Russian Amerika ra-1

by Stoney Compton

  Grisha finally felt himself shift into combat mode. He squeezed off three rounds as the weapon bucked furiously in his hands. The window frame around the sergeant disintegrated and the man’s face suddenly burst in a grisly spray.

  “Pretty good shooting,” the woman said.

  “Thanks.” He stared down at the rifle, then up at her. “Answer a question for me?”

  She frowned and her eyes flicked around the area before coming to rest on his face.

  “What?”

  “What’s your name? I’ve been trying to think of it for five minutes now!”

  She laughed, showing gaps that remembered teeth. “Blue. My name is Blue.”

  Abrupt silence fell across the work site except for the crackle and pop of the furiously burning tank. The trees stood listless in the last surge of summer heat. Birds and insects, reeling from the cacophonous assault, remained silent lest they bring the racket anew.

  His heart slammed against his rib cage and his hands shook unless he gripped the weapon tightly. He mentally eased back into slavery.

  “I wish something would happen.” He didn’t realize he whispered the words.

  Somebody tried to stifle sobs. The quiet became so loud that Grisha’s ears began to ache. Blue moved beside him, her hand touched his.

  “Don’t be afraid.” Her voice rose barely above a breath, but he heard her clearly. “These are my people.”

  His eyes flashed back to hers. Her face, alive with emotion, shone with sweat. He thought she looked beautiful just then.

  “Soldiers of the Czar,” a voice called in Russian. “Lay down your weapons and you will not be harmed. If you continue to resist you will die, slowly.” A moment later the ultimatum was repeated in English.

  “Who are they, your people?” Grisha asked.

  “The Dená. The English call us Athabascans. We have lived here for hundreds of generations. This is our land.” Even though she spoke softly, her words possessed backbone.

  “My mother was a Kolosh,” Grisha said. “She told me once that her ancestors traded with yours before the Russians came.”

  “And after, too,” Blue agreed. “You have nothing to fear from us.”

  “I hope you’re right. The last woman who told me that almost got me hung.”

  The tall Russian corporal everyone called “Professor,” because of all the books he read, walked into the center of the square with his hands above his head. He didn’t appear frightened, merely curious. Another guard shambled out of a cabin supporting a third soldier who dripped blood from an arm wound.

  “Don’t shoot! We surrender. My friend is hurt and in shock.” They came to a halt near Professor and the wounded man slumped to the ground.

  “I saw three of them die,” Grisha said. “But there could have been more in the tank.”

  “Two,” Blue said, “were in the tank.”

  “Then there are two more somewhere.”

  “The cabin that blew up?” she suggested.

  The voice called out again, this time in a language Grisha didn’t recognize.

  From the other side of the clearing another voice answered in the same tongue.

  “They’re doing the same thing we are, making a tally,” Blue said.

  One at a time, voices reported from around the clearing. The birds began to sing again. The voices stopped.

  Movement flickered in Grisha’s peripheral vision. He jerked around to see a lithe youth, face painted black and green, dart into the edge of the square and take cover behind the corner of a cabin. The young man’s movements, quick and deliberate, suggested much practice—or experience.

  Blue called out a question in Athabascan.

  The youth scrutinized her carefully.

  “Blue?” he said in English.

  “Lynx?”

  A rhythmic pulse worked on Grisha’s mind, persistent and bothersome. He watched the interchange between Blue and the person, Lynx. The pulse grew louder.

  “Helicopter!” someone shouted. “Get into the tree line.”

  How did they know to send a helicopter?

  “They radioed for help!” Grisha blurted.

  Lynx glanced at him, then back to Blue.

  “Usually the Cossacks fight it out. One of the soldiers must have done it when the attack started.”

  “How far are we from Tetlin?” Grisha asked.

  “Thirty kilometers at the most,” Lynx said, “Why?”

  “That’s an incredibly fast response, unless this attack was anticipated.”

