Alaska Republik-ARC (34 page)

“Who else, Father?”

“Me.”

“What?” Bodecia jumped like a bee-stung pup. “Shooting Russians is one thing, but if you go into politics, you’ll have Indians shooting at you!”

“Why, Father?” Magda asked.

“I’m sorry to spring this on you both, but there is no time to spare. The election is a week away and I haven’t had a chance to tell people how I see the situation.”

“How
do
you see the situation?” Magda didn’t know why, but she felt very apprehensive about his decision.

“We are a brand-new country filled with people who were born here and others who have helped us fight for our liberty. Who are the citizens of this new country? Just those born here, or also those who were willing to die for it?

“And what about land ownership? Does our new country recognize the deeds of those who owned land under the Czar, or is everything up for grabs again? Who decides if Dená who didn’t fight against the Czar have the same rights as those who did?”

Magda blinked. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought about any of that, and I know you would be essential in a constitutional convention if it were to be fair for all. How can I help you?”

“How can we all help?” Yukon Cassidy asked.

“Are you even a resident?” Pelagian asked Cassidy.

“If six years of running a trap line on the Charley River doesn’t make me a resident, then nothing will.”

“He’s a resident as far as I’m concerned,” Doyen Isaac said from the edge of the circle. “As is every person who fought for the Dená Republik. Who could argue against that?”

“Konstantin Mitkov, for one,” Pelagian said. “He believes that if you’re not at least half Athabascan, then you’re not a citizen.”

“Remind me, old friend,” Yukon Cassidy said. “Where was it that this Konstantin fellow fought?”

“He didn’t. He was one of the first to reach Refuge and he grabbed as much space as he could. When the evacuation began, he was told he couldn’t have that much area and he argued about it.”

“Yet nobody shot him?” Cassidy’s grin made everyone else laugh.

“You’ve made my point,” Pelagian conceded. “This is why I must run, and why I must win.”

“May we be of help?” General Spotted Bird asked.

“I guess you could talk to people.”

An FPN Army sergeant suddenly ran up to the group and saluted General Spotted Bird.

“What is it, Sergeant Fox Dreams?”

“Sorry to bother you, General. Major Riordan has escaped.”

92

5 miles northwest of Delta

The motorcycle backfired for the third time and the engine died. Riordan coasted to a stop and stepped off one side of the machine and let it topple the other direction into a deep ravine, causing a small landslide of rock and gravel that covered the motorcycle. His water and food were strapped to him, part of his constant vigilance attitude.

They had probably found the dead guard by now, wrapped in his blanket and on the cot in the half-assed jail built on the back of a lorry. It took him all of a half hour to unhinge the door. It took another ten hours for the right circumstances to make his escape.

He jogged north with glances over his shoulder every thirty paces. They might wait for dawn, and they might not: it wasn’t that far away. He couldn’t take anything for granted. Where the hell was Klahotsa?

If he could reach that village he would be safe, perhaps. But there was nowhere else in the new Dená Republik where he could find sanctuary. Kurt Bachmann was the man who had hired him; that’s who he had to find.

Riordan glanced over his shoulder again and when he looked forward again he saw the glow. He slowed to a fast walk and peered ahead. Finally he realized he was seeing the reflection of a campfire off the edge of a vehicle on the side of the road.

He stopped and let his breathing subside into something normal. This had to be done carefully and a panting, wild-eyed apparition out of the night would be problematical to say the least.

Ten meters from the truck he yelled, “Hello the camp, one man coming in.”

Two young Indians stoically watched him emerge into the firelight.

One waved him forward and nodded to a rock on the other side of the snapping, flame-engulfed wood.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“I’m starving. Haven’t had food since breakfast.”

The other one peered into the darkness. “You on foot? I didn’t hear any motors.”

“Had a motorcycle. It died about five miles back that way.” Riordan nodded his head, never taking his eyes off the men.

“Where you going?” the first man said as he handed Riordan a steaming plate of stew.

“Thank you!” He grabbed the food and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth and yelped as it burned his tongue. After a moment he chewed and swallowed.

“I’m going to Klahotsa. You folks going that far?”

