Russian Amerika (ARC)

by Stoney Compton

  "Her name is Blue Bostonman," Grisha said once he could speak again. "Do show her her in, and treat her as if she were a general."

  With a muttered, "Very good, sir," he disappeared and moments later Blue hurried through the door.

  "Where did you get him?"

  "Where do we get any of them?" Wing said, crossing the room and hugging the older woman. "How are you?"

  "Tired." She glanced at Grisha. "And the bearer of news."

  "Good or bad?" Wing asked.

  "Both. What do you want to hear first?"

  "Bad news first," Grisha said, coming to his feet.

  "You've been accused of war crimes by the Imperial Army. Armistice negotiations have broken down in San Francisco. The Russians refuse to continue until you are produced to answer their charges, or you're relieved of command and imprisoned by us."

  "War crimes! What war crimes?"

  "You're accused of throwing a Russian major, a woman yet, out into minus sixty degrees without clothing." Blue measured him with her eyes. "Claude maintains that you wouldn't do such a thing but we need you to go south, immediately."

  "It happened," Grisha said softly and sat down in his chair. "But I didn't do it."

  "Benny Jackson did it," Wing said flatly. "I was there."

  "That's true," Grisha said. "I wanted to just kill her and get it over with. They want me to go south?"

  Blue nodded. "The Californians are sending an aircraft for you."

  "What does the council say about it?"

  "The war seems to be in a hiatus while the negotiations proceed. We're eager for a resolution and a treaty. We feel very close to victory. There's a lot of pressure being generated in Europe and even Imperial Japanese warships have been sighted off Kodiak Island."

  "It stinks," Wing said flatly. "There's more to this than meets the eye."

  "I asked the council to let me be the messenger. We figure no more than three days down there should do it. Think of it as a vacation, Grisha."

  "Am I being put on trial?"

  "You're to answer questions put to you by a panel of representatives. Two representatives from each member nation of the North American Treaty Organization as well as Imperial Russia and the Den Republik. They have no true authority over you, this is all politics and propaganda. Smoke and mirrors."

  "Some vacation," Wing muttered.

  "You need to come back to Tanana with me. They're going to pick you up in the morning. We'll have to drive all night."

  Grisha felt his resolve waver. All of his instincts screamed in alarm but he could see no alternative. "I will obey the council's wishes."

  "Grisha!" Wing moved between him and Blue. "Didn't you hear me? This stinks, dammit. There's something going on that they haven't told us."

  "Who is they?" Blue said, sudden ice in her voice.

  Wing swung around to face her. "This smells like a sacrifice to me. There are at least five witnesses still alive who could tell them that Grisha wasn't the one who threw that bitch out into the cold. Has anyone asked the Californians about it? Has anyone asked Captain Jackson about it?"

  "He's a colonel now," Blue snapped. "This is a delicate political situation. We have to give every indication of complying with the wishes of the NATO countries in order to maintain their backing, the ones we have, that is. We're dead without them, don't you see that?"

  "All I see is that Grisha didn't do what he's accused of, that he's doing a hell of a job and he's needed right here until this whole thing is finished once and for all."

  "I have orders"—Blue tapped her pocket—"for Grisha to return to Tanana with me immediately. If you wish to question the council's intelligence I suggest you accompany us back to Tanana. But one way or another, Grisha is going with me."

  "What do you mean, 'one way or another'?" Grisha asked.

  "This wasn't my idea," Blue said. "But they sent a squad with me as security and escort."

  "A squad!" Wing shrilled. "Do you realize this garrison would die for him if asked?"

  "Yes." Blue seemed on the verge of tears. "So please don't push it."

  "Am I under arrest?" Grisha asked quietly.

  "No. We'd never go that far. But we need you to go south and talk to these people, Grisha. Will you please do that?"

  "Didn't I tell you once that I'd do anything for the Den Republik? Let me collect my things."

  "You said something about good news?" Wing said.

  "Malagni!" Blue shouted.

