Alaska Republik-ARC (33 page)

“We have a lot of IF prisoners of war, but I don’t know if he’s one of them,” Colonel Buhrman said.

“He isn’t. Cassidy brought him in yesterday. He’s back there in our jail lorry.” General Spotted Bird nodded toward the tanks behind him.

“What are your plans now, General?” Pelagian asked.

“First, to offer any help we can give. Second, to get home as soon as we can. My men are tired and they’ve fought well.”

“We offer you the hospitality of Delta, Dená Republik.” Pelagian grinned. “I think there’s going to be a celebration very soon now.”

90

Tanana, Dená Republik

While two of the new F-82 Swordmasters flew a combat air patrol overhead, the side of the Tanana Aerodrome was lined with aircraft. The remaining nine P-61 Eurekas, patched and tired, were flanked by thirteen of the new, gleaming jets.

Captain Jerry Yamato stood at parade rest in the front rank of the 117th Attack Squadron personnel. Both officers and enlisted men wore their dress uniforms, sent north specifically for this occasion. To their right were mustered the officers and enlisted of the 24th Attack Squadron.

Jerry noticed the 24th had three times as many officers as did the 117th. Over the next two hours that would change forever: the 117th was being disbanded as an active unit. He tried not to think about it.

The command sergeant major snapped tall.

“A-tenn-SHUN!”

Every man on the field went as ramrod straight as he could.

Five officers moved out of the shadowed hangar and into the bright Alaskan sunshine. Jerry couldn’t believe how damned
hot
it was. He was no stranger to heat and he calculated it had to be right at 90 degrees Fahrenheit.

One of the officers was Brigadier General George “Jud” Caldwell of the Republic of California Air Force. Every man in the RCAF revered him. Jud had gone from an enlisted sergeant-pilot to a battlefield commission of lieutenant. He then opted for four years at the Presidio where he graduated fifth in a class of 187.

Every airman in the RCAF knew that “General Jud” would never ask anything of them that he wouldn’t do himself. He was the best and they would follow him anywhere. He had come north on the same plane that carried their dress uniforms.

The general’s adjutant, Colonel Ust, carried a small stack of boxes: decorations to be presented. The other three officers with General Jud were unknown to Jerry. All were in the Dená Republik Army and wore a combination of ROC and USA army uniforms. The two men wore the rosettes depicting dentalium shells in a star pattern and executed in beads, gold on a field of blue: generals.

The woman wore the depiction of the sun resting in a moose rack. She was a colonel. Jerry gave her a closer look than he did the men. She was strikingly beautiful despite the scar on her cheek; he decided she had to be Athabascan.

The party halted in front of the 117th.

“Airmen of the 117th Attack Squadron,” General Jud said in a conversational voice, “you have brought honor and glory to your service, your country, and your flag. A grateful nation salutes you.”

All five of the officers saluted at the same time.

For a moment the 117th froze, and then returned the salute, officers and enlisted alike. None of them had ever seen that done before.

“It is my great honor and pleasure to award the following decorations,” General Jud said.

“To Lieutenant Colonel Benjamin Hurley, late commander of the 117th Attack Squadron, for actions above and beyond the call of duty. In an action against an armored Russian column, he led by example and gave his life to bring about the destruction of most of the enemy column. A grateful nation awards Lieutenant Colonel Hurley the Republic of California Congressional Medal of Honor, posthumously. The award was presented to his widow three days ago in Sacramento.”

Every man in the 117th applauded long and hard. Jerry felt tears on his cheeks and didn’t give a damn. They’d even promoted Major Hurley to Lieutenant Colonel; that would help his widow in terms of a pension.

The applause died down and General Jud gave them a moment to collect themselves. He cleared his throat.

“Major David Fowler. In an action over Russian Amerika, he shot down two enemy fighters and, although mortally wounded, piloted his aircraft into an enemy bomber, resulting in the destruction of that craft and a second bomber, which resulted in an enemy retreat. A grateful nation has awarded him the Distinguished Flying Cross.”

In his mind’s eye Jerry again saw Dave’s plane arrow into the Russian bomber and explode. As far as he was concerned, that deserved a Medal of Honor also.

