Alaska Republik-ARC (27 page)

“That’s easy for
you
to say.
I’ve
been to Chena. This whole thing is coming undone. We do not have the Russian Army Air Force aiding us, nor do we have any allies willing to send troops. This has been political from the beginning and
we
, dear Janeki, are the damned pawns! The Czar has sacrificed us to move his bishops and knights elsewhere!”

“Are you finished with your histrionics, General?” Janeki snapped. “
We
are the avenging saber of the Czar!
We
will prevail here and in Chena! If you do not believe that, then you are a defeatist and you know what that will bring you!”

“Christ, Janeki, look about you. We have killed enough of our own troops and destroyed enough of our own equipment to be suspected as traitors. The Dená still resist even though we have pounded their positions with heavy artillery. Why haven’t we already
won
?”

Janeki turned to the old man, a man he loved, the man who had helped him through the Byzantine labyrinth of gaining rank in the Imperial Russian Army, the man he was now tired of placating and supporting. “Taras, you have to let
me
lead this army or—”

The left side of General Myslosovich’s head abruptly exploded out in a grisly eruption. Bullets snapped and whined around them. Janeki whipped around and, in total disbelief, saw troops charging his position.

“Corporal of the Guard!” he shrieked. “Corporal of the Guard!”

Myslosovich’s body thudded to the ground unnoticed.

A master sergeant and his squad of ten troopers surrounded Janeki and retuned fire. Janeki scurried away from the fighting, his heart in his mouth, wondering who these people were and how to deal with them.

69

Fort Yukon Aerodrome, Dená Republik

Upon landing the previous evening, Captain Jerry Yamato turned his P-61 toward the refueling station.

“Captain Yamato,” Lieutenant Colonel Shipley snapped over the comm channel. “Where do you think you are going?”

“We’ve got to refuel and get back there, Colonel,“ he said in a plaintive voice. “They don’t have a chance without us!”

“Stand down, Captain. That’s an order. We have to reassess the situation and obtain further approval from high command.”

“Colonel Shipley, you saw what those people are facing out there! We’ve got to get back there and help them.”

“That’s not our call, Captain. We’re not running this war. Follow me to the line, sir.”

With a sinking feeling in his guts and pain in his heart, Jerry complied. He wondered whom he could pay off to rearm and refuel his bird.

“All pilots proceed to debriefing,” Shipley snapped over the radio.

Jerry turned the P-61 around and followed the rest of his squadron. His ground crew clustered around the plane and Master Sergeant Mike Marinig pushed the ladder close and climbed up to help Jerry.

“Did you kick their ass, Captain Yamato?” he said.

“Ran into a flight of Russian bombers and fighters headed north toward Chena. We lost Major Ellis and Captain Fowler, but we took out four bombers and a few Yaks.”

Master Sergeant Marinig sobered and went still. “Major Ellis is dead? His kids and mine play together back at Fremont Field.” The sergeant looked off into the distance for a long moment, his face working.

Jerry had almost forgotten what a close-knit family the ROC Air Force was. Everybody pretty much knew everybody else. The traditional military distance between commissioned and enlisted was for the most part minimal. Jerry thought that was one of the best things about the Air Force and exactly why he hadn’t joined the Navy.

“Would you tell me
how
he died?”

“He died attacking a bomber. Through his efforts and those of Captain Fowler, two bombers went down and Chena was spared.”

“Are you guys going to refuel and go back?”

“I don’t know. Colonel Shipley says we have to wait for approval.”

Master Sergeant Marinig frowned but didn’t comment. “C’mon, let’s get you out of there.”

With everyone exhausted, the debriefing had been short and they all ate a good meal. Darkness, such as it was, fell and everyone turned in. Jerry slept hard but had nightmares featuring Magda being surrounded by laughing Russians trying to kill her.

At 0700, Jerry walked into the ready room; Colonel Shipley was waiting for him. “Captain Yamato, a word please?”

Jerry followed him to his office. Shipley didn’t sit behind his desk; he sat on the front of it, facing Yamato. “Shut the door, Captain. What was that out there last night? You trying to be a general or something?”

