Hero of the Appalachians

(CW: dialogue, mature themes, tobacco use, alcohol use, violence)

           “You sure I am safe? They are not finding me?” Elena asked in her best English, which she’d studied since age thirteen. She wiped sweat from her brow, improbable with the driver’s window open, blasting cold air through the cabin of the Ford LTD. It was the 1974 model, they said, but that year was still two months away. These men wanted to impress her, obviously. Suits, ties, shined shoes, and suppressed Uzis slung underneath their jackets.

           “You did your part,” said Stan over his shoulder. “Let us do ours. Sit back and relax. You want another cigarette?”

           She reached forward and took one, insisting she light it herself while Stan adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses.

           “Why he is Mario Andretti-driving if there is no trouble?” she asked.

           “Elena, we like to be careful.” Stan was the boss of the team that took over her security when she got to America. He always spoke as if to a child old enough to know about consequences. “Frank can relax and concentrate on the road as long as you stay calm. Okay?”

           Elena had sucked down Pantoprazole and Alka Seltzer ever since her handler picked her up three weeks ago; none of it settled her nervous stomach. Seeing the red dot halfway down the staircase, on the right side, at the Lubyanka subway station felt like Stalin himself trained a spotlight over her that singled her out among all the commuters as a traitor. She almost vomited as soon as she saw it. She wanted nothing more that day than to go home, but if she did, she was dead. She did like she was instructed: keep going downstairs, take the red line to Sportivnaya Station. Then cross October 10th Street and walk north. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. And act natural.

           As soon as she hit the sidewalk on 10 October, her American handler and a couple of guys snatched her and shoved her inside a van and drove her to God knows where. She lost track of time. She was out of Moscow that evening, and spent a series of nights in safe houses between long drives. At one point, they put her in a box underneath a lorry and told her to keep quiet. She almost panicked when the metal compartment filled with exhaust fumes, but when the truck got moving, the air was clean, but cold. They never told her where she was for the whole time, but when they pulled her out of the box, they gave her an American cigarette and a cold Berliner Kindl. She’d never had such good beer.

           One more car ride had her at the American base in Frankfurt, where she boarded a plane for another military station in North Carolina, and her anxiety went away. When they landed, they gave her a pack of Marlboros, some new clothes, and put her in a car heading west for the mountains. Elena’s uncle had raised her when her parents died. He was a Hero of the Soviet Union from the Great Patriotic War. He had been banished to Siberia when she was ten, supposedly for disloyalty. She never knew the real reason. When they ransacked the house, they even took their medal back. She couldn’t do anything for him, and he died there a few years ago.

           Years later, Elena, apparently cleaned of her uncle’s sins, took a job as a secretary for a colonel in the Ministry of Defense. Seeing his gold star on a red ribbon evoked images of her uncle, alone and helpless. The pig-faced man interpreted her presence as romantic interest. After he tore her blouse, she never again closed the door when she entered his office. The next day, she took a paper from his desk containing the specifications of a concept that would become the feared T-72 main battle tank, and passed it on the sly to an American she had seen entering his embassy. They made her a full-time spy; she fed them serious secrets for a couple of years, until something went wrong. The CIA never told her what that was. At least they got her out.

            Frank picked up speed down a two-lane road that cut through the southern Appalachians in a blur of autumn yellows, oranges, and reds in the bright sunlight. Stan, if that was his real name, barked into the radio first, and then at Frank, and Frank stomped the pedal harder, bouncing Elena all over the back seat. With a dry mouth and pounding temples from last night’s binge, she would have given anything for a place to vomit and clean herself up.

           “Elena, get ready.” Stan turned around and rested both elbows over the seat back. “In a few minutes, you and Jack,” the CIA man riding in back with her, “will get out of the car. You will hide in the ditch for a few minutes, and then you will go up the hill and go inside a cabin up there, and wait for us.”

           “I am now dead!” Elena forced herself to keep the cheeseburger down. “I do everything you say, and today I still die!”

           “Jack will be with you the whole time. Nothing will happen to you. This is just a precaution. I guarantee you are safe.”

           Frank went through a couple of switchbacks, and on the second one he screeched to a halt. Jack grabbed Elena’s arm and pulled her out of the back behind her. No words, just force. It was the Soviet way, too. The door hadn’t even closed before Frank stomped the gas and was off again.

           Jack pushed her into a ditch, and flattened her with his body. She tried to get up onto her elbows and he pushed her head down again, squashing the side of her face into the mud and holding it there. During one of the trips, she went into the wrong room in a bungalow where they stashed her. Jack, with his bare back arched and with a straight arm, held a woman’s head down like that, on a bed, while he stood and worked her from behind, saying “Jesus.” She didn’t stick around for the show. Through the weeds, Elena wasn’t sure what roared by, but Jack was tense.

