Alaska Republik-ARC

Alaska Republik – ARC

Stoney Compton

Advance Reader Copy

Unproofed

BAEN BOOKS by STONEY COMPTON

Russian Amerika

Alaska Republik

Alaska Republik

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Stoney Compton

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 978-1-4391-3417-7

Cover art by Kurt Miller

First printing, March 2011

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

tk

Printed in the United States of America

Prolog

68 miles south of Delta, Russian Amerika

First Lieutenant Gerald Yamato found himself in the twin-thirty crossfire from three tanks. He felt
Satori
shudder with each hit, and there were a lot of hits. For a blissful moment he thought he could stay in the fight.

Then his controls went mushy and the solid stream of smoke from his engine compartment burst into bright flame washing back over his cockpit. Another minute in this situation would kill him. He immediately ejected the canopy and rolled the bird over; after jerking his seat restraints free, he threw himself into the smoky wake of his doomed P-61 that screamed out of control down into the awesome canyon a thousand feet below the battle.

Lieutenant Yamato wrenched his chute around so he could see as much of the battle as possible. While he watched, one of the Eureka fighters suddenly flamed, trailed smoke and exploded.

“Looked like Christenson’s ship,” he said to himself, feeling his heart lurch. Mike was the squadron mascot, a classic brilliant, self-doomed fuck-off.

A tree drifted past and he realized he had better pay mind to his own predicament, for him the fight with the Russians was over. An explosion from below pulled his attention to the bottom of the valley. His fighter had impacted at the edge of a river.

Someone had claimed it was the Delta River.

The wind pushed him farther down the huge canyon. The artist in him took a quick moment to appreciate the majestic beauty of the valley. The miles-long ridge on the far side rippled in shades of reds, pinks, greens, and even light purples, like a Technicolor layer cake cut and toppled on its side.

Abruptly the pragmatic flier took over and he worked his chute in order to come down near the river, rather than hang up in the middle of the forest bordering both sides of the obviously swift-moving water. Even before the ground rushed up and grabbed him, he wondered what equipment he had and would it be enough?

His landing was textbook: take the shock with his feet together and collapse in a rolling tumble. Unlike the field back in the Napa Valley, this one was covered with boulders and rocks the size of his head.

He landed on a small boulder and his feet slid off to the right. He threw his arm out and instantly jerked it to his side again—he couldn’t risk breaking it. His shoulder took the majority of the impact and immediately went numb. Jerry threw out his hands and stopped himself.

The parachute settled on the rocky floodplain, began to fill from the constant breeze moving alongside the water. He pushed himself up and jerked the shroud lines, collapsing the silk. His shoulder hurt like hell but he swiftly pulled the lines into a pile at his feet.

Just as his hands touched the silk canopy, he heard a massive explosion from above. He looked up the incredible slope. At first he saw nothing but smoke pouring down from the road on the canyon rim. Then he saw awful movement.

At least nine Russian tanks avalanched down the steep wall, rotating in deadly decent, thunderously smashing flat the rocks and trees before crashing into each other or bouncing farther out into the canyon. Huge boulders and entire swaths of trees boiled in a descending dust-shrouded dance of death.

Behind the maelstrom tumbled a boulder larger than any tank, gouging out sixty-meter-wide swaths of mountainside before spinning out into the air again, following the doomed Russian war machines into the abyss.

***

A multitude of conflicting thoughts ran through his head as he waited for his companions to finish their preparations for the impending trek. First Lieutenant Jerry Yamato realized he had run out of options. As an officer of the Republic of California Air Force his first duty was to complete his mission.

Well, getting shot down in combat certainly ended my mission
.

He would never forget the vivid memory of enemy fire hitting
Satori
and the sudden lack of control as the P-61 Eureka transformed from sleek fighter plane into burning debris falling out of the sky. Rolling the bird over so he could open the canopy, jerk his seat harness free, and drop out of the cockpit through the flames roaring back from the engine had taken less time to do than it would to describe the actions.

The ache in his shoulder attested to his poor landing.

Of course there had to be boulders all over the ground!

His other choice had been to land in the fast-flowing river that threaded through the boulder field. Parachuting into moving water became a recipe for disaster. He accepted the aching shoulder as a reminder of choosing the lesser of two evils.

His second duty was to return to his command as soon as possible. Well, that was finally about to commence. However he hadn’t counted on being attacked by a survivor of the Russian armored column that his squadron had all but destroyed.

How a man could fall into a valley along with tanks and armored personnel carriers and still live loomed nearly beyond belief. Sergeant Cermanivich had not only survived the fall, he had also tried to kill Jerry with a rifle. Jerry’s aim with his service .45 kept the sergeant alive.

Jerry had aimed at the man’s head and hit the rifle in his hands instead. The blow had knocked the Russian sergeant off the rock on which he sat and in his condition took him out of the fight.

Or took the fight out of him
, Jerry mused.

Then things really got complicated. Jerry had an unconscious prisoner who didn’t look as if he could live another hour and he stood in the middle of an unknown, vast wilderness that happened to be enemy territory. The 117th Fighter Squadron had flown many miles over Russian Amerika and the only sign of human habitation or toil had been the road over the mountain pass where they attacked the Russian armor.

To be honest, he had considered putting the damaged Russian out of his misery. For all Jerry knew, this son of a bitch might have shot him down! Killing a man in combat could be considered duty; putting a bullet through the brain of an unconscious man from three feet away seemed like murder.

