He shook his head, wondering if he were in worse shape than he thought — that should have been the first thing that leaped out at him.
Sikes was hustled inside. After shoving him down to the far end of the room, one of the paratroopers kicked his feet out from under him. Sikes tried to twist in midair and land in a judo stance on his side, but he caught his shoulder wrong as he hit. He winced, showing no outward emotion.
He did not resist when two of the men came over and bound his feet with nylon rope.
The leader of the group walked over and studied him while he was lying on the ground. After a few moments, he motioned for a chair. One of the paratroopers provided it, then hauled Sikes to his feet and slammed him roughly into it.
“Kak vas zavoot?” the man said.
Russian. Memories of long hours spent at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California, came flooding back to him. An elementary phrase, one he’d learned his first day there — What is your name?
Sikes shook his head and let a bewildered look settle on his face. Whatever language they spoke among themselves, they also spoke Russian. Knowing that, he might be able to puzzle out a few phrases in the other language, and it was best not to let his captors know that he had any knowledge of either language.
The leader snorted in disgust. He turned and shouted something almost incomprehensible to another man, who stopped what he was doing and quickly approached. Sikes thought he recognized some corruption of the Russian phrase “Come here,” but couldn’t be certain.
A hurried conversation ensued between the two. The second man nodded several times, asked two questions, and then turned to face Sikes.
“What is your name?” the second man enunciated carefully. The heavy Slavic accent rendered the words harsh and guttural.
“Sikes.” Better to give them no information unless they ask for it, he thought, glancing down at his foul-weather gear. Although there was not much chance of hiding what his true occupation was, given the nature and quality of his clothing. And the M-16—no point in even trying to pretend he was a civilian.
“You are SEAL?” the man asked.
Sikes shook his head in the negative. Under the Geneva Convention, he was required to provide only name, rank, service, and military I.D. number. While it might be obvious to both parties that he was a SEAL, the Code of Conduct required him to stick to just that information for as long as it was humanly possible. Under extreme torture — well, that was another matter entirely. Experience during Vietnam had taught the United States Navy that even the finest officer held his or her limits, a point beyond which the body overrode the mind’s convictions in a form of self-preservation instinct. After reading the memoirs of many POWs, Sikes knew that the point came earlier for some, later for others, but for every man, there was some such breaking point.
And of course they knew what a SEAL was, he thought. Just as he knew what Spetsnaz were, and the names of the special forces of twenty other nations he could name immediately. They all knew of each other, the small, secret bands of men — and, in some countries, women as well — that fought the unconventional war, taking conflict deep into the heart of enemy territory by skill and deception, laying the groundwork for the arrival of conventional troops and gathering intelligence critical to the success of every mission. American soil, a man dressed like he was — there were only two possibilities. Russian or American. And since they hadn’t even bothered to ask about the first, he had a sinking feeling he knew who they were.