Berlin Encounter by T. Davis Bunn Page A

papers were supposed to keep him from being looted, yet aware that the sergeant with his unwavering gaze was an unknown force. The Russian stood behind the political officer, one hand continually massaging the stock of his rifle.
    The political officer’s attention remained distracted by the growing uproar from the refugees. He gave the truck’s interior a cursory inspection and was about ready to wave Jake onward when the sergeant spoke for the first time. His guttural voice was barely audible over the din, but the officer stiffened, turned toward the other man, started to retort, then changed his mind. “Unload,” he ordered Jake.
    He could not help but gape. “All of it?”
    “Everything.” He was clearly as irritated by the order as Jake.
    “But that could take an hour,” Jake protested. “More. And we have a delivery to make in Berlin. You saw my papers. They—”
    “Don’t question my orders,” the officer snapped. “Get started.”
    Resigned, Jake kept his eyes from the watchful sergeant and the itchy trigger finger as he walked to the open window and told the blond scientist, “Start unloading the truck.”
    But before Jake could walk back and lower the rear gate, Hechter had stormed around the truck, stiff and upright angry in his superiority. He raised his chin, looked down at Jake, and snapped, “Now see here, Co—”
    Suddenly all the rage and the tension and the fatigue bundled together in his gut, raging through him like a freak ball of static energy. In one continuous motion Jake swept around and landed a single backhanded blow to the side of the blond man’s head. The blast was strong enough to lift Hechter up and spin him around and slam him into the side of the truck. He clutched feebly at the canvas as he sank slowly to his knees.
    Jake stood over him, his chest heaving, the rage flowing through him like waves. Colonel. There they were, surrounded by danger and foes on every side. And still the fool had almost said the word. “Don’t you ever question another of my orders,” Jake rasped, his voice alien to his own ears. “The war is over. You and your kind lost, engineer. If you want to live, you work. You speak when I tell you to speak. Otherwise you stay silent, and you obey. ”
    Jake waited, aching to have the man stand and try to give him more of that cold superior lip, just try. But the scientist dragged the back of one trembling hand across his face, inspected the blood, and stayed there on his knees.
    The rage still roaring in his ears, Jake bent over and with one hand lifted the man as though he were a puppet. His other fist cocked back for a final blow. Hechter cowered, his bloody hand raised in abject defense.
    Seeing the man crouch like that drained the fight from Jake. He unclenched his fist, stepped back, and rasped, “Now go unload the truck.”
    Jake turned around, only to find the sergeant grinning openly. Approval shone from those dark hard eyes. This was something the soldier could understand. Another man who maintained discipline with his fists. The guard nodded once, then stopped Hechter’s shaky progress toward the truck’s back with the gun barrel. He spoke more of those guttural words, then turned away.
    “You may go,” the political officer muttered, his own gaze full of cautious confusion.
    Jake looked from one to the other, then motioned with his head for Hechter to climb back on board. He then walked to the back of the truck, pulled one of the grain sacks toward him, opened the neck, and stuck one hand inside up to the elbow. He fished out two hidden bottles, retied the neck, then walked over to the soldier.
    He held them out, one in each hand, and met the fathomless gaze straight on.
    The gap-toothed grin reappeared. “Wodka?”
    “The best money can buy,” Jake confirmed in German.
    The sergeant shouldered his gun and took the bottles, his unshaven face split almost in two. “Da, da, na zadrovie.”
    “Anytime, mate,” Jake replied, and started