So he woke the soldier and met Sergeant Rudi Cermanivich, who had been the gunner on the lead tank—which meant he
was
the son of a bitch who shot Jerry down!—and when he tried to stand he passed out again. With a simple litter, Jerry dragged the mercifully unconscious sergeant back to where he had left his parachute and other gear. After a very long, exhausting time he thought he should be in the right area, but his gear had vanished.

Suddenly a beautiful woman appeared who had enough words of English to ask if he spoke Russian. And then he saw stars when a rock hit the back of his head. Once he regained consciousness, tied securely with his own parachute lines, he met Pelagian, a six-foot-tall, muscular man who had the blood of numerous races flowing through his veins.

Piercing blue eyes and skin the shade of coffee with cream made for a very arresting figure. His wife, Bodecia, stood all of five feet and with her chiseled beauty, looked mostly of Alaska Native ancestry. The beautiful woman who had rendered him witless in more ways than one was Magda, their daughter.

After Jerry and Rudi both explained their presence, Pelagian had freed them and offered them assistance. A great weight lifted off Jerry’s shoulders at that moment. He and the sergeant just might live through this after all.

When he explained he had been shot down while fighting in aid of a Dená revolution against the Czar the effect on his rescuers had been electric. It seemed they were all on the same side, except Rudi, of course. Pelagian and his family had been in the bush for months and knew nothing of the battles fought between Russia and the Dená Separatist Movement and their allies.

Jerry wondered if these people could really get him and Sergeant Rudi Cermanivich out of the wilderness alive. He glanced at Magda who happened to look at him at the same time. Interest shone in her eyes and that buoyed him immensely.

Well, I joined the Air Force for adventure. Mother always told me to be careful of what I wished for.

1

Pelagian felt relief that he didn’t have to kill the Californian. However, he maintained a close, unobtrusive watch on Lieutenant Jerry Yamato. So far the young pilot from the Republic of California impressed him. He could have killed the Russian tanker sergeant and it would have been the fortunes of war. The sergeant would not have hesitated, in fact had twice tried his best to kill the pilot and not succeeded. If he had there would have been two bodies to bury out here in Rainbow Valley.

Instead, they were all busy rigging a litter to haul Sergeant Rudi Cermanivich to Delta where he could get decent care without being jostled all over the length and breadth of Russian Amerika. Sixty-odd miles were nothing for a healthy person, a few days walk. But carrying a litter through what had suddenly become enemy territory might evolve into a much larger challenge.

Lieutenant Yamato had told them about the Dená revolution against the Czar, about the Battle of Chena, and the death of Slayer-of-Men, Pelagian’s good friend and cousin to Bodecia. His wife had not shown much emotion, but he knew what to look for on the face of the woman he loved. She had taken the news of the death hard, rock hard, and he pitied any Russian soldier who fell into her gunsights.

Along with their daughter, Magda, they had watched the sleek warplanes attack an unseen Russian armored column far above them on Baranov Pass near Rainbow Ridge. At the beginning there had been fifteen aircraft diving and firing. Only seven flew away to the north after the shooting stopped.

They had witnessed the destruction of three of the planes, including Lieutenant Yamato’s; the fourth had been destroyed out of their line of sight. Having been a military pilot in another time and another place, Pelagian knew how close the lieutenant must have been to the men who died back there. He would carefully choose the time to discuss the battle with Lieutenant Yamato.

Magda moved around Jerry like a cat, curious but very wary. Pelagian didn’t dwell on that aspect of the situation since it didn’t involve him. He knew his daughter could handle herself, physically and emotionally.

Bodecia finished testing the knots on the litter and gave him a long look and a sharp nod.

“Let’s go to Delta,” he said, and slipped into the harness bearing the weight of the front of the litter.

***

Jerry Yamato stumbled again. How far had they walked? How long had they been walking? The litter bearing the wounded Russian tanker sergeant had to weigh two hundred pounds at the very least.

Pelagian wore the parachute harness bearing the front weight of the litter as if it were a light cloak. The rope sling in the back cut into Jerry’s shoulders and he gripped the end of the litter, constantly lifting it with raw, blistering hands to ease the burden on his aching shoulders. He could barely move but he gamely continued.

Following the man wasn’t difficult; Pelagian inspired confidence.

The dogs, bearing a goodly share of the load tied to a pole between them, which supported the right and left sides of the litter, seemed as fresh as when they started the journey.

Bodecia, Pelagian’s small, sharply handsome, shamanistic wife, and Magda, their stunningly beautiful daughter, both carried heavy packs with the air of being on an amble in the park. Jerry refused to whine about his condition. He stumbled again.

Pelagian said, “This is a good place.” And everybody stopped moving. The women dropped their packs and immediately unslung the dogs from the litter.

The dogs wandered around and thoroughly marked the area. Pelagian nodded to Jerry and they lowered the litter to the ground. For the first time Jerry noticed the clear creek running parallel to their route, and the high grassy meadow surrounded by mountains in which they found themselves. Back and legs aching, he lowered himself to the ground and lay down.

“Lieutenant, wake up. You must eat.” Magda’s voice ended Jerry’s dream and his eyes popped open. She knelt next to him, holding out a wooden bowl full of steaming, savory smelling food.