“Put your hands against the tree.”
It was a guttural, thickly accented voice, coming from behind him. He turned to look at the speaker.
“Don’t move. I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
Maxwell got a look at him. A stocky man with short brown hair and a stubble of beard. He wore a brown flight suit and held a semiautomatic pistol in his hand.
“Who are you?” Maxwell asked.
“My name is Rittmann. I’m here to kill you.”
A gift from heaven.
When he saw the parachute descend into the trees only half a kilometer from him, Wolf Rittmann knew what it meant. He had been saved.
The American pilot was his passage out of Yemen.
Rittmann had no illusions about his status with Al-Fasr. Even before the disastrous air battle, Rittmann knew that Al-Fasr was finished with him. He was expendable, just like the worn-out MiG-29 he had been flying. He was certain that the Sherji, who were now in a ground battle with the Americans, had orders to kill him if he turned up alive. Or deliver him to Al-Fasr, who would dispose of him in one of his own imaginative ways.
Now he had something of value to offer Al-Fasr — a captured American pilot. He would be an immensely valuable bartering item. Al-Fasr would be persuaded not only to give Rittmann his liberty but he would even compensate him for having shot down one of the American jets.
Rittmann sized up his trophy. The man was half a head taller than he, fit-looking, with dark hair and a mustache, in his late thirties, maybe early forties. He seemed to have suffered no serious injuries from the ejection.
“Put your hands on the tree,” Rittmann said again.
The American was regarding him with curiosity, his hands still at his sides. Typical American insolence, thought Rittmann. A bullet through the elbow would teach him some manners.
Not yet, he told himself. The pistol shot might reveal his position to the Sherji or to any Americans patrolling the area. Later.
He approached the pilot, keeping the Czech-made Parabellum pistol pointed toward him. The man watched him, still curious.
“Your name is Rittmann?” the American said. The blue eyes studied him. “You’re German.”
“My nationality doesn’t matter.”
“Former East German? You hired on to fly the MiG-29s.”
Rittmann felt a flash of anger as he remembered the insults the East German military had endured from the Americans. He aimed the pistol in the man’s face. “I ask the questions. Turn around and do as I say.”
Slowly the man turned, his manner still imperious, insolent. Rittmann promised himself that he would change this man’s attitude.
He removed the sidearm, a heavy, large-caliber automatic pistol. Peculiar, he thought, hefting the gun. How could the highly advanced American military issue such a useless weapon? A pistol like this one could not possibly be fired with any accuracy.
Keeping the muzzle of the Parabellum pressed into the man’s back, he searched the pockets of his flight suit. He removed the survival knife, a dull-bladed tool with a serrated edge. Another odd weapon, as useless as the obsolete pistol. Americans were strange.
He dumped out the contents of the pilot’s survival pack, including a handheld radio, various signaling flares and pyrotechnics, and a device that looked like a global positioning system. Rittmann was impressed. Unlike the silly gun and the knife, this was definitely not obsolete equipment.
When he was finished, Rittmann stepped back and said, “You will tell me your name and rank.”
“Samuel Maxwell. Commander.”
“To what flying unit are you assigned?”
“United States Navy.”
Rittmann jabbed the pistol into his ribs. “Geschwader! I want to know your unit and base.”
“Are you an interrogator? I thought you were a pilot.”
“From an aircraft carrier you came, is that not correct? What flying unit?”
“None. Actually, I’m a tourist. Where did you learn to speak such bad English?”
Rittmann’s anger burst out of control. In an overhand, chopping swing, he brought the butt of the Parabellum down on the back of the man’s neck. The American grunted and dropped to his knees.
Rittmann delivered a kick to the man’s ribs, causing him to double over. “On your feet. I give you one more opportunity to answer my questions.”
The American raised himself up on a knee, then slowly stood. The blue eyes had narrowed to slits, fixed on Rittmann as if he were a specimen.
In truth, Rittmann had no interest in the man’s answers. Al-Fasr’s sources had already reported that the F/A-18s came from the aircraft carrier Reagan, cruising the Gulf of Aden. The only purpose of Rittmann’s questions — and the subsequent punishment — was to make this American Scheisskopf beg for mercy.
“Your unit. Its designation and its commanding officer. Tell me now!”
The American returned his gaze.
Rittmann swung the pistol again, striking him in the face. The man reeled backward, his cheek spurting blood. Rittmann’s pent-up anger was taking control of him. He swung again, the blow glancing off the man’s head.
Stunned, the American dropped to one knee. Again Rittmann considered using the Parabellum, blasting him in the elbow or the knee, inflicting some real pain.
No, not the gun. The knife.
He unsheathed the Denckler fighting knife. The twenty-centimeter, double-edged blade was honed to a razor sharpness. For years Rittmann had imagined actually using the Denckler in combat. The oldest and most basic of military weapons, it was beautiful in its pure simplicity. No weapon instilled such raw terror as the cold sharp steel of a knife.
He shifted the pistol to his left hand. With the handle of the knife nestled in his right palm, he stepped toward the kneeling American.
The first slash caught him across his raised forearm. The German was holding the knife at waist level, thrusting it like a fencer.
He slashed again, ripping through the sleeve of Maxwell’s Nomex flight suit. Maxwell tried to dodge the thrusts, but he was slow, still dazed from the ejection and the blow on the head. Blood spurted from the wound on his right arm.
Rittmann seemed to be enjoying the one-sided duel. A smile flitted over his face as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, advancing one step at a time.
He thrust again. The point of the blade caught Maxwell’s left shoulder, penetrating the fabric of the flight suit. Blood streamed down Maxwell’s left arm.
He tried to fend off the knife thrusts, but the German was quick. Too quick. It occurred to Maxwell that the man could have killed him already. What did he want? Did he intend to carve him up first, then kill him? It was as if he were settling an old score.
Rittmann thrust again with the blade. Maxwell dodged the slashing blade — and tripped. He tumbled backward, then rolled, trying to regain his feet.
Too late. The German lashed out with his boot, catching Maxwell in the chest. The German was on him before he could regain his feet. Light glinted from the polished blade as he thrust it toward Maxwell’s throat.
“That’s enough! Drop your weapons.”
The voice came from behind. The German stopped in midthrust. The smile was gone, replaced by a look of confusion.
“Drop the gun and the knife on the ground.”
It was a woman’s voice.
Rittmann nodded. His lips parted in a knowing smile, and he turned to face her.
Blam! He felt the bullet sizzle past his ear.