“Looked like Christenson’s ship,” he said to himself, feeling his heart lurch. Mike was the squadron mascot, a classic brilliant, self-doomed fuckoff.
A tree drifted past and he realized he had better pay mind to his own predicament; for him the fight with the Russians was over. An explosion from below pulled his attention to the bottom of the valley. His fighter had impacted at the edge of a river.
Someone had claimed it was the Delta River.
The wind pushed him farther down the huge canyon. The artist in him took a quick moment to appreciate the majestic beauty of the valley. The miles-long ridge on the far side rippled in shades of reds, pinks, greens, and even light purples, like a Technicolor layer cake cut and toppled on its side.
Then the pragmatic flier took over and he worked his chute in order to come down near the river, rather than hang up in the middle of the forest bordering both sides of the obviously swift-moving water. Even before the ground rushed up and grabbed him, he wondered what equipment he had and would it be enough?
His landing was textbook; take the shock with his feet together and collapse in a rolling tumble. Unlike the field back in the Napa Valley, this one was covered with boulders and rocks the size of his head.
He landed on a small boulder and his feet slid off to the right. He threw his arm out and instantly jerked it to his side again—he couldn’t risk breaking it. His shoulder took the majority of the impact and immediately went numb. Jerry threw out his hands and stopped himself.
The parachute settled on the rocky floodplain, began to fill from the constant breeze moving alongside the water. He pushed himself up and jerked the shroud lines, collapsing the silk. His shoulder hurt like hell but he swiftly pulled the lines into a pile at his feet.
Just as his hands touched the silk canopy, he heard a massive explosion from above. He looked up the incredible slope. At first he saw nothing but smoke pouring down from the road on the canyon rim. Then he saw awful movement.
At least nine Russian tanks avalanched down the steep wall, rotating in deadly descent, thunderously smashing flat the rocks and trees before crashing into each other or bouncing farther out into the canyon. Huge boulders and entire swaths of trees boiled in a descending dust-shrouded dance of death.
Behind the maelstrom tumbled a boulder larger than any tank, gouging out sixty-meter-wide swaths of mountainside before spinning out into the air again, following the doomed Russian war machines into the abyss.
Lieutenant Jerry Yamato felt sorry for the poor bastards in the tanks, even though they were all probably dead at this point; that was a hell of a way to go.
Some of the tanks didn’t explode when they finally hit bottom. Some did. And Jerry wasn’t sure how many tanks the boulder hit when it landed. Everything ended about a quarter mile from him.
With the river twisting along the bottom of the valley, and the trees bordering the floodplain, the end result was completely obscured. A huge cloud of dust swirled into the breeze along the river and quickly dissipated.
A Eureka fighter suddenly roared down through the valley and screamed over him as he wildly waved his arms. Then it was gone. All of the beautiful, darting silver planes disappeared and the valley went silent, as if resting after the extensive disruption.
Jerry Yamato felt very alone. He looked around at the valley walls, the trees, the rocks, the now-audible river. For the very first time he realized he was completely on his own.
The Republic of California fighters were on their way north to Chena Redoubt where the Dená Republik Army, their new ally, was fighting for its life against the Imperial Russian Army. The transports held 960 R.O.C
airborne troops who hoped to make a difference. The fighters would do everything they could to aid the Athabascan revolution.
But how long would it take Major Hurley to remember Lieutenant Yamato and where he was shot down? Did Hurley even know Jerry was still alive? The plane that flew over hadn’t come back; had the pilot seen him at all?
They were on their way to next part of the battle; would any of them make it to Fort Yukon? It might be months before anyone came looking for him; or never.
“Okay, airman,” he said aloud. “Time to take stock.”
He stuffed his chute between two rocks and put his flight helmet on top of it to keep it from blowing away in the vigorous breeze. In moments he emptied his pockets and stared down at the result. Two protein-concentrate bars, a canteen of water, a survival knife, his service .45 automatic, and two full clips of rounds constituted his total belongings.
