Russian Amerika (ARC)

by Stoney Compton

  "Tetlin, this is Talon One. We have lost two aircraft and the rest have sustained damage. We have destroyed one antiaircraft emplacement but are unable to locate others due to the amount of flak and smoke in the area."

  "Tell them to return to base," General Posivich said wearily.

  "Return to base," the corporal said into the microphone.

  "Sergei's on fire," someone said in a tight voice. "He's going down."

  "There's his chute, at least he made it out alive," another pilot said.

  "This is Talon One, return to base. I repeat: return to base."

  "Yes, podpolkovnik." The voice sounded relieved.

  Valari felt nauseous and bewildered. Where had they obtained antiaircraft guns? Rezanov, with Grisha and his damned Indians, had suckered her and the Imperial Russian Air Force. The Den were amassing quite the butcher's bill, and she could hardly wait for the day it came due.

  "Major," the general said heavily, "your bright ideas have cost us a wealth of aircraft. Unless your 'special operation' bears successful fruit very soon, you're going to find yourself in the field like a common trooper."

  "Send in the Troika Guard," she said quickly, hoping he would agree.

  "Send them into a trap?" Posivich radiated hostility. "If the damned Indians can blow fighters out of the air they can no doubt handle a few ground troops."

  "The Troika Guard is an elite fighting force." Valari's words stumbled over themselves in her rush to get them out. "They know how to infiltrate and decimate a hostile force. They did it three years ago in Afghanistan."

  "Afghanistan doesn't have boreal forests in which to hide rebels."

  "The other choice is to let them get away with destroying our aircraft," Valari said in a low voice.

  "My first act of retribution is almost over the traitors," Posivich said, eyes gleaming.

  "General?" Valari said.

  "Switch to Combat IV," the general ordered.

  The radioman complied.

  ". . . over the Yukon–Tanana junction." The voice sounded muffled, the speaker was talking in a small space. "Target dead ahead. We see smoke rising from where the fighters attacked."

  "More fighters?" Valari asked.

  "Bombers!" General Posivich said with a sinister chuckle.

  "Bombs away!" the muffled voice said.

  "The Indians aren't the only ones who can plan an ambush, major," he said, smiling widely.

  * * *

  Glancing over at the burning pyre that had once been a Yak fighter and an antiaircraft gun, Lieutenant Sergei Muraviev stood calmly with his parachute bunched in his arms as the four men approached him with leveled rifles.

  "Do you speak the English?" a sergeant asked.

  "Somewhat better than you do," Sergei said with smile.

  The sergeant scowled, made a prodding motion with his rifle. "Raise your hands!"

  Sergei sighed and dropped the chute. The constant light breeze caught it and it started to billow.

  "Gawd dammit!" the sergeant snapped at one of the privates with him. "Secure that damned parachute!"

  "You should have let the lieutenant hold it, they're difficult to use as a weapon."

  Sergei realized his captors were from two different armies.

  The fourth man was totally at ease, while the men in matching uniforms seemed agitated.

  "You do it your way, Lieutenant"—the sergeant actually lifted his lip in a slight sneer—"and I'll do it mine."

  "I imagine the artillery does things differently than the infantry," the Den said.

  Sergei had never seen an Native with this degree of self confidence before. He stared at the sergeant's uniform.

  "To what army do you belong?"

  The sergeant stuck his chest out and smirked. "The Army of the United States of America, that's who."

  Sergei looked at the Den . "This means continentwide war!

  The Den nodded and started to speak.

  A growing roar suddenly washed over the meadow. The Den stared up with a gasp.

  "Bombers! Get into the tree line and take cover!" Without waiting for anyone to agree, he sprinted for the closest clump of trees about sixty meters away.

  Sergei started to follow him but the sergeant snapped, "Hold yer water there, Russki. We're going this way." He nodded back over his shoulder toward a gun emplacement already filling the sky with shells.

  "Sarge, I think we should follow the lieutenant!" one of the privates said, his voice shaking.

