Luger had been only half-listening, staring at a corner of the room to take his mind off the man's words, but "sentence of death" made him glare at the man's face.

A death sentence?

Luger's mouth became dry, and his heart pumped heavily. His blood pressure was rising, he could feel it, but for the first time since he'd regained consciousness, he was genuinely, truly scared. He tried to think-quickly--even in the glare of the lights and the foreign surroundings.

Outwardly he fought to remain composed. He'd survived the explosion of the fuel truck which, hopefully, had allowed his fellow crew members an exit out to their final destination of Nome, Alaska, only now to be told he was going to die anyway.

Well, he had been prepared to die when he'd left the Old Dog.., so what did it matter if he died now?

The civilian continued expressionlessly: "Since a criminal found guilty of murder and sentenced to death in the Soviet Union gives up all rights, you have no rights of appeal, not to the Soviet government or to any other government, nor are we required to notify anyone else of the sentence-and in fact we have not done so. Because of the severity of your crimes and the sensitive nature of the acts which you committed, you may not have the opportunity to have your sentence stayed, pardoned, or commuted. Carrying out your punishment cannot be delayed for any reason, even for psychological evaluation or to wait for your injuries to completely heal. A final review of your case will be accomplished by our civilian counterparts-only a formality, please understand-then witnesses will be summoned and a place of execution will be chosen. Within seven days, it will be done." The man paused for a few heartbeats, then added, "Death will be by a seven-member firing squad, the traditional means of execution for one convicted of capital crimes against the military."

Luger tried to hide the fear that was finally overcoming him, a fear far different from the adrenaline-rushed courage he'd shown during those final moments of the Old Dog mission.

Then, he'd gambled not knowing What the outcome of his actions would be, if any. Now he knew. The outcome was predetermined. He was going to face death anyway.

__Or_was he? He avoided_the man's eyes, all the while trying to_think._If they were going to execute him, why hadn't they done so before now? Why go through all the trouble of trying to heal him, keep him in this hospital, only to kill him?

No, the Soviets had something else in mind. They were going to torture him, a fate often worse than death, depending on the techniques. They would do it for weeks, perhaps months. They wouldn't sit still for the basic Geneva Convention crap like name, rank, serial number. Hell, they already knew his name and rank. He was a prize, he realized, and they were going to use him. They'd try to pull everything they could out of him-information about the Strategic Air Command, about "Dreamland"-the top-secret Nevada military installation run by General Brad Elliot where ideas became reality, theories became machines and weapons-or even what he knew about SlOP, the Single Integrated Operations Plan the U.S.