Russian Amerika (ARC)

by Stoney Compton

  Had they escaped? He craned his head around and spotted his quarry. They filed through a door; they had found a way out.

  He brought his foot up to hurry after them and his right mukluk scraped against the wall. Suddenly he sensed movement on the other side of the chamber. Something, someone, hit a piece of heavy wooden furniture, probably a bench, with a dull thud.

  Crepov aimed at the sound and squeezed the trigger on his machine pistol. The brilliant muzzle blasts illuminated the area in chattering flashes. A figure reeled behind a heavy wooden post and Crepov followed with a stream of rounds.

  Something moved in the corner of his eye and he dropped to his knees. A different weapon roared and Bear Crepov felt the hot breath of rounds as they snapped past his head and blew rock splinters out of the wall, lacerating his face and neck. He rolled away from the menace and regained his feet.

  "Nik! Are you okay?" someone said urgently, panic in his voice.

  Bear grinned and hurried toward the door. He had hit the turncoat Rezanov. Good.

  "Don't think I'm okay, but I'm still alive," Rezanov said and coughed a short liquid bark.

  Light gleamed in the dark and Crepov realized the group was returning with the lanterns. His ammunition was spent. He edged through the open door of a cell and flattened against the wall.

  They streamed past with no thought other than getting to their wounded comrade. Bear saw Valari as he slipped out behind them. The door creaked as he pushed it open.

  Heart-stopping cold swirled around him. St. Anthony Redoubt lay over a hundred kilometers to the southeast. The colonel mentioned an armored column but Bear hadn't paid attention, his thoughts centering on Chena at the time.

  He pulled his parka hood up and thanked the woods spirits the Indian hadn't cut the buttons off his coat. He hurried into the dark forest to search for his skis.

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  46

  Wing and Karin worked frantically on Nik, trying to staunch the flow of blood. They contained the arm wound, but the chest wound continued to seep. The bubbles around the edges weren't a good sign, either.

  Wing stared at his face and found him staring back at her.

  "Not gonna make it, am I?"

  "Nik," she said softly, not wanting to admit even to herself that he was in a bad way.

  " 'S okay, think I'll catch up with Cora." He coughed. She wiped his mouth with her hand and found dark blood mixed with the sputum.

  "I thought I hit the bastard!" Grisha said, searching the area with the second lantern. "It was Crepov—I saw him drop."

  "We have to get out of here," Nathan said. "Can he be carried?"

  "How cold is it outside?" she asked.

  "About forty below."

  "Why can't we just stay in here?"

  "Whoever shot Nik knows about the back door, Wing," Nathan said tiredly. "They'll be back with Russian troops sooner or later."

  "Nathan," Grisha said from the darkness, "why don't we post guards and rest for a while. The Russians hit us with planes, not ground troops. Even if they do roll in soon, things have to be crazy up there. They won't search the ruins until they get reinforcements."

  Thank you, Grisha, Wing thought.

  "Okay," Nathan answered. "You take charge of the guard and I'll get everyone in here sorted out. By the way, Wing, when you have a minute, I think my arm is broken."

  "Let me see." She sat back and looked up at him.

  "No, you take care of Nik."

  "Nothin' . . . she can do, for me." Nik said. "Let 'er . . . fix it."

  Wing knew Nik was right, but she didn't say anything. "Let me see your arm."

  Nathan awkwardly slid his coat off. She saw white bone, jagged and sharp, dripping blood, sticking out of his arm.

  "My God, you've got a compound fracture. Grisha, give me a hand here."

  Grisha moved out of the darkness and she saw tears streaking his face as he stared at Nik. She glanced down at the dying man. Nik's eyes were closed and his chest shuddered with labored breathing.

  "Grisha," she said softly, "we have to go on or it was all for nothing."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Put your arms around Nathan's chest. When I say 'now' you pull him back a meter—just as hard as you can. Understand?"

  "Da." He wrapped his arms around Nathan's chest and watched her face with bright eyes.