“I told the Dená I’d be back with modern aircraft to help them fight the Russians. To my way of thinking three strafing runs didn’t quite fill the bill.”

“If we hadn’t run into that Russian bombing mission—”

“Excuse me, Colonel. I know why we didn’t stay over the battle, but I don’t understand why we didn’t immediately go back.”

“Interrupt me one more time and I’ll confine you to quarters,
Captain
. I understand that you have a very personal interest in the battle at Delta, but that does not preclude our mission nor does it give you military or moral authority to take over my command.”

Jerry felt his face grow warm and he held his tongue, realizing that at this point he was far too angry to speak. He stared at his commanding officer and remained at attention.

“Before you say something damaging to your career, allow me to enlighten you that we have orders to renew the attack as soon as possible. The Dená at Refuge made radio contact with their people late last night and gave them the lowdown.

“It seems the Russian military in Alaska is fighting their own private war. St. Petersburg ordered them to stand down three days ago. You are dismissed, Captain.”

Jerry executed the best salute of his career, and when it was returned, performed a perfect about-face and left the office. Master Sergeant Marinig was waiting outside the door and fell into step with Jerry.

“Is it true? Are we going back?”

“Yeah. Right now.”

“Your bird is warmed up and ready.”

70

Village of Kilsnoo, Russian Amerika

Grisha sat in his chair and quietly ground his teeth. For two days they had circled like feral dogs, seeking advantage where none existed. The atmosphere in the beautifully appointed chamber lay heavy with animosity and distrust.

All of the kwan leaders had said the same thing in as many different ways as possible:
we want your help but we don’t want to change our culture in order to get it
.

Colonel Gregory George finished his version and sat down in the ensuing silence. Grisha could feel them all staring at him.

“I apologize, gentlemen,” Wing said, rising to her feet. “This has all been a colossal waste of time. We came here thinking you were ready to negotiate, even pulled an active duty submarine out of the war we all are fighting in order to get here safely, and for what?”

Grisha smiled in his mind. They were going to get it now!

“With all due respect to your military ranks and your stations in your culture, none of you are willing to compromise even an inch. You want it your way or the waterway. The underlying theme here is: if you don’t agree with me, you are my enemy.

“I don’t know your culture other than what my husband had shared with me. But I know people. All that the men in this room have shown me is disdain.

“You think we have an inferior culture because it is open to everyone, even women, to question, debate, confer, and to run. You are still caught up in your centuries of male superiority to the point you do not realize the world has changed around you.

“You are losing a war because you are afraid to lose status in your own villages. I am at my wits’ end trying to show you the reality of your situation, and I am tired. I want to go home and let you explain to the Japanese how important you are in Angoon or Kake—I’m sure they will appreciate it much more than I do.”

Wing took a deep breath and looked over at Grisha. “Can we go home now, General?”

Not smiling was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. He glanced around the room at their angry faces, dark looks and total discomfiture. The only hope for this alliance was that Wing had cracked their common defense.

“Gentlemen, do we have anything further to discuss?”

General Sobolof rose to his feet and cleared his throat. Blood colored his wide cheekbones and he chewed at his lower lip, glowering at Wing and Grisha.

“I can appreciate the colonel’s attitude. But as she has already stated, this is not her culture. However, to declare an impasse at such an early juncture in a political dialogue is—”

Wing stood up so quickly her chair fell over backward and slammed on the floor.

“This is more than an impasse, General! This is total disregard of a critical military situation in deference to a social norm. If that’s what you want to spend your time discussing, that’s fine with this delegate, but I refuse to
waste
my time here when I could be defending my people. General Grigorovich is absent when needed by his troops and his adopted country. He does not need
tradition
and
station
to prove his worth; he has already done so with his
courage
and
leadership
. And that is something I would highly recommend to every other
man
in this room.”

She stomped out of the chamber and silence fell like a leaden shroud.

Despite surreptitious glances, Grisha held his tongue. Wing had done nothing more than to speak the truth and he was determined that if even one of them maligned her in any way, he would leave the conference and call for Commander Vandenberg and his submarine to take them away.

