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?”