“Lieutenant Colonel Roger Shipley, front and center.”

Lieutenant Colonel Shipley moved out smartly, stopped in front of the general, and came to attention.

“Lieutenant Colonel Shipley consistently and professionally led his squadron against the enemy, never wavering in his duty to his squadron or his country. He is hereby promoted to full colonel and a grateful nation awards him the Air Medal.”

Colonel Ust handed General Caldwell the medal and the general pinned it on Colonel Shipley’s chest and then shook his hand. Jerry couldn’t hear what the general said to Colonel Shipley, but the colonel was visibly moved. In moments the colonel was back in ranks.

“Captain Gerald Yamato, front and center.”

As Jerry stepped out and came to attention in front of the general, he wondered why they would award him a decoration. All he’d done was try to stay alive and keep his word. Only dead men should receive honors.

“Captain Yamato turned adversity into opportunity when he was shot down over Rainbow Ridge in the same action that claimed four of his comrades. He persevered through an attack by a Russian survivor of the armored column the 117th destroyed. He was instrumental in saving the life of the Russian and making him his friend.

“Captain Yamato, still a lieutenant at the time, joined forces with elements of the Dená Separatist Movement and led a group of infantry volunteers against a well-entrenched column of professional mercenaries and successfully destroyed enough enemy armor to reduce their military threat significantly.”

General Caldwell looked up from his paper and grinned at Jerry.

“This is like reading a novel, Captain!” he said in his San Fernando Valley drawl.

Quickly suppressed laughter eddied through the ranks.

“Being deprived of his P-61, Captain Yamato flew an antique 1940 Grigorovich in first a reconnaissance flight over three hostile armored columns and then later returned to attack all three. Captain Yamato was wounded in this last action yet piloted his damaged antique aircraft to an airfield two hundred miles distant where he had never been before.

“In addition,” General Caldwell theatrically wiped his brow causing more laughter in the ranks, “then-Lieutenant Yamato led a strike force back to the Battle of Delta where the 117th surprised a Russian bombing mission on its way north. Captain Yamato shot down two enemy fighters in the action where Major Fowler gave his life, and proceeded to lead his squadron back to the Battle of Delta where they depleted their armament on the forces attacking the Dená Army.”

General Caldwell stopped and looked at Jerry. “I am proud to know you, sir. A grateful nation bestows upon you the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Purple Heart, and the Air Medal, Major Yamato.”

Jerry stood, stunned, as General Jud Caldwell pinned medals on his chest. They had blown everything out of proportion: he didn’t deserve this.

The general stepped back, shook Jerry’s hand. Then he saluted him.

Jerry returned the salute automatically, feeling oddly detached from himself, as if he were watching this happen to someone else.

“Our hosts have something to add,” General Caldwell said and stepped back.

One of the Dená generals stood in front of him, held out his hand. Jerry shook it.

“I am honored to meet you, Major Yamato, I have heard much about your actions. I am General Gregori Grigorievich of the Dená Army. We are a new army, part of a new nation, one that you have helped birth.

“As yet we have no military history, no tradition. All is new. General Eluska and Colonel Grigorievich here, and I, have conferred and created the first decoration for valor in the defense of the Dená Republik.”

General Grigorievich paused and swallowed. Jerry realized the general was more nervous than he was. The colonel passed something to the general and he held it up with both hands for all to see.

“Allow me to explain what you are seeing,” General Grigorievich said.

“The four-inch-wide band of dark blue cloth is backed with moosehide and set off with bead rosettes signifying the North Star on each side. Twin ranks of dentalium shells cascade down to a piece of very old copper taken in trade over a century ago. Both the copper and dentalium shells denote rank in the Athabascan culture.

“This is a unique piece of art, created specifically for this occasion and for Lieutenant Colonel Yamato, his rank in the Dená Army from this day forward. Since only a citizen of the Dená Republik can be commissioned in the Dená Army, Gerald Yamato has been adopted into our people and culture; he is now one of the People.”

General Grigorievich put the necklacelike decoration around Jerry’s neck, stepped back and shook his hand.

