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.
The other man stepped forward and landed a solid punch on the left
side of his face. The force knocked him out of the chair and sent him
sprawling on the damp ice floor. He felt the skin scrape off the other
side of his face, and his previously uninjured shoulder was now screaming
in protest. As before, he lay motionless. The man walked up to him and
kicked him solidly in the crotch.
While the layers of arctic clothing and padding must have cushioned