  The big man pushed through the door. The absence of his right arm in no way diminished him. He grinned fiercely.

  "Two of my most favorite people in the world. Things must be tough to make you a colonel. But I have to tell you, your little ambush out there on the RustyCan really impressed me. That fancy-ass colonel your guys captured is a cousin of the Czar, and he's blabbing his ass off."

  Grisha and Wing embraced him, patted his back. Wing reached up and kissed his cheek. "We were so worried about you."

  Grisha stepped back, looked up into the man's face. "Are you returning to duty?"

  Malagni glanced at Blue. "You didn't tell them?"

  "Not all of it."

  He turned back to the others. "They made me a lieutenant colonel. I'm taking over Southern Command until you come back, Grisha. That okay with you?"

  Conflicting emotions warred in Grisha's mind. He tried to smile, wasn't sure if he made it. "They couldn't have chosen anyone better. Lieutenant Colonel Demoski is the best executive officer you could ask for."

  "I know. I want you to know that I'm doing this for you—when you get back there's no question as to who's the skipper."

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  61

  Russia–Canada Highway

  The ride west to Tanana proved wearisome and tedious. Blue retreated into herself and spoke only when addressed. Grisha quickly tired of initiating one-sided conversation and lapsed into moody silence.

  A new fortification bristled with armament on the near bank of the Yukon River.

  "If the gate is breached, the bridge blows up," Blue said. "All the people on this side are volunteers."

  "Is there anyone in this army who isn't a volunteer?" Grisha asked. The truck rumbled across the bridge and he stared at the rotten ice on the Yukon. "When will the ice go out?"

  "Any day now," Blue said, clearly pleased to dwell on a safe subject. "We have a lottery going for the day and hour it goes. The engineers built a little box that's hooked to a clock on the shore. When the cable pulls on the clock it stops running—the ice has officially gone out and we know the winning time."

  Grisha laughed. "Sounds like morale is high on the Yukon."

  "It is. And let me tell you, Colonel Grigoriy Grigorievich is a hero to the Athabascan People. It pains me to be part of this dog-shit political posturing. But it's all for the Republik, right?"

  "Right." Grisha felt embarrassed at her effusiveness. Blue remained in the scout car when Grisha got out.

  "Good luck, Grisha," she called.

  A matte-black twin-engined bomber with three gold stars triangulated on its tail waited on the runway built on the ridge behind the village, props ticking at idle. Two fighters roared in wide circles above. An entrenched antiaircraft battery manned by Republic of California troops bristled near the taxi strip.

  Grisha entered the aircraft and a handsome, smiling woman took his bag and led him to a plush seat next to a bubble window.

  "My name is Anita, Colonel Grigorievich. Please sit here and fasten your seat belt. As soon as we are in the air I'll get you something to eat and drink." She disappeared from the small cabin and Grisha wondered what the rest of the aircraft held.

  The plane turned sharply and a muted roar filled the cabin. He stared out the window as they raced past the small fires outlining the field, and wondered if they were going as fast as he thought.

  Then they tilted back and roared upward.

  Once ai
rborne, Grisha had his first beer in eight months. His last had been in T'angass the day he and Karpov picked up Valari Kominskiya for the trip north to New Arkhangel. Despite the memories the beer was excellent.

  Anita walked toward him carrying a steaming tray. Suddenly the plane nosed downward without warning. She and the tray slammed into the overhead and hung there as the plane arced in a dive.

  "Are we going to crash?" Grisha yelled.

  Abruptly the plane pulled up and went into a steep climb. Anita crashed to the floor and steaming food rained across the cabin. The flash of an explosion above them pulled his attention briefly to the window.

  "We're being attacked," he said to himself.

  A fighter flashed upward and a rocket ignited under its wing as both streaked out of sight.

  Grisha unbelted himself and hurried to Anita who sprawled moaning on the floor, grasping at seat legs. He picked the woman up, put her in a seat, sat beside her, and strapped them both in. He intently examined her for injuries.