  The solid beat of rotors announced the impending arrival of the aircraft. Blue slapped Grisha on the arm and ran for the tree line. Grisha hesitated only a moment before following her. Professor thundered along behind them. Lynx had disappeared.

  They ran into the forest for about twenty meters and threw themselves into a clump of alders. Grisha squirmed around so he could see the open square framed by trees. The unwounded soldier waved upward frantically.

  The bright red helicopter hesitated in the blue Alaskan sky. Sparks suddenly danced across the bulbous fuselage as a Kalashnikov rattled.

  The helicopter veered sideways and roared out over the river. Grisha watched, entranced, as it slowly turned back toward the camp, dropped to treetop level and bored in at high speed. The soldier still waved, grinning and hopping up and down.

  Seeing only threat, the pilot fired his skid-mounted machine guns. The bullets threw up two walls of flying dirt, rock, and debris that raced across the square from left to right. The exploding tracks ripped across both soldiers, throwing them backward like sacks of bloody rags.

  The Kalashnikov hammered again and a stream of greasy smoke threaded from the helicopter. The thread thickened into a tatter that rapidly ribboned into a banner. The craft turned awkwardly and labored out over the river again.

  One island presented a long sandy expanse bereft of trees. The helicopter settled to within meters of the sand before it exploded. The blazing hulk ripped into pieces, some splashing down a quarter of a kilometer away.

  Grisha turned to Blue with a wide grin. Two men flanked her. Both wore green and black paint applied in random patterns from the tops of their faces down to the neck of their dark shirts. The smaller one held a rifle that casually pointed at Professor, who sat quietly on the ground.

  Grisha’s heart lurched as ice filled his mind.

  I am Slayer-of-Men,” the taller man said in English. “We are Dená. This is our land.”

  Grisha nodded, desperately trying to remember the names of his Athabascan Troika Guard troopers.

  “We need your help and then you’re free to go,” the second man said.

  “Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Claude,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Grisha.” He licked his lips. “Grigoriy Grigorievich. I am a Creole. My father was Russian and my mother Koloshf. Until recently I lived in Akku, on Akku Channel.”

  His anxiety lifted. If they allowed him to keep talking, he would be all right. His determination to live swelled.

  “Tell us later.” Claude looked down at Professor. “How are you called?” he asked in Russian.

  “Nikolai Rezanov. Please call me Nik,” he said in perfect English.

  Grisha raised a skeptical eyebrow; the man was named after the famous romantic Russian hero?

  “Were any of those people your friend?” Slayer-of-Men asked.

  “No. I expected something like this,” Nik said, showing no fear.

  “Before leaving Tetlin Redoubt we were told to remain constantly on the alert. But the Cossacks told us to stay out of their way, that they would tell us when we were needed.”

  “We kill Cossacks,” Claude said.

  “Good.”

  “Was he cruel in his duties?” Slayer-of-Men asked Blue.

  “Not that I ever saw. If anything, he was lazy, his nose in a book or scratching on paper all the time.”

  “He’s afraid of the Cossacks just like we
were,” Grisha said.

  The Russian soldier glanced at him. “He’s right. I am afraid of them. They’re soulless animals.”

  Grisha glanced around. More painted Dená filtered through the trees, bringing the other convicts.

  The one called Lynx jogged across the square and into the trees carrying a Kalashnikov. Blue stood and faced the youth.

  “Are you Lynx Bostonman, son of Boston Jack and Bead Woman?”

  Lynx dropped the heavy weapon and moved closer to her.

  “Yes. And you’re Blue. I thought my sister was dead.”

  They hugged. Grisha saw a tear run down Lynx’s cheek. The others shifted away from the two and found tasks to occupy their attention. Some of the convicts murmured to each other.

  Grisha touched Claude’s arm.

  “Are we… am I a prisoner?”

  “He is,” he pointed to Nik, “for now, time will tell. Like I said, you’re free to do what you like. We’re going to leave soon. There’s another tank and more soldiers on the way here from Tetlin Redoubt. I’ll be surprised if more aircraft aren’t here within the hour.”