           “You crushing me.”

           “Shut up and lay still.” Jack had told the dark-eyed woman the same thing.

           Then another car flew past, a flash of blue. Jack laid on top of her for a while. She squirmed and he put all his weight on her. He was a shoe; she was a bug.

           “Quit moving.” His Uzi was in his hand, laying flat on the mud, gravel, and bottle caps that lined the ditch. Jack laid on top of her for a while, so still, she wondered if he was holding his breath. Just when Elena thought he was going into a honeymoon mode he did a push-up, and rolled off to the side. After a quick scan of the hill, and the road again, he took Elena by the wrist. He said, “Come on,” as he jerked her behind him. One of her grey, low-heeled pumps slipped off, but she dared not stop. Jack would have pulled her arm out of the socket if she didn’t keep up.

           “Where we are going?”

           “There’s a safe house at the top. Keep moving, one foot in front of the other. If I tell you to get down, lay flat. Versteh?”

           “That’s German language.” None of the Americans, even the ones in Moscow, ever spoke to her in Russian. She doubted that they’d ever have recruited her if she didn’t know English.

           “You know what I mean.” The hill got steeper, and Jack shoved her in front of him, keeping her there until they got to the top, three or four stories above the road. Just before the crest, he forced her to the ground again, and she bumped her chin on a rock.

           “Shit.” Her face was wet; a couple red stars marked the shale beneath her face.

           “Shut up.” Jack was flat on the ground next to her. He lifted his torso about six inches, enough to see over the top. “The cabin’s not far. I’m going to go check it out. Stay here.”

           “Jack.”

           “What.”

           “Give me gun.”

           “I’ve only got one.”

           “You have one on your leg, by foot.” Elena was too tired to remember the vocabulary.

           Jack rolled onto his side. His eyes were lighter, as if Elena flipped a switch and the toy became human.

           “You saw that?”

           “If something happens, I am dead. Give me.” She stretched out her arm, palm open. “Please.”

           Jack fumbled with the leather strap, and handed over the half-kilo hunk of metal.

           “It’s ready to go. And don’t tell anyone I did this.” He chambered a round and showed her the safety catch, still on. Then he scrambled up over the top of the hill, out of view.

           The air was hot, sun beating down on the hillside. Elena strained the humid air through her teeth. She was afraid she was making too much noise, gasping for whatever oxygen remained on this mountain. A dab with her wrist suggested her chin was clotting now, and she wiped some of the dirt off her face. She took deep breaths, and wished Jack would hurry. If the KGB found her, they’d drug her and cart her up to D.C., to the Soviet Embassy. Maybe the rezident would have something special for her, too. Then he’d put her on the next Aeroflot heading for Mother Russia.

           Elena fumbled with a button and dropped the magazine--six bullets were in there, for a total of seven. She re-inserted the clip, flattened herself against the weedy rock, and waited.

           Her handler took her watch in Moscow, when they put her in the van, so she had no idea how long Jack had been gone. She wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know where the house was. Elena felt stupid trusting these men. These guys were businesslike in the car, and on the plane, when anyone--citizens, they called them--were watching. After that, in the hotel rooms, the masks came off and the bottles came out. Then they were nicer; she could have all the vodka and cigarettes she wanted. Despite their hungry looks at the end of the day, unlike the colonel, they never touched her. At least that was something.

           Elena’s breathing slowed, and a breeze cooled her sweat-soaked blouse. Still no Jack, so she crawled on bruised elbows and knees up towards the summit. She tried a push-up move like he did, and almost crushed her finger with the pistol. She shouldn’t have had her finger inside the trigger guard, but at least the safety was still on. She lay on her back, pistol on her stomach, listening to the wind as it blew softly over her. Now she felt tired. Maybe she closed her eyes; she tried not to, but she wasn’t sure.

           Two shots rang out, followed by a rhythm like a compressed air pump. Then, nothing but the breeze and a couple of blackbirds cawing.

           At some point, she was going to have to take a look. How else would she know if things were okay? Jack didn’t tell her what to do if things went wrong. These guys were so confident. She felt so stupid.

           Elena inched closer to the top, careful to keep her black hair below the crest. The wind whipped a little more here, alternating gusts with voices not too far off. Maybe…, no, the voices were definitely Russian.

           Another shot rang out, and then it was just the wind.

