Sergeant Cermanivich began to wonder if he had actually hit the pilot. Most people would have moved by now. He had seen nothing.
Anxiety abruptly surged through him. Could he see anyone moving if they stayed on the ground? How to know?
He stretched his leg out, setting off the waves of pain. Some soldier you are, he thought , can’t even get off your fat ass. He stopped moving, waiting for the sharp pain to subside.
Metal scraped rock behind him and he twisted, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder. Trying unsuccessfully to ignore his sudden, debilitating agony and to see through fresh blood, he hesitated. A weapon fired and his rifle burst out of his hands, nearly taking his trigger finger with it.
The impact slammed him sideways and he felt his butt slide off the edge of the rock. He fell onto the rock-riddled ground. Magnified pain shot through him and he screamed his way into darkness.
“C’mon, wake up.”
Something stung his cheek.
“C’mon, Ivan, wake up.”
Again the stinging. Rudi Cermanivich tried to open his eyes, but they would not obey him.
“C’mon—”
“Do not strike me again,” Cermanivich said in English, the language in which he was being addressed. “I am injured all over, my body does not respond as it should.”
“I have a pistol. If you make any sudden moves I will hurt you.”
Cermanivich barked a laugh that turned into a painful cough. “If I make sudden move I will hurt me.” He slowly raised his hand to his face and rubbed at the bloody crust around his eyes.
“Do you have water? I need some on my face.”
A moment later a dollop splashed in his eyes. He rubbed briskly and felt his eyelids tug open. The light blinded him and he squinted. The throbbing in his head intensified.
“What’s your name, Sergeant?”
Rudi blinked up at the man, realizing for the first time his opponent was an Asian. “Sergeant Rudi Cermanivich, Imperial Tank Korps, Flash Division. Do you wish my service number also?”
The pilot smiled for a moment. “No, that’s enough. This battle is over for us, why are you still trying to kill me?”
“For you, perhaps the battle is over. For me, never. Who are you and why are you on Russian soil?”
“First Lieutenant Gerald Yamato, 117th Fighter Squadron, Republic of California Air Force. I’m not on Russian soil, I’m in the Dená Republic, I think.”
“Kalifornia? For what reason do you make war on us?”
“Ask the politicians, I’m just following orders.”
“Who do you fight for, and against?” Rudi demanded.
“We’re aiding the Dená Republic and fighting against you, the Russian Empire.”
“There is no Dená Republik, how can you aid what does not exist?”
“The Dená Republik has been a recognized country for a week, at least. Are you guys supposed to be pretty hot in combat, or what?”
“We are—were crack tank group. Four days ago we disembark from ship which picked us up near Chinese border week before. We did not anticipate aircraft nor any other opposition.”
“You’re in a war zone, it isn’t like ‘San Diego-Day of Infamy’ or anything like that.”
“We were surprised, but nothing on the scale of your 1931 defeat, no.” Rudi grinned, which hurt. “But I was not aware of your country’s role in this insurrection.”
“This is our third day at war, so don’t feel bad about not getting the word. Where are you hurt?”
“Shorter list if you ask where I am not hurt.”
“Can you stand?”
“I don’t know. Will try.”
He pushed himself up and the pain level rose with him. Rudi leaned against the rock he had fallen from and tried to breathe without hurting. Never before in his life had he endured this much pain.
Am I going to die here? he wondered. His heart slowed from a stampede to mere gallop and the pain receded. Slowly he turned and faced the rock, put his hands at shoulder level, and tried to stand.
Stars danced through his head and blurred his vision. Sensation deserted him as darkness charged.
“Just what I need, an injured prisoner.” Jerry Yamato spat on a rock and finished adjusting the sergeant’s comatose form on the litter he had fashioned from the plentiful willows along the river.
His stomach growled and, as if in response, so did the sergeant’s. Food needed to be found, and soon. Jerry worked his eyes slowly over the terrain, hoping to see movement.
They had been relatively quiet for some time now. Perhaps game might be available.
And I will get it how?
The sergeant’s rifle was junk. The .45 slug had smashed the receiver and trigger mechanism. At the time, he had been aiming for the Russian’s head.
The man was probably going to die long before he could get him any medical help. The temptation to just shoot him and put him out of his misery passed through Jerry’s mind. He shuddered in revulsion, disgusted with himself.
“I’ve got to at least try and help him.”
He figured he was about a half mile from his parachute and harness. Dragging the sergeant that far shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Then the harness and chute would be of immeasurable help.
Bouncing the litter over the rocks, Jerry was glad the Russian had passed out. He was also making far too much noise if he wished to find game within a mile. Doggedly, he continued dragging the litter.
After twenty minutes by his own watch, he stopped and sagged onto the nearest boulder. He felt completely done in, and had yet to spy his cache. With extreme care he lowered the litter to the ground.
Yamato pulled himself onto the largest rock within three yards and looked for his harness marker. A glance over his shoulder gave him the wisping smoke from the wrecked Eureka and farther away the tendrils from the tanks as a gauge. Unless his memory was playing games with him, he should be on top of the cache.
He faced forward again and caught motion out of the corner of his eye. A quick step and he was sliding off the rock, turning to face the unknown and unholstering his .45 all at the same time. He landed beside the boulder with both feet spread wide, his elbows resting on the rock and his weapon pointed at… a frightened young woman?
Dressed entirely in soft leather molding to her voluptous curves, abundant dark hair framing her porcelain-fine features, she held his parachute bunched in her arms and stared at him like a frightened fawn.
“Who are you?” he asked, not lowering the pistol.
“Sm-small English,” she said. “Ruski?”
Jerry shook his head. He found her beauty disturbing. What was she doing out here all al—
A stunning blow knocked him against the boulder, turning his legs to jelly and his mind to star-speckled mush.
“Good work, Magda,” God said just before Jerry’s wits slipped into the void.