  Slayer-of-Men clapped his hands together.

  “Now you will help us. All bodies go into the river, as well as damaged weapons. Let’s get busy, we don’t have much time.”

  All of the prisoners stripped the dead soldiers of their boots and field jackets; the long nights had been cold. Grisha found a pair of boots that fit and carefully wiped each clean of the pieces of flesh stuck to them. The previous owner had taken the brunt of an explosion in the upper body.

  Once again Grisha found himself using weapons to weigh down Russian bodies for a watery grave. Both times involved saving his own life. He hoped this time the result would be very different.

  Again Slayer-of-Men clapped his hands for attention.

  “You people have to choose now. More Cossacks are coming. We’ll be gone long before they arrive. You can come with us or stay.”

  “If we go with you,” Irena asked, “will we be slaves?”

  “No. You can leave us at any time. But if you stay with us you’ll work for your keep, but you won’t be a slave.”

  “What about the cannibals in the forest?” Basil asked.

  The tall Dená smiled and one of his team chuckled.

  A thin Indian as tall as Rezanov clapped Grisha on the shoulder with a friendly hand.

  “Who would eat this sorry litter of muskrats?”

  “Heron is right,” Slayer-of-Men said. “You wouldn’t be worth cleaning, let alone cooking. There are no cannibals. We started that rumor to keep the Cossacks and the army out of the bush in small numbers. If a lot of them come into the land, we know about it because of the racket they make.”

  “Where will you take us?” Basil asked.

  “All over. This is a big land. We have many villages,” Claude said.

  “You might even get a chance to join the Dená Army.”

  “But there are Russian Army posts in many of the villages,” Nik said.

  “If we are seen things could get very bad.”

  “That’s true,” Slayer-of-Men said. “We must go now. How many wish to join us?”

  Even Nik raised his hand.

  “Why did we dump the bodies in the river?” Grisha asked.

  Heron said, “They’ll never be found. The Russians will think we ate them.”

  A smile creased Grisha’s face.

  “Everybody carry as many weapons as you can,” Slayer-of-Men ordered.

  “Don’t overdo it, we have many miles to go.”

  10

  Construction Camp 4

  Those without weapons carried bundles of clothing and other Russian supplies. In addition to a rifle, Grisha claimed a small, sharp knife with a curved blade. The camp lay completely stripped of useful material.

  Barrels of petrol provided incendiary preparation for each structure. Finally Slayer-of-Men whistled. The Dená and their new recruits followed him into the forest.

  Paul stayed in the camp to finish preparing the welcome for the Russian relief forces.

  As he followed the man in front of him, Grisha ate steadily from his small bag of “squirrel food” given to him by the small, pretty woman called Cora. The squirrel food consisted of dried berries, small bits of dried fish, a variety of seeds, and clumps of congealed grease. It was the best meal he’d eaten since his arrest. He compared it to the iron rations given the Troika Guard in the old days and graded the squirrel food superior.

  Paul caught up with them and they kept as fast a pace as the exhausted ex-prisoners could sustain. At one point the distant pulse of a helicopter put them on nervous alert, but the craft receded to the southeast. After nearly two hours on the trail they heard the distant crack of explosives.

  “They pulled the trigger,” Paul said. Everyone stopped to listen. Suddenly a quick, staccato rip of explosives coalesced into a gigantic roar, silencing the birds around them.

  “My God,” somebody said.

  “Did you use all of your stuff?” Slayer-of-Men asked.

  “Why not?” Paul shrugged “We’re going home, aren’t we?”

  “What, exactly, did you do?” Nik asked.

  “I placed petrol bombs in every building, used a Kalashnikov in the middle of the square as a trigger. When they picked it up, everything went off at once.”

  The column stood quietly, each one imagining the destruction.

  “You’ve just pissed on their boots,” Nik Rezanov said.

  “Maybe scared them, too,” Grisha said, smiling.

