The Last Chamber

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The tension in the room could have been cut with a spoon. Stale cigarette smoke hung thick in the musty air.

“Where was this picture taken?” A barrel-chested, middle-aged officer demanded in a gruff voice. The man’s head was rimmed with graying brown hair, his portly face red from stress and vodka.

The young Soviet pilot looked up at him from a chair at a small wooden table. The pilot was in his low to mid-twenties. His skin was still smooth and healthy. He sported the short haircut of the military, piercing blue eyes, and a strong jaw line with a little dimple in the center of his chin. Sincere confusion filled his face.

“I don’t know, Sir,” he said in mumbled Russian. He was clearly afraid of the higher ranking officer.

“How can you not know?” the large man raged, pounding his fist on the table. The action caused the pilot to jump in his seat.

“We have taken thousands of pictures, comrade,” he explained. “It is our job to bring them back for analysis. It is nearly impossible for us to remember the exact location of every photograph.” His lips trembled as he finished the sentence.

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