“Welcome, Colonel Yamato. We would be honored if you would have dinner with us tonight.”

“Thank you, General Grigorievich. I thank you for the great honor and would be proud to dine with you.”

General Grigorievich grinned, making him look years younger. “That’s settled, then. I’ll have someone come by and pick you up.”

Jerry saluted the officers and returned to ranks. The ceremony wasn’t over. Hafs, Currie and Cassaro were all awarded the Air Medal, as was Major Ellis, posthumously.

Once everyone was back in ranks, General Caldwell spoke again.

“President Reagan has awarded the 117th the Presidential Unit Citation. The squadron will go into history with a legacy of duty, honor, and glory. Thank you for your service. You are dismissed.”

91

Delta, Dená Republik

Toe-tapping fiddle music resonated through the town of Delta. The townspeople had gratefully and quickly descended the mountain to return to their homes. The square in front of the former St. Anthony Redoubt was filled with tables, chairs, benches, and piles of blankets where babies and small children watched the commotion. The aroma of cooking food permeated the area as moose haunches and entire caribou carcasses turned on spits over mounds of glowing coals.

Magda knew she should be as happy as everyone else but she felt very alone. She wanted Jerry here. He deserved to be here as much as anyone else—more than some, in her estimation.

She sensed someone beside her and looked over to see her mother.

“You miss him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, Mother.” The tear that escaped her left eye surprised her. “How can I celebrate without the man I have come to love?”

“He’ll be back. I know that for a certainty,” Bodecia said with a nod. “He’s as smitten with you as you are with him, maybe more.”

Magda sighed. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

Bodecia laughed. “You’re wallowing in self-pity. At a time like this, that is a waste of your intelligence. Besides, your father wants your opinion on the latest situation.”

“What situation? Didn’t we win?”

“We won
this
war. Now we’re faced with not losing the victory.”

Magda jumped to her feet. “I don’t understand, but explain on the way.”

The late afternoon increased in tempo. People danced to fiddle, guitar, and balalaika music. Someone had even brought out an antique harpsichord and was playing it with exquisite expertise.

“Suddenly we are faced with factions within the Dená people,” Bodecia said as they moved briskly through the happy crowd.

“Factions? What kind of factions?”

“Basically, many have different opinions on where do we go from here.”

“Anywhere we want to! I don’t understand this.”

“Well, I do and I don’t. Oh good, there’s your father; he will make us both understand. He’s good at this nuance stuff.”

Two FPN drummers, one Pawnee and one Sioux, added their harmony to the music. Laughter and loud talk echoed around the square. Dená girls walked with FPN warriors close to their own age, chatting and flirting.

Magda knew there would be many babies made this night. Was that why she was so morose? Is that why she wanted Jerry to be here with her? She realized their war was over and now she could examine the emotions she felt for him. She wanted to do that with him—not alone.

Pelagian sat on a folding campstool conversing with General Spotted Bird, Colonel Fires-Twice, Colonel Romanov, Yukon Cassidy, and a small man she didn’t recognize. On the perimeter of the group others sat or stood.

“Ah, here’s my clear-thinking daughter. This is Magda, a sergeant of scouts and the pride of my life.”

She stopped and came to attention. “Gentlemen,” she said with a nod.

All the men stood. Pelagian introduced everyone, ending with the small, dark man. “And this is Roland Delcambré, who is traveling with Yukon.”

“Sir.” She nodded again. Magda glanced at her father. “Mother says there are factions. Please explain what that means.”

“First it means that the war is over and we won. I’m not sure how we did that as quickly as we did, but the fact remains that we’ve run out of Russians to fight. So now we’re free to fight each other.”

“Why? What is there to fight about?”

“Please give me your opinion on this: where does the Dená Republik go from here?”

“We form a government, of course.”

“I agree. How?”

“We’ve already started. We pick delegates to a constitutional convention and they write a constitution and we do whatever the constitution says to make a government.”

“So who do you pick to write your part?”

“I don’t even know who’s running. Delta is our whole district, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So who is running?”

“Konstantin Mitkov for one.”

“Viktor’s father?”

“Yes.”