  "Nathan, this is going to hurt, a lot." She gripped his wrist with both hands. "Now!"

  Grisha pulled the slightly taller man completely off his feet as she jerked his wrist in the other direction. The arm straightened with a liquid snap and Nathan silently sagged, a sudden deadweight.

  "Lay him down. See if anyone has an emergency medical kit with them."

  Grisha moved off into the gloom and she looked around for something to tie around Nathan's arm. The leather ties in Nik's mukluks caught her eye and she pulled them free without hesitation.

  For a splint she tied a long fragment of wood to Nathan's arm. Grisha came back with a medical field kit.

  "Give me the syringe," she said.

  He started to hand it to her, then stopped.

  "What's in this?"

  "Morphine, I want him to sleep."

  Grisha hesitated. "Nathan has to travel, soon. Why don't you give it to Nik?" His lower face shone with moisture.

  Pulling her gaze from Grisha to look at Nik was one of the hardest things she had ever done in her life. His eyes were still closed and his chest heaved as his drowning lungs tried to process enough oxygen to keep his body functioning.

  She remembered how happy he had been with Cora, how radiant the two of them looked when they were together. For both of them to die in such a short space of time broke her heart. She had unconsciously seen them as a test case for her and Grisha.

  Abruptly she wondered if that had doomed the couple. For some reason, a spirit or god or something hated her. Violence had taken her husband, then Alex, and now these two beautiful people. She couldn't endanger Grisha in the same way; it wouldn't be fair to him.

  Nik's eyes opened and stared at her. "Don't . . . waste time . . ." His chest gurgled with his words. ". . . waiting. Love him . . . now."

  And then he died.

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  47

  Tired of the frigid, icy dungeon, Valari felt it was time to make her move. Amazed at still being alive, she had instantly obeyed every terse order given to her by Jackson. She thought the Indians would kill her when they discovered she had brought death down on them.

  Her anger at the command in Tetlin knew no bounds. They had been all too willing to sacrifice her and Crepov in order to kill the rebels. Someone would pay for that, just as this rabble would pay for their treason. She shifted her weight in a vain search for comfort.

  Jackson stared fixedly at her and the barrel of the Kalashnikov he held didn't waver from her chest. She didn't know him, she reflected. Maybe she could lull him into a mistake and fall for one of the oldest stratagems a woman could use.

  Only one other person remained awake, and he sat by the door that led to the frozen forest outside. She turned her attention back to Jackson and smiled tentatively at him.

  "It's a shame we had to meet under such unfortunate circumstances, Benny Jackson, you're a very appealing man."

  "In what way?" he asked quietly.

  "You seem so virile." She hesitated and ran her tongue over her lower lip. "Perhaps we could explore that a little more?"

  "What did you have in mind?" His voice remained quiet and controlled.

  She slipped off her coat and unbuttoned her wool shirt, watching his eyes for the first sign of lust. As the shirt slid off her shoulders she unhooked the front of her French brassiere and let her breasts swing free. His eyes remained locked on hers.

  "What's the deal? You screw me and I let you walk?"
r />   "We can have sex first and talk about the rest later." She did her very best to sound aroused and sensual. The cold stone basement sucked the warmth from her. Goose bumps prickled her skin and her nipples hardened painfully. She shivered.

  "Please, if you want me, let's begin. I'm getting cold."

  "Stand up," he said with a catch in his voice.

  She successfully refrained from smiling as she got to her feet.

  "Take off the rest of your clothes."

  The mukluks and thermal socks dropped to the floor and then she swiftly unfastened the belt and let the wool trousers fall from her hips. Stepping out of her undergarment, totally naked, she lifted her arms to him and stepped forward.

  He stood up quickly and backed away.

  "What . . .?" she began.

  "Keep walking," he ordered.

  "To where?" She slowed. "There's nothing over there except—"

  "The door," he said with a wolfish grin. "I wondered how I was going to repay you for Alf's death."

  "One of your friends?" she asked. Fear welled up in her. This chamber was balmy compared to outside. "I didn't kill him. It was the fortunes of war."

