“Yes,” said Petrushinsky. “I was airborne, for many years. I know you are Americans. It may surprise you, but I served in Cuba, twice!”

The rotund younger man quickly laughed, translating the remarks for his three guests. Petrushinsky had now decided that the escort was probably an intelligence agent working out of the American Embassy and that his guests were visiting businessmen or perhaps government officials. Petrushinsky’s remarks seemed to electrify the three older men. They spoke rapidly to one another for several seconds and then to their escort, as if ordering him to respond.

“These gentlemen are American businessmen,” explained their escort. “But when they were younger, all three served in Viet Nam.”

“I was in Viet Nam,” answered Petrushinsky, determined not to be outdone. The shock that pulsed across the three men’s faces when his words were translated filled Petrushinsky with a silent but gleeful pride. They began chattering, their eyes round with discovery, peering at him with an intense curiosity.

“When?” asked their escort.

“Many times. The first time, 1968. The last time, 1987.”

The three men became even more intense as their guide translated for them. They spoke quickly, all at the same time, looking at one another as if on the edge of some profound discovery. Finally their guide translated another question for him.

“You were in Viet Nam in 1968? What were you doing?”

Petrushinsky shrugged nonchalantly, eyeing them as if they were stupid. What was I doing? What did they think I was doing? “I was a soldier!”

As the four Americans grew even more excited, a nervousness that bordered on nausea began to creep through Petrushinsky. He had not thought that such a casual boast would cause such an eruption of emotion. What was Viet Nam, after all? So many years ago. So much had happened since then. The war in Afghanistan, the emergence of the traitor Gorbachev, the collapse of the east, the drunken chaos of Yeltsin, the murderous, criminal shadow government, the folly of Chechnya. So much. What did it matter that he had been in Viet Nam?

“Where were you?” It was becoming overwhelming, an interrogation. The three men were asking him in English, leaning forward over his little tray, their voices tight with amazement and even disbelief, as their guide persistently quizzed him in Russian.

“What does it matter?” Petrushinsky finally muttered. “Soldiers go where they are told. I was in many places.”

“No one has ever admitted there were Soviet soldiers in Viet Nam during the war! After the war, certainly. But during it? How many times were you there? What did you do?”