Alaska Republik-ARC (18 page)

As they went down the steel ladder, Grisha commented, “I know that submarines don’t have guest accommodations, Captain. So who is giving up their stateroom for this trip?”

“They told me you were very perceptive, General. You and your wife will be sharing my cabin, and I apologize that it’s not larger than a standard telephone booth. But I am also impressed that once on board you addressed me as captain. Not many non-sailors are that well versed with naval protocol.”

“I owned my own boat for ten years, and it was important to me that passengers knew I was the captain. Thank you for the compliment.”

The compartment was small, but the bunk was adequate for both of them as long as they liked one another. Wing stared at the curtain that served as the only door.

“The entire crew treats that like it was made of three-inch oak, Colonel,” Captain Vandenberg said. “Including me.”

“I truly appreciate that,” she said. “Thank you for your hospitality, Captain. Now I need to sleep.” She slid the curtain closed.

37

St. Anthony Redoubt

“Lieutenant Yamato, this is
Vzvodnyi Unterofitser
Yuri Suslov.”

“Yamato looked at Colonel Romanov. “I apologize, my Russian is barely existent.”

“No apologies needed, except mine. This is Sergeant Yuri Suslov, chief aviation mechanic for St. Anthony Redoubt. The Grigorovich is his pride and joy.”

Sergeant Suslov, having popped to attention when Romanov entered the immaculate hangar, saluted Jerry.

Jerry returned the salute. “Sergeant, may I please see your aircraft?”

“The aircraft belongs to the Czar, it has been my honor to keep it mechanically fit. Of course you may see her,
Poruchik
.”

“Our guest has no Russian, Yuri, please keep it all in English.”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant, I meant no—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jerry waved. “Where’s your bird?”

The sergeant gave him a gap-toothed grin and led the way. The hangar was huge, even for Californian sensibilities. A large tarp hanging from the rafters made an effective wall across the end of the building. After edging around one end of the rank, heavy material, Jerry beheld a jewel.

The deep blue cowling blended into a polished aluminum fuselage. The three-blade propeller promised power. The windscreen spotlessly protected the cockpit, waiting for a pilot. Prominently displayed on the fuselage was the imperial twin-headed eagle, looking freshly painted in black, red, and gold.

“My God, Sergeant,” Jerry’s voice had gone husky. “She’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, sir. My men and I have put many hours into this machine.”

“May I take her up?”

“You are the flying officer shot down a few days ago, yes?”

“Yes, that’s true. I fly P-61 Eurekas.”

“Please to bring her back in the same shape?”

“I have to do a recon mission. I will do my best, I promise you.”

“I can ask no more than that.” Sergeant Suslov shouted at his men and they pushed open the great door in the front of the hangar. Others pushed the aircraft out into the sunshine resulting in reflections painful to the eyes.

Romanov thrust a map into Jerry’s hands. “This has the areas we spoke of earlier all marked for your reference. Be careful, just look around, and do not get aggressive.”

“Are the guns loaded?”

“Of course they are, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Suslov said. “If they weren’t, she wouldn’t be a war plane.” He waved Jerry toward the ladder hung over the edge of the cockpit.

“I am acutely aware that I am not wearing a parachute.” He mounted the ladder and dropped into the seat. On the other side of the cockpit a corporal helped him into his straps, tightening them firmly.

Jerry surveyed the abbreviated instrument panel, and glanced around.

The corporal gave him a sad smile. “I’m sorry about the lack of parachute, Lieutenant, there isn’t enough space; you’ll just have to bring her back.”

“I must admit, that’s a very strong incentive. What’s her top speed?”

Sergeant Suslov, standing on the ladder Jerry had used, handed him a leather helmet and a pair of goggles, and double-checked all the straps. “Approximately 410 kilometers per hour, sir.”

“What’s that in miles?”

The sergeant looked thoughtful, then said, “About 255, I think.”

“What’s her ceiling?”

“About 7,500 meters and she has a range of 600 kilometers before refueling.”

“So that’s around 25,000 feet and 370 miles,
nyet
?”

“I was led to believe you had no Russian,” Suslov said with a laugh as he slid to the ground and removed the ladder.