“Naw, we’re only headed to Nowitna. But that’s a lot closer than you are now.”

“I’d love a ride.”

93

Tanana, Dená Republik

Precisely at 6:45 p.m. a dented, but spotlessly clean, scout car pulled up in front of the old hotel where the RCAF billeted their pilots. Jerry felt ostentatious in his dress uniform with all the decorations but returned the snappy salute the sergeant major gave him.

“Is there a problem if I ride in front, Sergeant Major Tobias?”

Tobias grinned. “I won’t tell if you won’t, Colonel.”

Jerry settled in the front passenger seat. “I’m not used to all this yet, so don’t worry about being formal.”

“It’s not just ‘formal,’ sir, it’s also respect for rank and honors.” The sergeant turned around in the dusty street and they bounced along at ten miles per hour.

“That’s the other part of it,” Jerry said, bracing against the dashboard, “I don’t feel like I did anything that the next guy wouldn’t do in the same situation. And being one rank in the RCAF and a different rank in the Dená Army is just nuts.”

“I’ll give you that, sir. I’ve never seen the like in all my thirty-odd years of soldiering. But as for deserving it, well, that’s not for us to decide, is it now?”

“Where exactly are you from, Sergeant Major?”

“Originally?” He lapsed into silence for a moment. “Boston, down in the United States of America.”

“The state of Massachusetts, right?” Jerry said.

“Very good, sir. Most folks don’t know their geography nowadays, or much else found in books for that matter.”

“You sound like one of my school teachers back home.” Jerry laughed.

“I was a school teacher once, a long time ago.”

“Then you’re a college graduate?”

“That I am, although I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone else.”

“Hell, Tobias, you could be an officer.”

“Nothing personal, Colonel Yamato, but why would I want to do that? Here I am at the top of my game, being involved in all the big things, and yet have no responsibility if it all goes to hell in a hand basket.”

“So you’re happy where you are?”

“Let’s just say I’m satisfied with my lot in life. I’ve had it much worse. Ah, here we are: Dená Army Headquarters.”

Jerry took in the three-story building. “When did they build this?”

“This is an old Russian Army hospital. The USA and your Republic of California have modernized it and it is now the most up-to-date hospital in the country. The left wing on the bottom floor has been turned into quarters for officers. General and Colonel Grigorievich have the nicest apartment in the place.”

“Tell me about them, please.”

“Ah, no time, Colonel Yamato,” he said with a wolfish grin, “you’ll just have to fend for yourself.”

Jerry followed the sergeant major up the walk and through the doors. A sentry snapped to attention and Jerry returned his salute. The tile floors were polished to the point that one could use them as mirrors with which to shave.

Sergeant Major Tobias stopped and knocked on a door. It immediately opened and Colonel Wing Grigorievich waved them in. She looked incredibly feminine and Jerry realized she was wearing a dress that more than accentuated her excellent figure. Magda rested in his thoughts for a long moment.

“Colonel Yamato, Sergeant Major Tobias, please come in.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Jerry said, clutching his hat in both hands.

As he stepped through the door, she neatly pulled the hat from his hands. “I’ll take care of that. Please join the general in the parlor, or whatever that room is.” She flashed him a quick grin and he realized he wasn’t the only nervous person here.

“Yes, Colonel.” Tobias had disappeared and Jerry’s steps on the wooden floors seemed unnaturally loud. General Grigorievich sat on the far side of the room holding a telephone to his ear. He waved at Jerry, smiled, and pointed to the sideboard where various bottles of liquor and wine stood.

Jerry wandered over to the bottles and read the labels. He found a California wine and poured himself two fingers in a glass, then sat in a chair and waited.

“Of course that’s important, but you can’t expect me to come out on either side. What? Because I’m a professional soldier, that’s why.”

General Grigorievich glanced up at Jerry and rotated a finger near his head and smiled.

“For the last time, I cannot help you with this. This is a political situation and I am military; we cannot take sides.”

He put the phone down on its cradle and stared out the window at the subdued twilight.

“They just don’t get it, Colonel Yamato. Every Athabascan with a problem thinks they have the right to call in the army to get them what they want. That’s not our mission and I’ll be damned if the army will get pulled into this political faction thing.”