  "Keep walking," he said harshly. "You killed him and a lot of other people with your secret transmitter. I want you to suffer more than the instant it would take for a bullet to kill you." His grin got wider. "And you suggested this yourself!"

  "Please, no—I'll freeze!"

  "That's the idea."

  The guard looked up and the flash of hope she felt faded instantly. It was the other Californian, Scanlon.

  He gave her a wry smile and stepped back, opening the door.

  "Jackson and Alf had been an item for a long time, sister," he said. "You killed the love of his life."

  "Get out!" Jackson snarled, and kicked her out into the brittle night.

  She fell full length in the sharp, frozen crystals before scrambling up again. The door swung shut and and she looked around desperately. Above the ten meter stone wall, the sky reflected the burning redoubt.

  So much warmth, so far away. The subarctic night pulled the heat from her and she knew if she didn't move she would die. Chena Redoubt was foreign to her, she didn't know the layout. The wall looked impossibly long in both directions.

  The cabins held her attention long enough to see that they stood empty—all the chimneys stood bereft of smoke. A glow in the distance at one end seemed the most promising. She trotted woodenly through the snow and fought panic as the numbness crept up past her ankles, her entire body ached and many portions had already lost feeling. Focusing on thoughts of revenge in order to ignore imminent death, she ran whimpering into the night.

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  48

  The slamming door woke Grisha. He rolled over and came to his feet clutching the machine pistol.

  "What?"

  Jackson moved over to him. "I just threw the Russian bitch out."

  "What?" Grisha became fully awake. "Are you crazy? She's more dangerous than three men."

  "Three naked men?" Jackson asked with a ghastly grin.

  "Huh?"

  "I threw her out naked. It's at least forty or fifty below out there; she'll freeze up and die in short order. Too short a time for what she deserves, but it'll damn well kill her."

  "You're betting our lives on that." Grisha tried to contain his anger. "What if she doesn't die? They'll know we're here and how to find us."

  "She won't last ten minutes. Nobody could," Scanlon said. "Could they?"

  "We have to send out a patrol," Grisha said, glancing down at his weapon. "Karpov's out there somewhere. I'd hate to get surprised by those bastards."

  "Can't argue with that," Jackson said. "But who would go?"

  "I will," Grisha said.

  "You're really worried that she'll live, aren't you?"

  "Damn right."

  "Then I guess I'd better go with."

  Grisha looked over at Scanlon. "Do you have a watch?"

  "Sure."

  "If we're not back in an hour, get everybody out of here, head north for the Yukon, okay?"

  "Sure, Grisha, whatever you say."

  "Thanks." He pulled his hood up and nodded at Jackson. "Ready?"

  Valari's tracks arrowed toward distant light. Jackson suggested they follow.

  "Sure, but let's do it from about a hundred yards out, say at the edge of those birch, okay?"

  "You Russians are sure a strange bunch," Jackson said.

  "I'm not a Russian," Grisha said tightly, "I'm an Alaskan."

  "What's the difference?"

  "Valari is a Russian." Grisha trudged off through the snow.

  They moved along at a steady pace, fast enough to stay warm but slow enough that they didn't sweat. As they neared the light, a fiercely burning structure almost completely consumed, they slowed.

  "I sure didn't see her back there anywhere," Grisha whispered.

  "How the fuck would you know? We weren't close enough to her trail to see shit."

  "We'd have seen a body."

  "Not if she fell flat, dammit," Jackson hissed.

  "I'm not going to argue with you about this," Grisha whispered sharply. "I think she made it to help and I'm going to get our people out of there."

  "Suit yourself. But I think me and Scanlon will just stay pu—"

  An engine's metallic growl cut through the night. Both men instantly fell to the ground and huddled behind the dubious bulk of a copse of frozen birch. A beam of light sliced above their heads as a half-track turned from its original path and proceeded down the back of the redoubt.

  "They're following her tracks," Grisha said, allowing his feeling of horror to shade his words.

