Alaska Republik-ARC (19 page)

“You’ll have to drive slow, Lieutenant Yamato,” she said sweetly, “and try to remember you’re not in California any longer.”

“Haven’t had trouble keeping that one straight,” he said.

Jerry pulled the driver’s door open and found Rudi sitting in the seat, a pistol in his hand.

“What do you—oh, is you, Lieutenant. Are we to leave now?”

“How are you feeling, Rudi?” Jerry asked.

“Not good as unused, but nearly there, I am told.”

“Are you riding up to the Refuge with us?” Magda asked.

“Yes, if I may.”

“Great. Scoot over to the window; three of us will fit in here.”

Jerry eased the truck forward. The chassis groaned with the load but the engine didn’t falter. He pulled in behind a Russian Army lorry and maintained a thirty-foot distance.

“So where is it we’re going?” he asked.

“The Dená Separatist Movement has been around for about twenty years, but didn’t really have any muscle until about five years ago.” She noticed both men listened carefully. “That’s when my mother, father, and I, joined.”

“You are revolutionary, Magda?” Rudi asked with a trace of amazement in his voice.

“Yeah, I am, okay?”

“Of course, but you are young, and to be five-year veteran already gives me astonishment.”

“Yeah,” Jerry said. “I’ll drink to that.”

“I’m a sergeant of scouts, for what it’s worth. Anyway, we knew the day would come, that this day would come, and we’d have to leave the village or be destroyed. So we built the Refuge.”

“How long did it take before you finished?” Jerry asked, easing the truck through a series of potholes.

“Who said we finished? There is still much to be done before it’s comfortable, but it’s serviceable right now.”

“Is like a redoubt?” Rudi asked.

“The village council knew about this large cave and kept it a secret from outsiders, like the Russian Army or any
promyshlenniks
who might be passing through.”

“Any what?” Jerry blurted.

“Ah,
promyshlenniks
,” Rudi said. “They are hunters and woodsmen, very brave and adventure-seeking. Russian children read tales about them.”

“Which are all lies,” Magda said, putting daggers into her words. “They’re a bunch of filthy, drunken rapists who think they own Alaska and everything in it. They lie, steal, cheat, and would sell their mothers to the Spanish if it meant they wouldn’t have to do honest labor for a week. They’re lazy cowards who will kill you for your shoes and you must never trust one of them.”

“Whew,” Jerry said.

“I was approaching that part,” Rudi said in a hurt tone. “But she is affirmative. Worse than Russian Army I think.”

Magda patted his knee. “Much worse, and not as good in a fight.”

Rudi preened and looked around. “We climb into mountains?”

Magda stared through the windscreen, trying to see the land as if it were the first time. Spruce and birch covered the hillside at this elevation, although the largest spruce were no more than four meters in height and were probably 200 years old.

Within another hundred meters of elevation, the trees thinned to solitary stalwarts claw-rooted into the rocky soil and bent away from the prevailing wind. Brush and lichen grew thick between the increasing number of rocks and boulders. The constant breeze grew stronger.

“We worked hard on this redoubt. There’s probably something like this near all the Dená villages.”

“You will win this war.” Rudi spoke with the conviction of a man who has just comprehended universal truth.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Russian high command believes you are all wastrel rabble, to use as basic labor but for nothing complicated. They have no idea what they fight.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Cermanivich. That is the finest compliment I have ever received.”

Rudi shrugged. “You are welcome. Is true.”

The truck slowed as it climbed up the increasing slope. Jerry pushed the accelerator against the firewall and held it there.

“This crate won’t last much longer,” Jerry said.

“It doesn’t have to—look.” She pointed ahead to where the lorry had suddenly found level ground and turned between two large boulders. Their truck gained power when it leveled out and Jerry had to hit the brakes to keep from rear-ending the lorry. Magda watched Jerry’s mouth drop open when the lorry drove into the mountain.

“Holy Shasta, that’s one hell of a cave!” Jerry said.

“It’ll hold the whole village comfortably.”

“What about the Russians?” Rudi asked.

“They’ll fit, too, but it will be a bit of a squeeze.”

“This is all well and good, but how could you defend it?” Jerry asked.

Magda smiled and looked at Rudi. “Did you see them?”