Colonel Sam Dundas rose to his feet, staring at the door through which Wing had disappeared. “I think I’m in love. Grisha, will you sell your wife?”

Every man in the room laughed long and hard.

Grisha kept his smile and waited for the laughter to subside. “Not for all the abalone in Angoon, Sam. I appreciate your sentiment but I know what a prize I have found.”

General Sobolof stood and regarded Grisha gravely. “General Grigorovich, we all know you, have known you for your entire life. Your new station amazes us and gives us pause. Your wife gives us even more pause…because she is right.”

Grisha tried not to hold his breath.

“We are frightened because we need help, yet we do not want to sacrifice what culture we have retained in order to maintain our freedom.”

Grisha kept his silence and stared back at the general.

“If it hasn’t been obvious, we don’t know what to do.”

He had thought it all out, but he knew he couldn’t shove it down their throats. This was as close to a plea as he would get.

“I know you,” Grisha said in measured tones. “I have known you all my life. But I need this to be very clear and succinct. Are you asking me for my advice?”

“In the name of Raven, yes!” Sam Dundas exclaimed.

Grisha nodded. “Very well. If it were me, I would go to the people and say…”

71

9 miles east of Delta

Yukon Cassidy drove slowly over the rock rubble known as the Russia-Canada Highway. RustyCan was closer to the truth and that is what everyone called it. His utility thumped and bumped over the uneven surface and he detected new squeaks from the vehicle chassis as well as the wood and metal lodge top swaying side to side over the road.

In the passenger seat, snoring softly as he rocked to and fro, sat Roland Delcambré. Cassidy glanced over at the small man and grinned. At first he had been skeptical about the man’s advertised abilities, but his small frame was wiry and held impressive strength.

The thing Cassidy liked most about him was his quick mind and erudite tongue. Smart, well-spoken, dependable people were few and far between in these parts and the longer he knew Roland the more he appreciated him.

He did his unconscious left-to-right horizon sweep and movement caught his eye. Something small was coming toward him on the road. Motorcycle, he decided.

Courier? Scout? Deserter? The possibilities flashed through his mind in a flash. The answer really didn’t matter, but they needed to be prepared for anything.

“Roland, we have company.”

Delcambré’s eyes opened as if he had been awake all along.

“Looks like a motorcycle.” He pulled a small pair of binoculars from the gear at his feet and focused. “Forsooth! It is a BMW motorcycle and not only am I very familiar with the machine, I am also very familiar with the rider.”

Cassidy pulled his foot off the accelerator pedal and pushed in the clutch. The utility rolled to a stop and he put it in neutral and switched off the engine. No point in wasting petrol.

“Who is it?”

“Our mutual acquaintance, Timothy Riordan of the International Freekorps.” Delcambré chuckled. “And the son of a bitch is
alone
! His bully boys have either been stomped flat in a fight or co-opted by a larger force.”

Cassidy checked the clip in his .45 Colt automatic, then looked to his Sharps .45-.70. The buffalo gun was an antique, but still deadly and quite serviceable. His proficiency with both weapons was well known.

“Will he recognize you?”

“Absolutely,” Delcambré said with a smile. “He loved to make me the butt of jokes because of my size. If we decide to shoot him, can I do it?”

Cassidy laughed. “He’ll recognize me, too. I tried to stop him and his
soldiers
from taking everything they could carry out of a grocery store down in the Nation. They not only left a good man and wife destitute, they also left me unconscious with a broken jaw. If you want to shoot this bastard before I do, you’d best be fast.”

“Wait a minute,” Roland said, squinting at Cassidy. “Aren’t you supposed to bring him back to Pa Sapa for trial? Isn’t that what that Indian general, General Spotted Bird, wanted you to do?”

“
If
I can.” Cassidy gave him a ghastly leer. “If I can’t bring him back alive, Lawrence will understand. I just have to bring him back.”

The motorcycle had neared to a hundred meters, and slowed to a crawl. The machine stopped and Riordan balanced the BMW between his legs and stared at them.