  “I don’t understand this pissed business,” Andreivich said in a querulous tone.

  “If you piss on somebody’s boots, you have given them great insult,” Nik said. “Unless they have no honor they will do their utmost to kill you.”

  “Actually, I’m worried,” Paul said. “I didn’t think they’d get anyone into the camp before tomorrow.”

  “Let’s go,” Slayer-of-Men said. “We have a long trip ahead of us.”

  Just before dark the column reached a cache of food and equipment. Each former prisoner collected a backpack, sleeping bag, rubberized ground cloth, small ax, and a sheath knife. Grisha felt fully equipped, but bordered on total exhaustion from carrying the heavy load of two Kalashnikovs since morning. In addition to observing his rescuers, he had spent the day dropping back into the mind-set of a major in the Troika Guard.

  He dispassionately assessed the soldiers around him.

  The largest and most fearsome of all the Indians, Malagni, built a small fire. The muscular man radiated energy. His long hair clouded around his head as he effortlessly performed one task after another, never resting, never asking for assistance.

  Grisha decided the man had at least five years of paramilitary service behind him and no doubt improved the morale of the other soldiers by his mere presence. Malagni didn’t trust any of the newcomers. He watched them carefully, but not openly.

  He had yet to speak to any of the former prisoners.

  With the help of Heron and Lynx, the two women, Cora and Wing, quickly made a stew using meat from a moose hindquarter they had previously covered with moss, wrapped in a shelter half, and tied high in a tree.

  Any one of them would have done well in the Troika Guard.

  Cora’s quiet appearance hid a reservoir of strength that she applied to the task at hand. Her small stature and limitless energy produced an appeal not apparent if a man only looked at her surface. Far from unattractive, her inner glow enhanced the promise she carried like a badge.

  Wing strutted, proud of her well-developed body, carrying herself with an authority backed up by a willingness to kill in an instant. The knife scar down her left cheek didn’t mar her beauty—rather it heightened the observer’s appreciation for her finely chiseled features. When she grinned, which was often, the scar writhed and bent double.

  Grisha felt an instant attraction to her and quashed it quickly. He wasn’t twenty anymore and his recent experien
ce with women kept him at a remove. Still assessing recent events, he no longer trusted himself, let alone women.

  The position of the others in the column didn’t allow close scrutiny. Grisha spent most of the day perversely wondering what it would take to interest a woman like Wing. He ate constantly, glad his diarrhea had eased.

  The moose stew registered somewhere between ambrosia and soporific. Grisha snored in his sleeping bag within minutes after eating his fill.

  An insistent hand shook him out of sleep. When his eyes popped open, he thought for a long moment that he was still in the Cossack camp. The sleeping bag brought him back to reality. The morning air felt good and smelled of fall.

  Everyone else was up and moving about. He quickly pulled on his boots and packed his gear, bothered that he hadn’t heard the general movement without being awakened. Cora came down the line handing out small bags.

  “Here’s your breakfast,” she said as she passed.

  More squirrel food. He grinned in the weak morning light when he realized he had confidence in these people and finally felt safe from those owned by the Russian government.

  Lynx suddenly hurried into camp and murmured to Slayer-of-Men. The older man moved to the middle of the group and spoke in an urgent low voice.

  “We’re being followed. Lynx picked up a party of Cossacks and promyshlenniks about a kilometer behind us.”

  Grisha felt alarm stab through him. Promyshlenniks seemed to be half man and half forest beast. Adventure tales about them had been in vogue in Mother Russia for decades.

  Although skilled forest hunters and trappers, they would also kill their mother for a ruble. More often than not, they were the collectors of the Czar’s share of half a man’s yearly production.

  “We have to split up now, they can’t follow everybody,” Slayer-of-Men said.

  Samis, the woodsman, grinned at the Dená.

  “Why not just shoot these people rather than leave them to those animals?”

  “We won’t leave you. We’re just going to separate into smaller groups.”