brown and had the characteristic iodine aroma; she selected those, and then she found that some of the labels also had notations in French and Arabic. She had a smattering of both languages, enough to identify which were antibiotics and painkillers.
She found two field packs, obviously prepared for use by the Russian first aid teams, and included these in her selection; then she and Matatu, heavily laden, hurried out of the first aid post.
Before she reached the perimeter of the laager again, a dreadfully familiar figure loomed out of the banks of drifting smoke ahead of her-the very last person she had expected to see here.
'Miss Monterro,' General China called. 'What a fortunate encounter. I need your assistance.' China was accompanied by half a dozen officers of his staff.
Claudia recovered swiftly from the shock of the unexpected meeting. 'I'm busy,' she snapped, trying to step around him. 'Job is badly wounded. I have to get back to him.'
'My need is greater than anybody else's, I'm afraid.' China put out an arm.
'Forget it,' Claudia flared at him. 'Job needs this stuff, or he'll die.'
'One of my men will take it to him,' China replied. 'You are coming with me, please. Or I'll have you carried. Not very dignified, Miss Monterro.'
Claudia was still protesting as one of the Renamo officers relieved her of her load of medical supplies, but at last she shrugged with resignation.
'Go with him, Matatu.' She pointed down the hill. The little man nodded brightly, and Claudia allowed China to escort her back into the laager.
They picked their way through the shambles of the battle, and Claudia shuddered as she stepped over the charred corpse of one of the Frehmo garrison.
'Colonel Courtney's attack has succeeded beyond even my wildest expectations.' General China was affable and clearly delighted with what he saw around him. 'He even managed to capture a Hind gunship completely intact, together with the Russian air crew and ground crew.'
'I hope you won't keep me long. I have to get back.'
'Captain Job will live or die without you, Miss Monterro. I need your services as a translator in talking to the pilot.'
'I don't speak Russian,' Claudia told him flatly.
'Fortunately the pilot seems to speak Italian. How he learned the language I cannot guess, but he keeps repeating, 'Italiano, Italiano. '' China took her arm and led her down the steps of the sandbagged, camouflaged dugout.
Claudia glanced around the dugout and saw instantly that it was an engineering workshop. A long workbench ran down each wall.
Set up on one of these were a metal lathe and drill press. A wide selection of hand tools was racked in cupboards above the benches, and she recognized the electric and gas welding sets at the far end of the worksh4. Her father had had his own workshop in the cellar of their Dome in Anchorage, and she had spent many evenings watchinglim pottering around down there.
were at the far end of the The Russian prisoners, five of them underground room.
'Which one of you speaks Italian?' she asked.
A tall, thin man stepped forward. He wore gray flying overalls and his face was scarred with acne. His pale blue eyes were shifty and nervous.
'I do, signora.
'Where did you learn?' Claudia asked.
'My wife is a graduate student from Milan. I met her while she was doing her doctorate at Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow.' His Italian was heavily accented and his grammar uncertain, but she understood him without difliculty.
'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