  A voice came from above their seats. "This is the pilot speaking. My apologies for that unannounced dive. We were under rocket attack from a bogey and I had to take evasive action. The two attacking aircraft have been destroyed. Would the stewardess please report to the flight deck? Once again, my apologies."

  Grisha unstrapped and moved through the cabin to the flight deck. He rapped on the door and then pushed it open. A man wearing a headset sitting at a console of switches and gauges looked up and his eyes widened in alarm. Beyond him were the pilot and copilot.

  "Hey, who're you? Where's Anita?"

  "I'm Gri—, Colonel Grigorievich. The stewardess was injured and I've got her strapped down in a seat."

  "I'll take care of it, Captain," the man said to the pilot. He pulled off the headset and unstrapped. "I'm Navigation Officer Donahue. After you, sir." He pushed Grisha ahead of him.

  Anita's ashen and drawn face testified to her pain and shock. Donahue examined the woman. "Broken arm." He opened an overhead compartment, produced a first-aid kit and gave Anita an injection. He straightened her arm, wrapped splints around it, and positioned it in a sling before looking up at Grisha again.

  "Who fired on us?" Grisha asked.

  "Don't know, Colonel Grigorievich. But we nailed both of them."

  "Were we attacked over British airspace?"

  "No, sir. Alaskan."

  Grisha nodded at the nearly comatose Anita. "I'll watch her if you like."

  "Thank you, we appreciate that." Donahue beckoned toward the flight deck. "If her condition changes, just let us know."

  Grisha strapped himself in. The aircraft hummed swiftly through the night and he wondered if he would return in time to see the ice go out on the Yukon.

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  62

  Columbia, Ohio, Capital of the U.S.A.

  Colonel Konstine Kronov, seemingly oblivious of the motion-picture camera, grinned widely at Major Douglas. Both men, now slightly drunk, had dropped formalities some days before.

  "But, Konni, why doesn't the Czar modernize Alaska?"

  "It's my theory he has a secret agenda, James," Kronov said carefully, struggling tipsily with English. "An economically viable Alaska would pose the same threat that the Indians are currently pressing. By themselves, however, they do not have the political and military clout to make the transition to a true republic."

  "You don't think they can win this fight?"

  "Not alone." Kronov leered and tossed back more vodka. "And if you or any of the other NATO members assist them, you are risking a full-fledged war on this continent, and perhaps Europe as well."

  "Why would the Czar fight a war over Alaska?"

  "Would not your president fight a war over Pennsylvania? Wouldn't the French fight over Quebec?"

  "Ask the British," Douglas said.

  "Pah! The British," Kronov said with a rude laugh. "Let them posture all they wish, who else would want it? But France still owns Quebec."

  Major Douglas opened his mouth then pursed his lips without speaking. He regarded Kronov with stony eyes for a long moment before continuing. "The Czar hasn't developed Alaska. He's kept it in the nineteenth century for ninety years longer than any other part of North America. Why would he fight for it at this late date?"

  "Do you really believe that a mere colonel, who happens to be a distant cousin, has the ear of Czar Nicholas? What his majesty wishes and doesn't wish is of paramount consequence to me, but there's damn all I can do about it, nyet?" Kronov tossed back another inch of vodka.

  "Why do you think the Czar will fight for Alaska?" Douglas persisted.

  "Because he thinks he can sell it," Kronov said airily. "Just as his great-grandfather attempted to do in the 1860s."

  "To keep it from being absorbed by Canada," Douglas said triumphantly.

  "British Canada," Kronov corrected.

  "Then"—Douglas's face became animated and his eyes wetly caught the light—"do you believe he could be bought off?"

  "Good question, Major. But who would do the buying, and more importantly, who's willing to be bought?"

  Douglas blinked owlishly before recovering. "Nobody would be bought. But a nation might be aided financially by its neighbors."

  Kronov laughed so hard his eyes watered.

  "What's so damned funny?"

