Kinsley asked, "What about the Commie major? Maybe he can help us?"
Cerro looked at Hensly, then at Kinsley. "Right. You've been reading too many spy novels." He scanned the wreckage and the bodies one more time, then turned back to Hensly. "Well, standing here isn't getting us anywhere. How about some lunch, Commander?"
Through binoculars the wreckage of a helicopter could be seen among the trees. Occasional movement could also be seen. What could not be discerned was who the moving people were.
Ilvanich put his binoculars down and considered the possibilities. They could be the rest of the company. Perhaps one of the other helicopters had crashed, like theirs, because of engine failure. That could still leave the other platoon, if they had made it, to join the one with him to accomplish the mission. If that was so, Ilvanich hoped the helicopter that survived was the one with the KGB major.
That thought surprised him. For the first time, he realized that he actually liked the man. In Tabriz he had hated the KGB major at first for having made him play executioner. When the major pulled the platoon off that duty, he had been grateful, but that was all. At Kerman, Ilvanich had actually been able to hold a decent conversation with the man and had found he was human. What really won Ilvanich over, however, was that the KGB major volunteered to go on the mission.
In a guarded conversation, he told Ilvanich that he did not trust Lvov, but could not relieve him-Lvov's father was too well connected in the Party. Instead, the major said, he would go as the senior officer. That way he could ensure the success of the mission and protect Ilvanich from Lvov. When Ilvanich indicated to the major that he could deal with Lvov himself, the major told him to go easy.
Lvov was not worth a trip to a gulag. Given time, they could take care of Lvov properly. The fact that the major was truly interested in him and was willing to risk his life in battle impressed llvanich.
Putting all thoughts of Lvov and the major aside, Ilvanich considered the matter at hand. If the people moving about were not his, they were Iranians. Hostile ones, no doubt. Sliding back down behind the rise he was on, he turned to Malovidov and his senior sergeant. "Lieutenant Malovidov, you will stay here and cover me. I will go forward with one man and find out who is there. If I do not return in an hour, you will continue with the mission as best you can. Is that clear?"
The junior lieutenant looked confused, but accepted the order. Several men volunteered to go with llvanich, forcing him to pick one. Without further ado, the two set out to crawl up to the well and find out who owned it.
Cerro crawled into the rifle pit between its two occupants. In a whisper, he asked, "What's up?" The sergeant slowly pointed to a spot fifty meters to their front. "Movement. We've been watching them for about five minutes. Looks like one or two guys tryin' to sneak up on us."
Cerro lifted his binoculars to where the sergeant pointed, but saw nothing.
"Iranians?"
The private in the rifle pit replied, "Don't think so, sir. Looks like they got some kind of uniform on, camouflaged."
More Russians, Cerro thought. Had to be. Turning to the sergeant, he said, "They're probably Russian. Chances are they're coming in here to find out what we're doing and what happened to their buddies. Take some men and capture them. I want you to do it quietly and without anyone out there seeing. No shooting, no screams. If you have to kill 'em, use the knife."
After the sergeant left, Cerro sat in the pit and watched for a while longer, pondering his next move.
Everything was spinning, and the back of his head hurt. Ilvanich had not felt that bad since his first true drinking bout as a cadet. The glare of the sun did not help his blurred vision. As he sat up, he saw others standing around him. "What happened?"
The answer, given in English, was a shock. "You are a prisoner. Who are you and what are you doing here?"
Ilvanich turned to see who was speaking. The images were still blurry.
The one image that was not blurry was the muzzle of a rifle less than an inch from his nose.
The speaker asked again, "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
Still befuddled, Ilvanich answered without thinking, "Nikolai Ilvanich, junior lieutenant, no, lieutenant, Red Army. Who are you?"
A new voice from behind him spoke. "Sonofabitch, he does speak English. See, I told ya, Hal. Most of 'em do."
Ilvanich's vision cleared. A group of Americans stood near him, a guard in front of him, a second guard farther back with his rifle at the ready, and two men who were apparently officers squatting down beside him. Ilvanich turned to see a third guard and another officer behind him. Americans.
The younger officer in front smiled and said, "Give that man a cigar. OK, Ivan, what are you doing here?"
Defiantly Ilvanich asked, "Where is the man who was with me?"
Again it was the younger officer who spoke. "He's with your major. Took a bayonet in the side. He'll be all right, if you cooperate."
Letting his astonishment show, Ilvanich shot back, "Major? Is he alive? Where is he?"
"Not so fast, Ivan."
Regaining his composure and going back to the attack, Ilvanich replied, "Ilvanich, Lieutenant Ilvanich. What is your name and rank?"
Cerro considered the Russian before him. He was a hard cookie. The direct approach didn't seem to work. Maybe he could soften him up some. Perhaps little give and-take. "Lieutenant Harold Cerro, U.S. Army. Now, what are you doing here?"
"Before we talk anymore, I must see my major." I must maintain the upper hand, Ilvanich thought.
The younger officer, the lieutenant named Cerro, seemed to be in charge.
Ilvanich kept looking at the other officer, the one with the insignia of an American major, who said nothing. Nor could Ilvanich detect any signals between the lieutenant named Cerro and that major. Perhaps he wasn't in command.
The one named Cerro turned to the major. "I suppose it won't do any harm. What do you think, Commander?"
He is in command, Ilvanich thought. How strange, though-the lieutenant did all the talking. He must be intelligence or CIA.
Ilvanich was led to the KGB major. A medic and a guard were attending him and the man who had accompanied Ilvanich. The KGB major looked bad, very pale and in pain. When he saw Ilvanich he tried to speak, but could not.
Ilvanich knelt down next to him and looked at the wounds. The dressing was clean and neatly tied off. Ilvanich turned to the medic, a young black soldier. "Will he live?"
The medic looked at Ilvanich, surprised that he spoke English. Without a second thought, he began to talk. "He was hit twice by small-arms fire, in the side and the right arm, and he took a fragment, probably a grenade, in the left leg. He's lost a lot of blood, but no major arteries were severed. He was already in shock when we found him, but he seems to be responding well. If we can keep tine infections down, he'll do OK."
The American in attendance had to be a doctor. How strange that such a small unit should have a doctor. "The other man, how is he?"
The American doctor looked at the private who had come with Ilvanich.
His arm was in a sling. "He's in good shape. His backhand ain't gonna be what it used to be, but he'll get used to it."
The American guard laughed at that.
American humor, no doubt, Ilvanich thought.
The doctor said to Ilvanich, "Let me see your head." He looked at where Ilvanich had been hit. "Hell of a bump. Cut too. I'll clean it." He opened his medical bag and worked on Ilvanich for several minutes. When he was done, he handed Ilvanich two white pills. "You're gonna have a helluva headache. Take these."