Winter Hawk by Craig Thomas

Author:Craig Thomas [Thomas, Craig]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mi-24 (Attack Helicopter), Adventure Stories
ISBN: 9780286133005
Publisher: Harpercollins
Published: 1986-12-31T13:00:00+00:00

The rifle moved, drawing a bead on him, the first round clicking into the chamber of the AK-74. Gant dropped back against the icily cold wall, hands pressed against his thighs, his body posed as if ready to absorb a blow. The corridor outside taunted him with its inaccessibility. The guard close to him was grinning, the armed one anticipated pleasure. Gant, involuntarily, flinched. The nearer guard unzipped his trousers, chuckled, then began to urinate on Gant's one gray blanket. Gant sat immobile, staring down at the food stains on his flight overalls. The guard whistled, as if using some public convenience. The urine spread in a pool. Both guards watched Gant greedily.

The guard finished.

"Should have drunk more beer," he called over his shoulder, zipping his trousers.

"You can't piss worth a kopeck anyway."

Gant felt the shiver in his body and attempted to quell it. The casualness of the humiliation was worse than a beating. A clear statement: You are ceasing to exist.

"You want a turn?"

"Piss on him, you mean? Who cares? There'll be plenty of time."

Gant stared at the rectangle of tiled corridor he could see through the open door. They had left the door open to undermine him further. The fact that he understood what they were doing did not help. The urine stank, but he did not move. He heard a squeaking noise in the corridor, a voice murmuring. Boots.

The surgical cart stopped directly opposite the door of the cell. He recognized Kedrov's profile, saw the blank, wild eyes staring at the ceiling, saw the furiously working mouth—and heard the insane, disconnected, drugged babble of sound coming from him. He Was still deeply drugged. Here he is, they were saying. Your role model; your future. Gant hunched further into himself; wanted to fold his arms across his heaving stomach, wanted to concentrate on something, anything other than the darkness that loomed in his mind. Two attendants in white coats peered into the cell. Kedrov babbled, screamed, denied, confessed, complied, rejected.

They had overdone it. Kedrov might be lost for good in his own head, amid that ceaseless, whirling jumble that filled his mind. He should be sedated now, quiet; spent. Instead, he raved like a lunatic. They'd most probably done it deliberately, just to make an impact on him.

Gant growled, but the noise seemed to whimper in the cell. Kedrov raved. The guards watched and weighed, the attendants looked around the cell like prospective house buyers. Gant's lips were wet. He continued to growl but could not make the noise assertive or defiant.

Kedrov's voice vanished. The cell was darker. The urine's stink predominated. They were gone. Gant groaned softly, cradling his chest and stomach with his arms, head forward.

And slowly but insistently, the stench of the guard's urine became transmuted into the smell of stagnant, muddy water. The bamboo cage was opened, he was thrust into the pit, the bamboo grill was closed over his head. The walls were wet, the water reached his chest. The strange, small Eastern faces looked down at him, then left him alone; utterly alone.

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