  "You, you Yankees. You still think you're the only ones in the world who have a brain or know how to use it." Kronov's countenance went steely. "One of the most unsavory parts of being a Russian is knowing that our forefathers of the 1850s allowed themselves to be allied to you inept losers in your short civil war."

  "You can relax now." Douglas shot to his feet, his lips a firm line. "I think we're through for today."

  Two rangers eased into the room and stood on either side of Kronov.

  The Russian stood and gave Douglas an exaggerated bow. "My thanks for the excellent vodka. Next time we should have bourbon, to which I'm sure you are more accustomed."

  Douglas nodded, turned sharply on the balls of his feet, and marched over to the door.

  "Good luck on your Indian purchase," Kronov called gaily as the door slammed.

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  63

  On the Yukon River, Between Old Crow and Tetlin

  "Who goes there?" The voice held menace.

  "Friend! I am Georg Hepner, from Klahotsa, sent by Kurt Bachmann. I need to talk to Major Riordan."

  "Keep your hands where I can see them and come forward."

  Hepner put his hands on his head and moved forward in his customary loose, rangy amble. "I was here two weeks ago," he said in a friendly way.

  "Yet you returned?" the mercenary said, motioning him to move down the trail. "If I could get out of this miserable mosquito factory there's no bloody way I would come back. I thought Scotland was a waste of dirt until I beheld this great sponge."

  "Some of us like it here."

  "Aye, you'll find the daft nae matter where ye travel. Stand tall, this is as far as I go." The mercenary was a raw-skinned man with a head of burnt orange hair and muscles that rippled under his shirt. He seemed sure of himself.

  "Corporal of the Guard! Visitor at Post Three!"

  Two men stepped out of the brush as if they had been waiting for their cue. "Who is this, now? Corporal Harris, Timothy me boy?"

  "I'm not your bloody boy, O'Hara. This man says he was here last week, yet he came back for another visit. I'd say he was daft, wouldn't you?"

  O'Hara looked Hepner up and down. O'Hara stood a foot shorter than the sentry, yet looked far more dangerous.

  "Who are you and what's your business?"

  "Name's Hepner. Work with Kurt Bachmann up at Klahotsa. Kurt's got an offer for your boss."

  "If it's more than five California dollars, we'll take it," O'Hara said with a laugh. Harris and the lar
ge black man behind O'Hara laughed with him.

  "What?" Hepner said.

  "What do you expect?" Harris said. "He already told me he likes it here."

  "I got 'im, Timothy, you go back to your post."

  Harris nodded and disappeared in the brush.

  "You visited us about two weeks ago, am I wrong?"

  "Yes, I mean no!" Hepner didn't like people playing with his mind. "Yes, I was here two weeks ago. You're probably wrong in some very fundamental ways but I haven't the time to really help, or care."

  O'Hara grinned. "Yer not as dumb as you look, that's good. You follow me and Private N'go will take up the rear."

  The black man smiled, revealing brilliant white teeth filed to points. Hepner shuddered despite himself. He followed O'Hara through the mercenary camp, which consisted of dozens of tents, and stopped at a tent three times the size of any other in sight.

  A small man emerged. French captaine boards rode his shoulders and he stopped at the sight of O'Hara. "I have explained already there is no whiskey to be had, Corporal O'Hara."

  "I hadn't forgotten, Captain Fl rs. It seems this gentleman has an offer for the major, and I hope to sweet baby Jesus that he takes it, 'cause there's no tellin' what a another missed payday might bring, sir." With an exaggerated salute, the corporal turned and marched away. N'go followed him, chuckling and glancing back over his shoulder.

  "I know you, yes?" Captain Fl rs said.

  "I was here two weeks ago. I need to see the major, my boss wants to hire you fellows."

  "Excited I am to hear this. Please enter in."

  "Well, if it isn't our old friend, Georg!" Major Riordan stood and offered his hand.

  He measured a few inches shorter than Hepner, but Georg thought none the less of him for that; Napoleon had been a lot shorter than either of them.