“The gun emplacements?
Da.
I made count of four.”

“You missed two. I didn’t expect Mr. Flyboy here”—she bumped her head on Jerry’s shoulder—“to spot them. But you’ve had a lifetime in armored divisions. I’m glad you missed two of them; that means we did it right.”

Jerry looked dour.

“Hey, did I hurt your feelings?”

“There’s no place to land a plane.”

“You mean the Grigorovich?”

“Yeah. They’ll destroy it or steal it.”

A man with a hand torch waved them to a parking spot near the cave wall. Jerry parked the truck and switched off the engine. The area thundered as other vehicles followed them into the cavern. Sound bounced off the rock walls to collide with itself.

“Jeez, I don’t know how much of this I can take.” Jerry put his hands over his ears.

“You flew an open cockpit aircraft this morning. I’ve been up in those things—they’re deafening.”

He grinned at her. “Well, next time wear a helmet. The one I used was great.”

“Pardon for my asking,” Rudi said, “but what now?”

“Now we set the trap,” she said with as much authority as she could muster.

41

Delta, Russian Amerika

“Something about this bothers me,” Jerry said.

“What would that be?” Doyon Isaac asked.

“I’m flying under false colors; what if they shoot me down?”

“You probably wouldn’t survive the crash, but I don’t think that’s your point, is it?”

“They could hang me as a spy.”

“Lieutenant,” Colonel Romanov said, rising from the couch in the corner. “You are still wearing your uniform. If you are ordered up in a craft with the wrong insignia, that’s merely the fortunes of war—we use what we can get. You couldn’t be mistaken for a spy.”

“I sure hope you’re right, Colonel.” He faced Doyon Isaac again. “I’m ready to go.”

“Remember,” Colonel Romanov said, “don’t engage them, just piss on their boots.”

“Yes, sir.” Jerry zipped up his flight suit and, carrying his helmet under his arm, walked out to the command car waiting for him. They drove out onto the airfield where Sergeant Suslov and his mechanics waited next to the Grigorovich.

As soon as he had climbed out of the truck at Refuge, a Russian lieutenant had given him orders to return to the redoubt: he had a mission to fly. It had taken him twenty minutes to walk back down the mountain, waving at people and vehicles streaming up from Delta. He still only counted three gun emplacements.

Jerry thanked the driver and got out of the command car. When he turned to the sergeant and the ground crew, they all stiffened to attention and saluted. Jerry returned the salute.

“Is she ready?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Yamato,” Suslov said. “Where did they tell you to land after the mission?”

“Chena, if I can. Fort Yukon, if I can’t.”

“They will think you are the enemy. They might shoot you down.”

“I’ll lower my landing gear when they approach; that’s the sign of surrender.”

The crew frowned together as they considered his words.

“Then I’ll be back with modern warplanes to help defeat the enemy.”

“Not all are enemy, Lieutenant Yamato,” one of the corporals said. “My brother is a conscripted gunner with the Fifth Armored en route from Tetlin. I would hate to bury him.”

“Tell him how good you have it. He might join us.”

“I hope he is offered the opportunity.”

Jerry climbed up into the cockpit and went through his brief preflight. In moments they had the engine turning at full revolutions. Two minutes later he soared into the sky.

After climbing to a thousand meters, he surveyed the ribbon of road. In the distance to the northwest, he saw the dust cloud of the retreating army headed toward Delta. To the south he saw the lead column no more than ten kilometers from St. Anthony Redoubt.

He angled over and caught the approaching armored column from Tetlin in his sights; in moments, he tore down through the sky at the leading elements. Somewhere in his head he knew this was a sucker punch, but when you’re outnumbered, you try to even up the fight.

The Russian scout car stopped to see what he was going to do. He zoomed over the car and bored toward the main column at full speed. At 500 meters, he began firing.

42

RustyCan near Delta

“We are being attacked by an antique?” Lieutenant Colonel Samedi Janeki shrieked at his driver. “Order them to shoot that damned thing down!”

“Yes, Colonel.” As the driver radioed back to the main column, heavy fire erupted behind the car.

“Good. They didn’t wait.”

The Grigorovich finished its strafing run and roared back up into the sky. It didn’t seem to be hit, nor did it return.