He felt grateful he wore good combat boots and a warm flight suit. Stuck down in the front of the flight suit was his garrison cap. Not three months ago he had gone through a survival course refresher.
With the abrupt start of the North American War he had been eligible for full flight status because he had remained current with training and preparedness protocol. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.
Jerry Yamato laughed out loud. He peered around at the stunted spruce, which grew at a forty-five degree angle, then up at the sky which still held a couple hours of daylight. The thinning smoke from the wreckage of his P-61 caught his attention.
He shrugged out of his parachute harness and carefully propped it up on the highest rock within ten feet. He didn’t want to lose what little he had. Stuffing the PC bars in his pocket and putting the rest of his gear in place, he started toward Satori, his beautiful fighter.
She had nosed in at full speed and exploded on impact; what was left burned. The lump in his throat surprised him. The P-61 had just been a machine, a very beautiful one to be sure, but still…
Wiping away a tear, he looked around the crash site, maybe something usable had been thrown clear. He found nothing and searched the sky again. The smoke would draw any aircraft in the area.
Two billowing columns of smoke a half mile away caught his attention. The tanks, he thought.
Maybe there’s something salvageable.
Keeping a moving eye on the terrain all about him, he moved carefully down the river.
As a boy he had been a member of the Bear Scouts of California, he had earned every woodcraft badge possible. In flight school he was first in the class in the survival portion of training. He’d just had that refresher a couple of months ago.
So why did he feel frightened? Must keep one’s morale up, that’s what it says in the book, he thought.
Turrets, ripped off the tank hulls in their descent, lay randomly amongst the bent and broken steel. Tracks and bogeys lay scattered, macabre prizes from the Devil’s piñata. Only small flames remained in the two burning machines but he could feel their heat from fifty meters away.
Jerry thought the destroyed machines looked naked.
“You cry over your plane and now you’re sad about enemy tanks?” he said out loud. “Did you hit your head when you ejected?”
He stared at the ripped hulls, knowing there might be items inside that could enhance his odds of survival. He also knew the remains of the crews rested in the heavy metal. This was part of why he had elected to join the air corps rather than the infantry—he didn’t want to see stuff like this up close.
First Lieutenant Jerry Yamato, RCAF, took a deep breath and walked over to the first hemorrhaged hull and peered inside. Trying to ignore the heavy, rusty-colored slime coating the interior, he looked for equipment. When he saw the uniform pierced through with bone splinters, he turned and vomited.
He flipped off the canteen cover and rinsed his mouth.” What a wussy I am, he thought. There hadn’t been anything obviously useful in the tank.
For long moments Jerry eyed the closest turret, trying to justify skipping the whole thing.
“Gotta look, dammit,” he said and spat off to the side.
He trudged over to the turret. The barrel stub of the .88 cannon bent to one side, looking for all the world like a comma with a ragged tail. The inside lay empty.
“Damn.” Jerry leaned against the metal bulk and slid do
wn to a sitting position, staring at the other wrecks. Was there nothing here he could use?
He stared up at the canyon wall. Should he try to climb out here, or follow the river until it either joined a larger body of water or went past a town? His destroyed charts mocked him; he should have looked at them more carefully.
“Who knew?” He shrugged and let his head fall forward.
Splaang! A bullet impacted on the turret where his head had just rested. The boom of the rifle pierced him through with terror and echoed off down the valley.
He jerked in fright and threw himself behind a large rock. Two more bullets smeared across the turret where his body had leaned. This time the rifle reports were just sounds.
Yamato made himself small and squirmed behind a boulder.
Adrenaline kicked in and his terror turned to anger. He pulled out his .45 and peered up the slope. Where was the son of a bitch?
He thought for a second. Who was the son of a bitch? Had one of the Russian troopers come all the way down here from the road to check for survivors?