           Elena held the handgun with both hands. Going back down the hill wasn’t much of an option. Plenty of grass, but nothing to stop a bullet. She had to take a look, and if it came to it, she had six shots. She’d keep number seven for herself. She closed her eyes tightly. Her uncle would’ve done the same thing. The report said natural causes, but an old friend in the know said they shot him in the back of the head. If he had a chance, he would have fought back. Stalin’s specter made you think it was futile, but her uncle would have said that’s what men do.

           Elena crawled across the dirt until she was at the place where Jack went over. She laid her head flat on the side, temple against the cold rock, as she slowly edged up behind a clump of weeds. Two men with handguns, wearing jeans and button-down shirts were patrolling towards her, chattering in her mother tongue. Behind them, Elena couldn’t believe, was the cabin.

           The men scanned the area wildly, not focusing on anything. One said something to the other as the wind rushed across Elena’s ears, and he disappeared into the edge of the woods off to the right of the rundown cottage. The other man stalked in Elena’s direction, unable to fix his eyes on anything in particular. When he was about ten meters away, he stopped next to a pine tree with a wide trunk and put his gun in his pocket. He checked the wind’s direction and then put his back to it--and Elena, too. He faced the tree and unzipped his fly.

           Elena crouched and moved when the breeze blew leaves across the land. When she was about three meters away, the breeze stopped. The man was done, too, and was starting to put himself away when he turned around and almost walked into Elena. He froze.

           Elena pulled the trigger, but nothing happened, not even a click. She brought it in for a closer look and the man rushed her and reached for her pistol and caught her wrist instead. Elena tripped and fell backwards into a sitting position, legs splayed in front of her. The Soviet still had hold of her arm, and used his other hand to wrench away the gun, almost breaking her finger.

           “Miki!” yelled the man in Russian. “I’ve got her.” He told Elena to get on her feet. When she did, he pushed her limping towards the cabin. She was tempted to kick off the other shoe, but the tiny rocks and twigs were making a mess of her foot, and she’d rather have something whole to balance herself before her executioner.

           “Miki?” Still no response. The wind picked up again. The Soviet grabbed her collar and twisted the fabric, holding her close up against him. Elena gagged as the man walked her in front of him, towards the treeline where Miki went. She squinted and turned her head away from the blazing sun.

           The Russian yelled and fired three shots towards the shadowy pines in front of them. Then came the air pump and a flash of light. A blow to the shoulder knocked her backwards into her captor, and she dropped to the ground. He fired again at the source. After another pup-pup-pup, he was on the ground next to her, eyes open, white shirt turning a bright, glistening red. The wind halted, and her nostrils filled with the tang of cordite.

           Then the pain came, worse than anything she’d ever felt. Her hand was wet, real wet, and she didn’t want to look. If she could move, she’d run, maybe find the gun and take off. Instead, she lay there, frozen, waiting for the crunching footsteps to close in on her.

           “Elena, are you okay?” Jack knelt over her. His head wore the corona of the sun behind him, briefly. She rolled over and barfed on his shoes. “Jesus, Elena.”

           “Sorry,” she said. She was sorry for a lot. Sorry for her uncle, for getting herself into this mess, even for the dark-eyed girl. She started to cry and Jack got her to her feet, and half-carried her to the cabin. By the door, he leaned her up against the log wall.

           “Stand up here,” he whispered. “Don’t sit--Elena, are you listening?”

           “Mmmh.” The pain blinded her, and she got sick again, and collapsed into her puddle of muck.

           “Jesus,” Jack said. He checked the knob, it was unlocked. He burst into the dark room.

           Elena’s ringing ears played tricks on her, teasing her with the blowing wind that came and went, giving small samples of indiscernible sounds. Maybe it was the Uzi, or an engine, or nothing at all. Shoes scuffed across a wood floor in between heartbeats pulsing blood into her throbbing shoulder and ears. Every time she touched her injury, she almost passed out, so she settled for clutching the torn fabric in a bunch. Her eyelids were heavy.

           After more footsteps and a creaking hinge, a shadow fell across her. Someone picked her up and brought her inside and sat her on a wooden chair at a rickety table. She rasped as another chair scraped the floor next to her. A greasy aroma had her retching again, but there was nothing left to come up.

           “Jesus.”

           She opened her eyes as Jack shook out a match and set a smoking kerosene lantern on the table in front of her.

           “Try not to fall over,” he said. “As soon as I patch you up, we’ve got to get moving. Stan’ll be here soon.”

Elena groaned and lay her forehead on the table. Bits of dirt and who knows what else left imprints in her skin as she lost consciousness.