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.”