It wouldn’t take a genius to know there could have been no survivors. Sudden doubt washed through him. Could one of the crew have survived? Or had he run into an unfriendly local?
The odds against both were astronomical. Nobody human could survive that steel avalanche and it was scores of miles to the nearest village. But someone out there was trying to kill him. Yamato decided to go with the assumption he faced a surviving Russian.
Okay, that meant the man was close to the path the tank made on its way down. Jerry thumbed on the safety of the .45 as quietly as possible. He didn’t want the damned thing going off accidentally while he was moving.
Fortune had given him something. Medium to large boulders lay scattered across the floodplain. Taking his time and moving as quietly as possible, he squirmed his way from boulder to boulder toward the canyon wall.
He had to outflank the bastard. His shoulder ached and he had to piss. He tried to ignore the distracting elements, knowing his life depended on it.
81
Russian Front Line, Second Battle of Chena
Bear Crepov carefully made his way to the front line of the Russian advance. The Siberian Tigers were excellent marksmen—many Dená lay splayed and torn in the meadow. The Russian artillery waited in silence, but shells from behind the Dená lines now fell on the Russian rear.
It’s up to us to turn the tide, he realized.
A small armored column appeared from the direction of Chena Redoubt. Bear expected it to meet the Russian armor attempting to ford the Chena. A thrill of excitement ran through him when most of the column turned toward his position, spread out, and charged.
The Russian artillery resumed with a vengeance. A half-track took a direct hit. At this distance one couldn’t differentiate between truck and human parts as they rained across the meadow.
The people around him stopped firing as they watched the gunners on the far bank try to hit the command car. Like a bumblebee, it dodged and darted across the meadow toward them. The machine gunner in the back of the car tried to bring his weapon to bear on the men in the tree line, but the bouncing vehicle allowed only a few rounds to sing harmlessly past them.
For the troops holding the tree line the war fell into a bubble caught in time as they watched the nimble car. Even Bear found himself holding his breath, as the uneven duel lengthened.
The front of the car abruptly disintegrated and the explosion blew its body backward in a slow flip.
The spell over the tree line shattered. For long moments they had all empathized with the enemy driver, man against death. A collective moan of disappointment rose and men hurriedly fired at the advancing Dená, now less than three hundred meters away.
Another Russian artillery round shrilled over the meadow. Bear realized the gunners had lost the range, and that the shell was going to land close to him. He threw himself behind a fallen tree trunk and hugged the ground.
The blast killed a score of troopers and blew down twice as many trees. Even though it was their own shell that hit them, the Russians cursed the Dená and intensified their fire.
The column abruptly halted at two hundred meters and troops spilled out, taking cover and returning fire. An armored personnel carrier stopped last and two of the Dená from the command car jumped down. One of them was huge, and Bear could see the man didn’t have a right arm.
Bear rested his Kalashnikov across the tree trunk and blazed away. Two rangers and a Siberian Tiger shared the cover with him. The Siberian Tiger said, “Oh!” as a bullet pierced his head just under the lip of his helmet, snapping his head backward and knocking him flat.
“Fuckin’ Dená are good shots,” he muttered to himself. “Better go off automatic and see if I can pick them off one at a time.” He wished he had his scoped hunting rifle; it was far more accurate than this crappy assault weapon.
Suddenly the huge Indian was on his feet. His voice carried clearly,
“Enough! Let’s take them once and for all!” And they charged the Russian line. The large man waved an axe over his head.
The Russians paused in their fire, laughing at the insane audacity of the Dená, especially the one-armed man with the axe. Wagers flashed back and forth as to who would hit him first.
Bear felt a rush of kinship with the madman. Finally, here was a foe worthy of him. “No!” he screamed at the men around him. “He’s mine.”
The line went silent as he threw down his Kalashnikov, pulled Claw from its oiled sheath, and charged the huge Indian.
The Dená charge wavered, stopped, and went to ground as the two massive men closed.
