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.”