“Colonel Yamato, relax,” Colonel Grigorievich said, coming into the room. “You’ve chosen a wine. Please tell me which it is and why you chose it.”

Jerry realized he had been sitting at attention. He forced himself to relax and swallowed the contents of his glass. He went over to the sideboard where she stood.

“I chose a California wine because I know the label and actually know the vintner. This merlot has a complex body as well as a nice nutty and fruity finish. I don’t know how you got this bottle up here but I am impressed and gratified.”

Throughout his critique she had watched his face and he watched hers. She went from amused to impressed and nodded as he finished.

“Well done, sir! I’m glad the general chose you. Neither he nor I know a thing about wine.”

“Chose me?”

A bell rang and Sergeant Major Tobias stepped into the room. “Dinner is served on the veranda.”

He motioned to double French doors both of which stood open and inviting. Colonel Grigorievich poured herself a glass of wine and Jerry poured himself another and followed her. A table set for three and illuminated by candlelight dominated the space.

Jerry glanced up and saw mosquito netting draped over the entire area. The faint buzz of the insects could be heard if one listened for them. The colonel stopped at a chair and Jerry held it for her while she sat.

General Grigorievich ambled out onto the veranda holding a bottle of beer and pulled back the remaining chair.

“Do be seated, Colonel.”

Both men sat and a waiter instantly appeared with a tray holding three steaming plates.

The general smiled and said, “I hope you aren’t tired of moose yet.”

“Actually I have developed quite a taste for it, sir.”

Grigorievich held up his hand. “While you are my guest, I am Grisha and my wife is Wing, is that okay with you, Jerry?”

“Of course, si—Grisha. Thank you for the honor.”

“The honor is all ours, Jerry,” Wing said. “I think you could run for political office in the Dená Republik and win right about now.”

“Please let me say something here and now.” Jerry looked at both of them and didn’t proceed until both nodded. “I am not a ‘hero,’ I am still alive and all I ever did was what anyone else would do under the same circumstances: keep my word and try to stay alive.”

They both broke into hard laughter. Jerry wasn’t sure what he should do, but he damn well didn’t feel like joining them.

Grisha held up his hand. “Please,” he coughed and chuckled again, “please don’t be offended. I said damn near the same exact same thing when they told me I was a ‘hero’ after the Second Battle of Chena. I know exactly what you’re feeling and I can tell you how to deal with it.”

“I would be forever in your debt, sir!”

“Get used to it.”

“Damn!” Jerry blurted before he could catch himself.

Grisha and Wing both laughed again.

“Please,” Grisha said, “let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

Jerry cut a piece of moose steak and chewed for a moment before realizing it was the absolute best moose steak he had ever encountered.

“This is incredible!” he said as he finished the first bite.

“It’s my mother’s recipe,” Wing said, “using only native herbs and the best cuts.”

“I would love to thank her!” Jerry exclaimed, taking another bite.

“You may get the chance some day. She lives in Nulato, but I give you welcome in her stead.”

Grisha dug into his meal and Jerry tried to do the same, but he felt bothered.

“Wing, earlier you said ‘I’m glad the general chose you.’ What did you mean by that statement?”

She smiled and nodded at Grisha.

Grisha frowned at Wing theatrically and suddenly Jerry realized the intense bond between them. They both completely understood the other and accepted what they found. He wished that Magda could be here to witness this with him.

“My wife speaks out of turn, which happens a lot,” Grisha said with a laugh. “But she passes judgment on you, which is not to be ignored.”

“Judgment about what?” Jerry pressed.

“I want you to be my attaché from the Republic of California. I need someone who knows the ROC military, politics, and government intimately. Someone I can trust.”

“Grisha, you just met me tonight. How do you know you can trust me?”

“By that decoration hanging around your neck. You have proven yourself to be a friend of the Athabascan People to the point you risked your life more than once. We don’t do that sort of thing for just anyone.

“Whether you like it or not, we think you’re special, Jerry. And from what I’ve heard, we’re not the only ones. You have an incredible amount of political clout in this new nation and you don’t seem to know it. I want to use you, in the best possible meaning of the term, to help keep this fledgling republik alive.”