  The increasing artillery made conversation difficult.

  "Do what I say!" the sergeant bellowed.

  The shriek of falling bombs cut through the din.

  Sergei ran as fast as he could but the explosions caught him, and he heard his deceased mother call out, "Over here, darling," and it was easy to go that way.

  Back | Next

  Framed

  Back | Next

  Contents

  29

  Outside Chena Redoubt, January 1988

  "Well, do I look like a promyshlennik?" Grisha asked.

  "Actually your hair needs to be more ragged," Wing said, squinting her eyes at him.

  "He'd certainly pass in St. Nicholas," Nik said.

  "Chena is only one berry compared to that bush," she said. "He looks too clean."

  "Wait a minute," Grisha said. "I've seen promyshlenniks in much nicer clothes than these."

  "Where, in Akku?"

  "And Fort Dionysus," he said with a sniff.

  "Chena is not part of that world," Wing said flatly. "The men that frequent Chena Redoubt are lower than the animals they hunt. They have no time for niceties. They would blow their noses on silk and spit on a hardwood floor."

  "So make me look the part," Grisha said with an exaggerated sigh.

  She rubbed grease in his hair and cut at it with scissors. Cora ambled up and watched silently. Nik moved to her side and they discreetly touched hips.

  Chan walked over.

  "I think he looks repulsive enough. Now we have to get his partner ready."

  "Who's going with me?"

  "Your guide will be Cora," Chan said, watching his face.

  Grisha frowned and opened his mouth to speak.

  "I will look and play the part of your woman," Cora said quickly and firmly. "You will be in charge as far as observers are concerned. The two of us will agree on our own actions."

  "There could be fighting—"

  Cora laughed. "Grisha, I helped rescue you. I've been a soldier for three years and you've been a lazy sailor for eight. If you want to know the truth, I'm a little worried about how you will stand up to this."

  He throttled back his first impulse and thought about her words. Silence grew in the room. The rancid scent of old bear grease hung heavy in the air.

  "That was stupid of me," Grisha said. He squinted up at Cora. "I'm sorry. To be frank, I'm worried about how I'll do. I know I'm a good field officer, but I've never done anything like this before. I'm glad you're going to be there."

  "If you didn't have reservations," Chan said quietly, "I'd pull you off the mission. If they take you alive and discover your purpose, we'll have to change all our plans and lives will be lost for nothing. You must be completely alert at all times.

  "There is another way into Chena Redoubt, but it is a door which would have to be breached. This plan will save more of our lives than would a direct initial assault.

  "The Russians think they defeated us with their bombers. Our people did not die in vain. So set the hook and then get out quickly. Operation Defiant has started and time is precious."

  Grisha nodded and glanced back to Cora. "You look far too fine to be with someone like this." He jabbed his chest with a thumb. "You'd better let them work on you."

  "I've got an outfit, but my face needs work," Cora said, sitting down on the stool.

  Grisha stepped back next to Wing and watched. He savored the kisses they had shared and looked forward to more. They both held a reluctance to move into anyt
hing more intimate. Each needed more time.

  Tomorrow he and Cora had to walk into the twin beaks of the imperial eagle to set bait for an ambush. The comprehension of their audacity made Grisha feel like a mouse. He'd have to be a fast and smooth-talking mouse if he wanted to live. To succeed, Grisha must pass as a Creole promyshlennik.

  Every Russian he encountered would look down on him. Their contempt might help him avoid suspicion, perhaps they would think him too cowed by their numbers and social standing to be dangerous.

  Suddenly the small group around Cora stepped back to admire their work.

  "What do you think?" Wing asked.

  Cora's transformation to frightened, wild-eyed village woman went beyond convincing. For a moment he didn't even want to pretend that he was responsible for the pain and abuse evident in that furtive face. He suddenly smiled.

  "You're good at this! Now if I can just remember to act as if I'm the bastard who makes you cringe like that, we might get through this."

