Night of the Hawk Read online

  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 ab
out 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.

&
nbsp; “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.