Jerry flipped the ignition and nodded to Sergeant Suslov who waved at the men in front of the huge engine. They immediately began walking the prop to turn the engine over. Jerry switched on the magneto and the engine coughed, sending the prop into a brief spin before stopping.

He increased the throttle and the men resumed turning the prop, displaying more skittishness than previously.

The engine popped and the prop spun lazily as the men leapt away. Jerry grinned and opened the throttle, running the engine up until the aircraft rocked in its chocks. He pulled the leather helmet tightly onto his head and eased the goggles up to his forehead. After he tightened the chinstrap, he held his fisted hands butt to butt with thumbs sticking out in opposite directions, made eye contact with the sergeant and jerked his hands apart.

Suslov repeated the gesture to his men and they simultaneously pulled the chocks away from the wheels. The plane danced forward slightly as Jerry ran the engine up to maximum revolutions.

The roar of the engine filled him and he breathed deeply, intoxicated by the power at his fingertips. After moving the rudder back and forth and his flaps up and down, he released the brakes.

The Grigorovich abruptly sped down the packed-gravel taxi strip and onto the macadam runway. Jerry slowed to turn into the wind before fully opening the throttle and releasing the brakes. The fighter hurled itself down the runway in a satisfying blaze of speed.

He grinned and pulled back on the stick. The Grigorovich roared into the air and Jerry laughed.

Damn, I’m home again!

38

20 miles east-northeast of St. Anthony Redoubt

General Taras Myslosovich felt empty. His armored column retreated east at a steady 7 km per hour. Less than a third of his original force rolled down the road with him.

Wounded soldiers lay on every flat surface of the tanks and APCs, some being held by unwounded but exhausted friends. The rear guards had to trot in order to keep pace and therefore had no idea what was behind them. Most didn’t care.

“It’s unthinkable,” he repeated. “How can the Czar allow foreign military adventurers to interfere with internal Russian matters like this?”

Lieutenant Colonel Bodanovich, his adjutant, fighting shock, hovered near complete collapse. His ruined right arm had stained the bottom of his field dressing a dark red. Myslosovich felt it his duty to keep the colonel distracted and alert.

“I think the Czar sent us to dissuade them, General,” Bodanovich said with an air of abstract discovery, “…and we failed.”

“How dare you speak to me like that?”

Bodanovich worked to focus on the old man, finally giving up. “Because you need to hear the truth or completely lose what army you have left, and the men don’t deserve that. And it no longer matters what I say because I know I am dying.”

“Don’t be absurd. You are wounded in the arm; that’s not fatal.”

“The bleeding has yet to stop, I need medical attention, and all of our combat surgeons are lying dead back there by that little stream. I’m not stupid, merely terminally flawed.”

“You make no sense whatsoever!”

The command car slowed and stopped.

Myslosovich slapped his baton on the back of the driver’s seat. “I did not order you to stop.”

“The scout car has stopped, General,” the driver said over his shoulder. “The lieutenant is walking back toward us.”

Myslosovich peered through the windscreen and visually verified the sergeant’s words. “Why has he stopped?”

The lieutenant jogged up to the general’s side window, stopped and saluted.

The general rolled his window down. “What is it, man?”

“The road had been blocked, General. Our men are clearing the obstruction as fast as they can.”

“Tell them that Lieutenant Colonel Bodanovich is dying and we need to find medical aid immediately!”

“Yes, General Myslosovich!” The lieutenant saluted and ran forward.

Myslosovich turned to his adjutant. “There! They will have us down the road in mere moments. Sergei?”

The lieutenant colonel was slumped in the seat, staring at the floor but seeing nothing.

“Oh, Christ!” Taras felt tears well up. The overwhelming feeling of grief nearly unhinged him. He angrily rubbed at his eyes.

A rap on the window brought him up short: the lieutenant again.

“There’s an aircraft, General. Perhaps you should have a look?”

Glad for the diversion, the general climbed out of his command car and accepted the proffered binoculars, peered through them.

“My God, that’s an old Grigorovich IP-1, and in splendid condition, too. I haven’t seen one of those for thirty years.”