Bear bellowed at the Dená, “You are mine!” and put his left hand behind his back, gripping his belt. This would be fair, by God!
“Then come and get me!”
When they engaged, Bear brought Claw down in a killing strike but the Indian parried it with his axe handle. Neither lost his balance as they danced away from the other. Bear realized they were a perfect match and a fierce elation gripped him.
The Dená swung his axe and Bear jerked back, heard the whisper as blade sliced air. He laughed. “I am Bear Crepov, a bold promyshlennik and killer of beasts and Dená ! Who are you?”
The man’s eyes blazed in hatred. “I am Malagni, warrior and Colonel in the Dená Republik Army. Killer of Russian scum, especially Cossacks and promyshlenniks!”
Bear darted in and swiped at Malagni’s arm. He might be fighting with only one hand, but he was using everything else he had. As Malagni fell back Bear leapt forward and kicked him in the chest.
Malagni rolled over backward and landed on his feet, pulled his arm back and sent his axe directly at Bear. Bear threw himself to the side, falling in the process. At least the man was empty-handed now.
The axe whistled a foot past where Bear’s head had been. A thong hooked to the axe handle on one end and tied to Malagni’s wrist on the other jerked the weapon back to Malagni’s hand. The Indian never slackened his charge—he rushed toward Bear and savagely swung down at him.
Fear lent wings to Bear’s feet as he rolled away and jumped up. He stifled the desire to throw Claw at Malagni, knowing a miss meant he was a dead man. Instead he threw himself at the Indian, slicing a shallow wound across the moose hide-covered chest.
As blood welled from the cut and soaked into the shirt, Bear suddenly became aware of the Dená surrounding them and the Russian weapons pointed at them—all in a frozen tableau. Neither of them could win this thing.
The certainty of death released him from his few inhibitions and he snapped—went berserk. Screaming in rage, he rushed Malagni and jammed Claw deep into the man’s chest.
Malagni jerked away, knowledge of death in his eyes, and swung the axe in a vicious arc that ended at Bear Crepov’s head.
Bear’s last cognition was the stink of hot blood on sphagnum moss.
82
3rd PIR over Russian Amerika
A tap on his arm pulled
Grisha away from the window. The burly, black sergeant major put his mouth to Grisha’s ear to be heard over the stultifying roar of the engines. “They want you on the comm system, Colonel.”
Grisha nodded. “Thank you, sergeant major.” He went back to his seat and plugged his headset into the comm box. “Grigorievich here.”
“Colonel, this is the pilot, Major Verley. We are within ten minutes of a major battle between your people and the Russians. We were going to have our people jump on Fort Yukon to act as ready reserve. But if you want, we can let you out behind your battle line.”
“How large is the attacking force? What’s the situation right now?”
“Our intelligence captain with your forces says the Russians have broken through your first line of defense and are advancing on Chena Redoubt itself. Your casualties are high and your people are heavily outnumbered.”
Wing was at Chena—commanding his troops! “Can you drop us between the fight and the redoubt?”
“Jesus! That would be dicey, Colonel. The whole drop would be in range of the Russian advance.”
“Then let me out there and you drop the rest behind our lines.”
“Whatever you say, Colonel. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Major Verley. And thanks for the ride.” Grisha took off the headset and moved next to the sergeant major, who stood by the ramp controls.
The sergeant major listened intently to something on his headset. He replied and pulled the set off his head. He plucked a microphone off its wall mount and flipped a switch.
“Lissen up, people! We’re on top of a firefight. The Dená are losin’ their butts. The skipper said we was gonna jump at Fort Yukon, way behind the lines, and get fed in where needed.”
Grisha turned to gauge the interest of the paratroopers. Every man stared at the sergeant major, hanging on his words.
“Now that’s all changed. Colonel Grigorievich here, is gonna jump into the battle and the rest of us are ’sposed to jump behind the lines.” His eyes moved across them, challenging them.
Russian Amerika ra-1 Page 34
