“In time we will,” the trooper said confidently.
“You’re breakin’ wind.”
The soldier’s eyebrows narrowed. “Breakin’ wind?”
“Do you really expect the folks to just roll over and play dead while you run roughshod over ’em?” Hickok asked. “If you do, you must be eatin’ loco-weed on a regular basis.”
The trooper was about to speak, but the door toward the front of the aircraft opened. The sergeant returned, followed by a familiar figure. They approached the gunman.
“Hello, Hickok,” Lieutenant Voroshilov greeted the warrior. “This is a surprise.”
“Not as big of a surprise as I wanted,” Hickok said.
“I just finished talking to General Malenkov on the radio,” Lieutenant Voroshilov revealed. “He was equally surprised. It seems we underestimated you.”
“So how soon before we get back to Washington?” Hickok asked.
“We are not turning around,” Lieutenant Voroshilov disclosed.
Hickok’s own surprise registered on his features. “Why not? I reckon the general is a mite eager to get his paws on me.”
Lieutenant Voroshilov nodded. “He is most desirous of talking with you again,” he said. “Only the next time it will be different. Your escape angered the general. He is going to have his… consultants… question you next time. Perhaps you have heard of them? They are the KGB.”
Hickok shrugged. “Never heard of ’em.”
“Why don’t you relax,” Lieutenant Voroshilov suggested. “We will be in the air several hours before we refuel.”
“Why aren’t you takin’ me back to Washington?” Hickok inquired.
Lieutenant Voroshilov sat down on the bench alongside the gunman.
His green eyes studied the warrior, as if he were examining an inferior life-form. “Several reasons. Precious fuel would be wasted by the return flight, and fuel is one resource we cannot afford to waste.”
“Don’t have a lot of it, huh?” Hickok interrupted.
“Not as much as we would like,” Voroshilov said. “We have two refineries in operation, but they can’t supply enough fuel for all our needs.”
“Why don’t you just get some more from Russia?” Hickok queried.
Voroshilov’s mouth tightened. “If only we could.”
“Why can’t you?” Hickok pressed him.
Voroshilov considered the question for a while. “I see no reason why I can’t tell you. The information isn’t classified, and you won’t live to pass it on.” He thoughtfully stared at the closed cargo bay doors. “We lost touch with our motherland thirty years ago.”
“What? You’re kiddin’,” Hickok said.
“I do not jest,” Voroshilov stated bitterly. “The war took its toll on our country too. It depleted our natural resources and restricted our industrial capability. The non-Russian peoples in the U.S.S.R., the ones who always resented our superiority and our control, saw our weakness and decided the time was right to throw off their yoke. The Baits and the Mordivians, the Udmurts and the Mari, the Tartars and the Kirgiz, and many others rose in rebellion.” He stopped, his face downcast.
“And what happened?” Hickok goaded him, stalling. The longer he could keep the lieutenant talking the further they would get from Washington and the more likely a chance would develop to make his play.
“We don’t know,” Voroshilov said sadly.
“You don’t know?”
Voroshilov sighed. “During and right after the war, thousands of our troops were sent to America, to invade and conquer the capitalistic pigs.
Our forces took over a large territory in the eastern U.S., but we did not have enough supplies and men to continue our push to the north and west of the Mississippi. Our drive through Alaska and Canada was stopped in British Columbia by the worst winter they had there in centuries. Over the decades, we have consolidated our domination of the American area we rule. Until thirty years ago, we maintained contact with the motherland.
We knew the rebellion there had reached a critical stage. Then the shortwave broadcasts stopped. Cryptographic communications ceased.
Every ship we sent to investigate failed to return. Our forces in America found themselves isolated, cut off from our motherland.”
“Hold your horses,” Hickok interjected. “You say you lost contact with Russia thirty years ago?”
“Yes.”
Hickok pointed at the five soldiers on the opposite bench. “Then where the dickens did they come from? They sure don’t look over thirty to me.”
“They are not,” Lieutenant Voroshilov replied. “Since we could not replenish our forces from the motherland, we’ve established a system of modified racial breeding.”
“I don’t follow,” Hickok said.
“We impregnate selected American women,” Lieutenant Voroshilov stated. “Their children are turned over to us for training and education.
Our indoctrination is quite thorough. Russian history and values are stressed. Communism, of course, is exalted. The result you see before you.
Soldiers every bit as Russian as if they had come from the U.S.S.R., and fluent in English and Russian.”
“Where do you get these American women?” Hickok asked. “Do they volunteer?”
Voroshilov snickered. “They cooperate whether they want to or not.”
Hickok ruminated on the revelations he’d received. The information explained a lot. Like, why the Russians had not invaded the Civilized Zone, why the Reds hadn’t taken over the whole country. Simply because they lacked the manpower and the resources to achieve it. “How much of the country do you have under your thumb?” he ventured to ask.
Voroshilov reflected for a moment. “Let me see if I can remember the names of the states involved. New England we control,” he said, “and southern New York, southern Pennsylvania, Maryland, New Jersey, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, portions of Illinois, Kentucky, Virginia, and West Virginia. We also have sections of North and South Carolina under our hegemony. We wanted to subjugate all of the Southeast, but the Southerners are a most hardy, independent lot. They resisted us every foot of the way and stopped our advance, leaving us the Northeast and a wide corridor in the middle of the East.”
Hickok stared at Voroshilov. “I can’t get over you tellin’ me all of this.”
Lieutenant Voroshilov grinned. “As I said before,” he stated, “you won’t live to pass it on. General Malenkov will not treat you so lightly the second time.”
Hickok idly gazed at the five troopers on the other wooden bench, and at the sergeant, standing to the right of Voroshilov. The five had relaxed their guard and lowered their weapons, but the sergeant still covered him with an AK-47. He needed to stall some more, and hope he had a chance to go for his Colts. “You said there were several reasons why you’re not takin’ me straight back to Washington,” he reminded the lieutenant.
Voroshilov nodded. “Time is of the essence. We must reach your vehicle as quickly as possible, before your people can remove it.”
“You still think you can tote the SEAL to Washington with this contraption?” Hickok smacked the metal side of the copter.
“Easily,” Lieutenant Voroshilov bragged. “We will dig a small trench under your vehicle, and then slide our sling underneath. Once the sling is secured, our helicopter will lift the vehicle into the air and transport it to General Malenkov.”
Hickok thoughtfully chewed on his lower lip. If the Reds could do what they claimed, it would be a piece of cake to lift the SEAL into the air, then lower it again on its wheels. Hmmmm.
Lieutenant Voroshilov stood. “I must rejoin our pilot. You will be removed at our first refueling stop and held there until our return trip. We will pick you up and carry you to Washington for your rendezvous with General Malenkov and the KGB.”