  "You can do it," Cora said firmly. "Now let's get our final briefing from Chan."

  Chan said, "Good news, we've got the Troika Guard surrounded."

  Grisha stopped and stared at the man. "You are giving them the chance to surrender and change their lives, aren't you? Most of them aren't even Russian citizens."

  "Grisha," Chan spoke as if to a child, "of course we're giving them that chance. So far they haven't accepted. Just do your part and we'll do ours."

  "Do you want me to talk to them?"

  "Not to worry, we're telling them about you."

  Back | Next

  Framed

  Back | Next

  Contents

  30

  Chena Redoubt

  The seven-meter walls of Chena Redoubt sprouted like malignant mushrooms from the buildings clustered close near their base. The RustyCan ran through the middle of town and past the front gate of the compound. As in every other town on the highway, the road boasted a convict-constructed stone surface.

  Army lorries outnumbered civilian vehicles by a wide margin. Most people walked or rode the omnibus. The stench of diesel shrouded the town and trailed off into the surrounding forest.

  Based on Tetlin Redoubt, Grisha's low expectations experienced a shock. The town of Chena stretched for five kilometers between the highway and the Tanana River, then widened to a kilometer on each side of the road near the middle of the strip. Neither Tetlin or any of the towns in Southeast Alaska came close to this size.

  Conveniences such as electricity, sewer, and running water existed in even the poorest dwelling. Two nonparochial schools indicated the wealth of the local bourgeoisie. Education outside Russian Orthodox schools remained costly.

  The priests had taught Grisha to read and write Russian. He had easily picked up street English, the lingua franca of the Pacific coast. Here, things seemed much more conservative and old-time Russian.

  Every person moving about on the streets could pass for a character out of a Pushkin novel. New clothing styles had not gained a foothold here, nor anything else new.

  This peculiar provincialism supposedly held an attraction for many people in the southern American countries. They called this the "Last Frontier."

  Some people would buy anything, Grisha mused. Cora kept them moving at a steady gait past shops of all descriptions toward the forbidding hulk of the redoubt gate. Wing's assessment of the population held more skew than she realized.

  Grisha blended with the lowest elements of humanity in Chena. His shabby appearance also created a barrier that many of the residents didn't care to breach. Few gave them a second glance.

  Not that he minded their studied indifference. Quite the contrary. A half-track crunched past them and the soldiers manning its heavy machine gun shouted at Cora, offering her money for explicit sexual acts.

  She scurried up next to Grisha, placing him between her and them. The soldiers laughed as they passed.

  She gazed up at him and murmured, "Some of these soldiers won't get the same opportunity you did."

  He nodded, trying his best to look dangerous and important.

  They hurried up to the gate.

  "I need to see the duty officer," Grisha said to one of the two guards.

  The man rested his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol and looked them over contemptuously.

  "What would a Creole want to tell an officer?" His rancid breath advertised ruined teeth.

  "About Den killing Russian soldiers and cossacks."

  Instantly both men leveled their weapons at them.

  "Don't move!" the more distant guard said with a bark. "Go get the lieutenant, Pitr."

  The guard in front of the them turned and hurried through the gate.

  "It's not us doing the killing!" Grisha said nervously.

  "Quiet! Tell it to the officer."

  Two armed men hurried out and took up position behind them. Cora stared at the ground, hands clenched together. Grisha did his best to appear as if he owned the world.

  A youth of no more than twenty summers, wearing a rough gray uniform and glossy high black boots, strode through the gate gripping a machine pistol in his hand. He stopped directly in front of them and put the muzzle against the bridge of Grisha's nose.

  "Who are you planning to kill?"

  Grisha realized this was the lieutenant. "Nobody," he said carefully. "As I tried to tell these, ah, soldiers. I have knowledge about an ambush and I thought it might be worth something to you."

  The lieutenant's lip curled. "Who would dare attack us here? Look around you. You can't even slide through the gate using your woman for grease."

