A Time to Die - Smith Wilbur - Страница 155

"I am translating for General China," she told him, "but I must warn you that he is a savage and cruel man. I am neither his ally nor his friend. I cannot protect you."

"Thank you, signora. I understand, but I do not need protection. I am a prisoner of war under the Geneva Convention. I have certain rights. So do my men."

"What does he say?" China demanded.

"He says he is a prisoner of war, and he and his men are protected by the Geneva Convention."

"Tell him that Geneva is far away. This is Africa, and I was no signatory to any agreement in Switzerland. Here he has only such rights as I decide he should have. Tell him he will fly the helicopter under my command and that his ground crew will service and maintain the machine in flying condition."

As Claudia translated, she watched the pilot's jaw set and his pale blue eyes harden. He turned his head slightly and spoke to his men in Russian. Immediately they began to mutter and shake their heads.

"Tell this black monkey that we insist on our rights," the pilot spoke scornfully. Claudia had heard that many Russians were racists, and the derogatory term the pilot used suggested that for him at least this was true. "We refuse to fly or fight for him. That would be a traitorous act."

Ms refusal was so obvious that China did not wait for Claudia's translation.

"Tell him," he cut in brusquely, "that I have no time for argument or for subtle persuasion. I ask once more for his cooperation.

If he refuses, I will be forced to demonstrate my serious intentions."

"Signore, this man is very dangerous," Claudia told the Russian officer. "I have seen him commit the most unspeakable atrocities.

I myself have suffered torture by him."

"I am a Russian officer and a prisoner of war." The pilot drew himself to attention, his tone stern. "I know my duty."

China was watching the pilot's face as he replied. He smiled coldly as Claudia translated. "Another brave man," he murmured.

"We must now determine just how brave he is."

Without looking at his staff officers he gave them a quiet order in Shangane, and while they trundled forward the chariot that held the oxyacetylene gas cylinders, China smiled steadily at the Russian officer. The man returned his regard with a cold, pale stare as they matched wills.

China was the one who turned away. He went to the workbench and swiftly examined the tools and objects scattered on it. He gave a grunt of approval as he selected a thin steel rod and weighed it in his hand. It was the length and thickness of a rifle ramrod and was pierced at each end for a connecting screw, probably a control fink from the Hind helicopter.

"This will do very nicely," he said aloud. Then he picked up a discarded woven asbestos welding glove. He pulled it onto his right hand and turned his attention to the gas welding set. Claudia, who had watched her father work, realized that China was well versed in the use of the apparatus. He lit the welding flame on the torch and swiftly adjusted the flow of oxygen and acetylene from their separate cylinders until the flame was a brilliant blue feather, hot and unwavering. Then he took up the metal rod in his gloved hand and began to heat the tip of it in the blue flame.

All the Russians watched him uneasily. Claudia saw the pilot's hard stare flicker uncertainly as the shine of nervous sweat de wed on his upper lip.

"This man is an animal," Claudia said softly in Italian. "You must believe me when I tell you he is capable of the vilest acts.

Please, signore, I do not want to watch this."

The pilot shook his head, dismissing her appeal, but he was staring at the tip of the metal rod as it began to glow cherry red.

"I will not be intimidated by brutish threats," he said, but she detected the slightest catch and crack in his voice.

In China's gloved hand, the tip of the rod turned slowly to incandescent crimson and then to translucent white heat. China smiled and turned off the flame of the welding torch. He wove the glowing tip of the rod in a gentle flourish, like a conductor's baton, and smiled at the pilot. It was the humorless, reptilian smile of a cobra.

"I repeat my reqwest. Ask him if he will fly for me."

"Nyet. " Even ihough his voice cracked, the pilot's reply was decisive. In Russian he added, "Obezyana-monkey!"

China stood in front of him and made a slow pass with the tip of the rod a few inches in front of the Russian's eyes.

"Tell him, signora," the pilot whispered, "that without my eyes I cannot fly."

"Very true." China nodded as Claudia translated, and he left the pilot and walked on down the line of white prisoners, waving the glowing tip of the rod in each of their faces in a slow, mesmeric gesture, studying their reactions carefully. The plump mechanic in oil-stained overalls at the end of the line gave China his most satisfying response. He shrank away from the rod until the wall of the dugout stopped him, and sweat ran down his fat rosy cheeks and dripped from the end of his chin. In a squeaky voice he said something in Russian. The pilot answered him with a sharp, mono syllabic order."

"You don't like it, do you? My fat little white slug. China smiled thinly at him and let him feel the radiated heat on his cheek.

The back of the flight engineer's head was pressed against the wall, and he swiveled his eyes in their sockets to watch the rod.

The metal was cooling, and with a small frown of annoyance China left him, and turned back to the workbench, and relit the welding torch. While he carefully reheated the tip of the rod, the mechanic sagged against the sandbags. The sweat showed in dark patches through the cotton of his greasy overalls.