“I want an officers’ meeting in ten minutes. Have an appropriate space created.”

The driver snapped orders into his microphone, passing coronaries on down the chain of command. He pulled the car over to the side of the road and parked.

“Would the colonel prefer tea or vodka at the meeting?”

“Provide both, let them choose. Leave me be now; you make the decisions for ten minutes.”

The driver grinned and slid the thick glass window shut, sealing off the passenger compartment from the driver. Two trucks screeched to a stop beside them and men boiled out with equipment and began chopping down trees and clearing ground.

Lieutenant Colonel Janeki flipped through the sheaf of papers from his dispatch case.

“There,” he muttered. His finger ran smoothly down the page and stopped near the bottom. “St. Anthony Redoubt is garrisoned by fifteen officers and ninety lower ranks. Minimal artillery, three tanks, and support vehicles.”

He raised his face to the glass and peered through it. “But they have an aircraft.” His soft voice aided his train of thought. “So what else might they have which St. Nicholas Redoubt doesn’t know about?”

His mind didn’t register the tent being erected by twelve silent, sweating men. Personnel swarmed around the car like crazed hornets, but none touched its polished metal sides.

Lieutenant Colonel Janeki glanced at his watch, straightened his tie, and rapped on the window with his swagger stick.

The driver immediately got out, came around the car, and opened the door closest to the now complete tent. Three enlisted men stood at attention behind the two tables laden with meat, cheese, vodka bottles, cups, and a samovar already emitting the aroma of steaming tea. Seven officers stood in a precise rank on the other side of the tent.

The lieutenant colonel walked to the table and picked up a slice of ham but, before putting it into his mouth, said, “Gentlemen, please join me.”

The officers crowded around the table filling plates, grabbing and filling cups. By the time they were ready to eat, the lieutenant colonel had strolled to the far end of the tent and rapped his swagger stick on a large-scale map of the area.

“This is the situation. The garrison at St. Anthony has mutinied and gone over to the Dená rabble. According to the roster forwarded from St. Nicholas Redoubt, we are talking about a hundred men. They have three tanks and assorted support vehicles.”

“Then the aircraft was not from the redoubt, Colonel?” Major Brodski asked.

“It had to be, who else would attack us?”

“Did the Third Armored have any aircraft, Colonel?” Major Chenkov asked.

“No.”

“So if they have an aircraft, no matter how antiquated, what else might they have that the high command does not know about?” Major Brodski’s tone edged into the rhetorical.

“You’ve asked the same question I had earlier, Leonid,” Colonel Janeki said, slapping the crop against his thigh. “I think we should prepare to assault a heavily armed and well-entrenched foe. The Indians are probably under Russian command.”

He stopped and thought for a moment. “Pyotr, request St. Nicholas to send me the personnel file on the commander of St. Anthony, soonest.”

“Yes, Colonel,” a stocky major yelped. He saluted and left the tent at a run.

“Leonid, leave one tank at the rear, move the others up to the front rank. Nothing makes the enemy piss his pants faster than seeing a wall of Russian armor advancing toward them, guns blazing.”

“Yes, Colonel.” The major turned to a lieutenant and spoke quickly. The lieutenant left the tent at a run, stuffing a last bite of sausage into his mouth.

“Did that damned plane do any damage?”

“Twelve men dead, another eighteen wounded. One lorry totaled and bits and pieces shot off the tanks and APCs here and there.” Major Brodski took another sip of vodka.

“So all they did was slap our face.” The lieutenant colonel’s facial muscles tightened and he stared at his officers through slitted eyes. “Before this is over, I want that pilot in front of me.”

43

3 miles south of Delta

Major Timothy Riordan felt tense enough to shatter. His scouts had warned of a large Russian redoubt ahead of them, so they had taken the first northbound secondary road they found. After much twisting and turning, reconnoitering of other side roads and many dead ends, they had at last found the Russia-Canada Highway.

Knowing they still were not beyond discovery by a Russian patrol, Riordan didn’t allow himself any elation over the successful evasion. Now one of the scouts was tearing back to the column on his motorcycle.

“Stop the column!” Riordan snapped. He stepped out of the command car as the scout slid to a stop beside him.