  Grisha stared at him with loathing. "I came to save lives, mine included. Maybe it's best that I don't bother you at this time." Grisha pulled back slightly. "After all, my woman and I are safe—it's the Troika Guard who are surrounded."

  Grisha felt sick that his old unit was being used in this mess. But he agreed with Nathan and Chan that this would produce intense interest on the part of the Russians.

  "Troika—" blurted one of the newer guards.

  "Silence!" the lieutenant snapped. "Bring them." He hurried back through the gate.

  With the wave of a gun barrel, the guards ushered them into the compound. Grisha tried to see everything he could without moving his head. Cora stared around wildly, rubbing her hands together in agitation.

  The lieutenant sped across the courtyard, all but running. Grisha didn't try to keep up.

  "Move your feet!" a guard snarled.

  They trotted after the officer who disappeared into a two-story concrete building. Guards flanked the metal door. Bars latticed the windows.

  Once past the alert sentries, they entered an immaculate hallway where their footsteps echoed off stone walls. The sour scent of urine fought the heavy chemical reek of government cleanser for domination of Grisha's nose. He also detected fear, and not just his own.

  "In here," the lieutenant's voice echoed out at them. He stood in a small room furnished with four chairs and a heavily scarred wood table, all illuminated by a single bright light dangling from the dark, invisible ceiling. Despite the stone walls, the building's chill stayed in the hallway; the room felt quite warm.

  The guards halted at the door. As Grisha and Cora stepped in front of the table the iron door slammed shut and latched behind them. Across the table sat a man in a soft gray uniform with the red tabs of a colonel on his collar.

  Grisha tried not to stare, but he had never before seen a man so totally devoid of hair. The single light shone off his bald head as if reflected by a mirror. How the uniform remained spotless in such a filthy world was beyond him.

  "Where did you hear the term 'Troika Guard' ?" the man asked softly.

  "At my odinochka between here and the Yukon," Grisha said.

  "So you have a fortified outpost." The man's pale gray eyes glinted beneath wispy, light-colored lashes. "What manner Native are you?"

  "I am a Creole," Grisha said, putt
ing injury into his voice while straightening his posture. "My father was a Russian promyshlennik, as am I, and my mother was a Den ."

  "That rabble!" the lieutenant said, slapping his leather holster.

  "Shut up, Dimitri," the man said in his soft voice.

  The lieutenant snapped to nervous attention.

  "Where did you hear the term 'Troika Guard' ? " the man repeated.

  "May two good citizens sit in your presence?" Grisha tried to be unctuous.

  "Yes. Now tell me."

  They sat and Grisha leaned on the table to cover his shaking knees.

  "A cousin of my woman came in the night and told me this thing. He had been shot. Before he died he said a lot of cossacks who called themselves Troika Guards had been surrounded by an army of Den separatists, and were fighting for their lives. That when they finished wiping out the Russians, they would come after him and me."

  "Why would they do that?"

  "He was a kaiur, he worked for the cossacks. Some Den who know him saw him escape. They know me, too. They say I ask too much for my goods. It isn't easy being a good subject to the Czar out there."

  "Where is this supposed massacre taking place?"

  "Near Yankovich Creek, where it meets the Nenana."

  "Why haven't they radioed for help?"

  "I should know?" Grisha shrugged. "If they have radio, why don't you call them?"

  A thin wrinkle broke the shine on his scalp.

  "We tried. Can you show me on a map where they are?"

  "Yes, pretty close, I think."

  The pale man pushed something on the table and a large map attached to a sheet of wood hummed from the darkness above them, bumping gently down the stone wall.

  "Where?"

  Grisha stood and peered hard at the lines and words. He tapped the surface.

  "Somewhere in this area. My odinochka is right here. We could hear shooting to the west."

  "You're lying of course," the man whispered and smiled.

  Grisha's stomach knotted and his sphincter clenched.

  "Why should I lie? Would I be here if this is a lie?"

  "You are here because you are frightened. You don't care about Imperial soldiers. You want us to protect your smelly store."