He shoved the glasses back to the lieutenant. “Take a hard look at that. It’s something you can tell your grandchildren about—you’ll sure as hell never see another one!”

He burst into tears.

39

2,000 meters above St. Anthony Redoubt

The Grigorovich roared into a wide descending turn and First Lieutenant Jerry Yamato couldn’t suppress his grin.
Satori
, his destroyed P-61, could have outrun this old bird; even flown rings around it. All the same, this plane had heart and soul, and Jerry had fallen in love with her.

He forced his mind back to the mission. The retreating column was mere miles from Delta but inching along.

He twisted the supple craft eastward and flew over Delta again, glancing down to see if he could spot Magda. No such luck.

Approximately three miles down the road he spied the remaining Freekorps. Jerry easily recognized the scorched hulls on the tanks and APCs as his handiwork.

The retreating Russians and the Freekorps were about to meet. Remembering his first encounter with the Freekorps, he figured the Dená didn’t have to worry about the retreating Russians; they probably wouldn’t survive the introduction. Then he flew in a wide circle around Delta, admiring the braided Tanana River and the smaller Delta River feeding into it. Earlier he had flown north and saw what had to be the Salcha River also joining the Tanana.

Magda told him that the Tanana finally flowed into the Yukon some 200 miles northwest of here near the small village of Nuchalawoya, which in the local dialect meant “place where two rivers meet.” Tanana was just a few miles downriver from there.

Jerry spied the road again and flew east-southeast. After ten minutes he saw dust on the horizon and flew wide of the disturbance. He dropped down to 300 feet and aimed straight for the center of the dust cloud. At full speed he crossed the Russia-Canada Highway and saw it was packed with military equipment from tanks to troop carriers.

He waggled his wings and soldiers waved. If they had all fired at him, he would have been riddled. Pulling back on the stick, he rapidly gained altitude and looked down the road as far as he could see.

His blood went cold when he saw the second column, no more than five kilometers behind the first one. It was as large as the leading element if not bigger.

Delta doesn’t have a chance!

He turned and flew a straight line back to St. Anthony. With all of these visitors, people had to be warned.

40

Delta, Russian Amerika

“Is the hospital all packed?” Bodecia’s voice sounded tight as a fiddle string, Magda thought.

“Yes, Mother. And all the medical personnel have already moved everything up to the Refuge. Do you have everything from the house that you can’t live without?”

Bodecia stopped and looked at her with an expression of surprise. “Of course not! How can I save the afternoon light coming through my kitchen window, or the doorjamb where we measured your growth for fourteen years?

“I have a lifetime of memories in that house, and most of them are good. How can I save them”—she tapped the side of her head—“except up here?”

Magda wondered if her mother knew she was crying. Her own tears startled her and they hugged each other and wept. While she stood there holding her mother, she wondered when the older woman had become so small and thin. Magda suddenly felt fiercely protective and angry at the circumstances causing so much upheaval and turmoil.

“We’ll get through this, Mother. We both have years of memories ahead of us. What’s happening right now will be a strong one.”

“Don’t forget your sewing machine,” Bodecia said with a sniff. “A girl who’s looking to get married needs a sewing machine.”

“I’m not ‘looking to get married,’ Mother.”

“Oh, save it for later; just make sure you don’t forget it.”

“I won’t.” She watched her mother hurry off to direct someone to do something, and she smiled. Her sewing machine was one of the first items she had put in the cart for the trip up the mountain.

She saw Jerry on the far side of the square, just leaving the Russian compound. He peered around at the people rushing about. When he finally looked in her direction, she waved, and was rewarded with his smile and instant motion toward her.

When he reached her, he took her in his arms and kissed her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to her, and she kissed him back. He held her tightly to him for a long moment.

“Okay,” he said, dropping his hands to his side and staring at her with his puzzled-boy expression. “What’s the Refuge?”

“I’ll tell you while we’re driving our truck there. We’re completely loaded and ready to go.”

They moved swiftly through the village to the house where she had spent her entire life. The Russian truck Bodecia had liberated sat waiting.

“You said loaded; that thing is overloaded! If we hit a good sized bump, we’ll break an axle.”