vinh sends the gawking guards scurrying with strident yells as he follows the two russians into the room. the soviets stand in front of rambo. the shorter of the two, lieutenant commander yati podovsk, has the slight build and unremarkable features of a bank clerk, though for a man in his forties he is in superb condition. the other, lieutenant palyushin, is another story. he is a tall broad slab of combat muscle, his black hair cut short as a scrub brush. thick and functional as state sculpture, his features cannot fill his broad, flat face.
an iron bed frame has been brought in and leaned vertically against the wall opposite the door.
rambo slams convulsively against the electric grid formed by the steel bed. his teeth are clenched as if he has tetanus.
rambo hangs from his bonds, heaving and shivering.
the transformer box shorts out under the continuous load, frying with a bright flash. the lights of the camp go out completely.
palyushin, his nose and mouth streaming blood, claws his way up the desk and reels across the dark room to podovsk. he hurls the metal frame off his superior, who groans feebly.
brewer is trussed tightly, his elbows tied together and drawn up painfully by a cord attached to a ceiling fixture. palyushin looms in front of him, holding the truck-tire bludgeon.
full shot as palyushin delivers a crippling blow to brewer's ribs. brewer cries out hoarsely and slumps.