  "Wonder how many of them there are in that thing?"

  "They'll hold twenty fully armed soldiers."

  "Maybe they're our guys?" Jackson said with an air of supplication.

  "The day your grandmother wears a crown!"

  "Yeah, you're probably right."

  Slowly the half-track moved along the wall, like a wolf stalking a wounded rabbit.

  "They don't know what to expect," Grisha said suddenly. "She must not have been able to talk to them."

  "I'm amazed she was even able to breathe," Jackson muttered.

  "I told you she was more dangerous than three men."

  "C'mon, let's give these bastards a run for their money." Jackson rose to his feet and checked his weapon. "I'd just as soon die on my feet as freeze to death out here."

  "You're not used to cold, are you?"

  "This isn't just cold, my friend, this is the dark underbelly of frozen hell. How can you people take this year after year?"

  "To be truthful, this is my first winter in the Interior. We never have temperatures this low in Akku."

  "Where I come from, we never have winter. This shit is for the birds."

  "What birds?"

  "Never mind, let's sneak up on those guys and ruin their day."

  They trotted along, keeping pace with the machine grinding along a hundred meters away. Suddenly the half-track stopped and the lights winked out. Grisha and Jackson halted in their tracks, eyes wide and ears straining.

  Dark figures dropped out of a hatch in the back of the darker machine and moved forward. Dull light glinted off a gun barrel. The half-track lurched and swung out away from the wall, toward the trees.

  Grisha and Jackson dropped. The half-track spun around and stopped, engine idling. Two figures emerged through the roof, uncovered the heavy machine gun mounted over the cab and trained it on the wall of the redoubt.

  The headlights flared like twin suns to illuminate a twenty meter circle on the stone wall. Exactly in the middle of the eye of radiance sat the door to the bowels of Chena Redoubt.

  "We gotta warn them," Jackson whispered urgently.

  "How? We make one move and those people will kill us."

  The Californian spat in the s
now. "Fuck!"

  "Be patient," Grisha said. "We're not defeated. Think of us as a secret weapon. The last thing the Russians will expect is an attack from their rear."

  "Would you be this blas if it was that Wing chick sitting on the other side of the door instead of Scanlon?"

  "What are you trying to say?"

  "All I'm saying is that I'm as attached to Jimmy Scanlon as you are to Wing, except that I don't particularly want to sleep with Scanlon."

  Grisha pointed his machine pistol at the Californian's chest.

  "Wait a fuckin' minute!" Jackson whispered harshly. "I know a man with a yen when I see one. I don't care if you don't want to admit it, but I think I made my point, no?"

  "Yes," Grisha said, lowering the weapon. "So what do you want to do?"

  "I want to take out that half-track, now."

  "Once we shoot them, the others will turn on us and that will be it. Our people inside still won't have a chance."

  "God, you can be dense. Must be from livin' in this stone-age culture up here." Jackson's smile reflected light. "If we capture the fuckin' 'track, we can wipe those other guys out and then we don't hafta walk away from here, we can ride."

  The beauty of it overwhelmed Grisha. "Yeah." Part of his fogged brain wondered why he hadn't thought of it himself.

  Both men moved determinedly toward the back of the half-track, where rapidly condensing engine exhaust clouded the frigid air. They could not have asked for better cover. They crawled through the back of the machine and paused, peering through the hatch at two men facing away from them in the gun tub.

  "We know you are in there," an amplified voice blared English into the night. "If you surrender, you will live."

  "Come on," Grisha said, and stepped into the canvas-covered box and waited with his weapon trained on the two soldiers. A moment later Jackson stood beside him.

  "Shoot when they shoot," Jackson whispered in his ear, "we don't want to draw a lot of attention."

  With a cold knot of fear and determination in the pit of his stomach, Grisha nodded agreement. They sidled forward.

  One of the soldiers said something and the other one nodded. The machine gun fired a burst into the door of the redoubt. Without hesitation, almost in perfect unison, Grisha and Jackson shot the soldiers—ending the burst.