Russian Amerika (ARC)

by Stoney Compton

  "So we are now allies?" Claude asked.

  "Very much so," Secretary Barnes said. He grinned. "I think the president gave the people one of his best speeches ever. 'There's an eagle in the woods, it has two heads and both wear a crown. It likes to eat baby republics.' He received a standing ovation on that one."

  Grisha laughed. "Good imagery. Does this mean I can get back to my command soon?"

  Secretary Barnes glanced at his watch. "Your flight leaves in a little over an hour. You'll be flying with a squadron of troop transports carrying the Third Parachute Infantry Regiment and a Special Forces contingent to Fort Yukon. Ambassador Adams and you other gentlemen will be flown out tomorrow, assuming we all agree on our current treaty."

  "We certainly want to finish our mission before going home," Claude said.

  Grisha stood up. "Where do I go to catch this flight, sir?"

  Secretary Barnes pushed a button on his desk then rose to his feet and shook Grisha's hand. "Lieutenant Anderlik will take to your transport. I wish you Godspeed and victory, Colonel."

  "Thank you, Mr. Secretary." He nodded to the Den delegation and followed the lieutenant out of the room.

  "Right this way, sir," the lieutenant said. They entered an elevator and dropped farther than Grisha remembered ascending. The door opened into a large bay filled with ranked equipment and military personnel moving in all directions.

  "Please follow me, sir." Lieutenant Anderlik moved briskly through the confusion and Grisha had to pay attention to his guide rather than gawk at the activity around him. After traversing a second bay they emerged into the hot California afternoon.

  A topless military vehicle with an enlisted driver sat idling while two officers leaned against it, smoking and chatting. When Grisha appeared both men stiffened to attention and saluted. The major remained silent while the colonel spoke.

  "Good afternoon, Colonel Grigorievich. I'm Colonel Buhrman, commander of the Third PIR. You'll be riding with us. This is my exec, Major Coffey."

  "I'm pleased to meet both of you, and grateful for the ride, not to mention deeply appreciative of your aid."

  "Aw hell, we've always wanted to see Alaska," Colonel Buhrman said.

  "We hear the fishing is fantastic," Major Coffey added.

  "Once we kick the Czar out, I'll be happy to take you fishing," Grisha said. "I know a lot of good spots."

  They rode three blocks to an airfield where a row of transports were filling up with men. Grisha noticed that every trooper carried far more than did his soldiers back home. To a man they looked formidable and menacing.

  "How many are going north?" he asked.

  "Nine hundred and sixty on this flight and we have the Fourth PIR in ready reserve if we need them."

  "The last I heard there were over twenty-four hundred Russians heading toward out lines from two different directions."

  "They aren't there yet, Colonel," Major Coffey said. "We also have—"

  Three waves of five fighters buzzed over the field in tight formation. The paratroopers lined up outside their transports cheered and waved.

  "—them," Coffey finished. "Those are P-61 Eureka long range fighters of the 117th Attack Squadron who will provide cover for us and then seek out targets of opportunity once in the combat zone."

  Grisha couldn't stop grinning. "This is great!"

  They pulled to up the lead transport.

  Colonel Buhrman looked over at Grisha. "Going—"

  A scout car roared up and screeched to a stop. Colonel Benny Jackson stepped to the tarmac. He nodded at the other two R.O.C. officers. "Del, Joe, glad to see good people are going north with me."

  "You're going north?" Grisha said.

  "Yeah, they're letting me take a Special Forces strike force to get your ass out of the jam we helped put you in."

  "Benny," Colonel Buhrman said with a grin, "you're going with us, not the other way around."

  "Sure, Del, whatever you say."

  Colonel Buhrman looked at Grisha and motioned to the transports. "Going my way, Colonel?"

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  70

  St. Anthony Redoubt

  "Colonel Romanov, the last of General Myslosovich's supply train has left the area."

  "Thank you, Sergeant Severin. Let us enjoy the silence for a while before we bring Captain Kobelev's motorized scout unit back to the garrison."

  Romanov stepped to the window and opened the blinds. He loved this place more than he had loved any other thing in his life. Most of his men thought of their posting at St. Anthony Redoubt as punishment, but not him.

  The Delta River joined the Tanana River less than a kilometer from his office. The redoubt enjoyed a view that few appreciated. Stepan Romanov felt drawn to this country.

  Despite his aristocratic name, Roamanov's grandmother was a Yakut from Siberia and he held deep sympathies for the Den . He tried to keep his attitudes to himself, but others had noticed.

  A visiting colonel once asked for an Indian woman for the night.

  Stepan had frowned. "I'm not a whoremonger, colonel, you'll have to solicit for yourself."

  "You do not know women who—"

  "No. You'll have to ask one of the privates."

  Thankfully, the colonel let the matter drop. Romanov would not allow his men to molest the local women or mistreat any of the civilian population. He preached brotherhood to his troops and had a corporal lashed within inches of his life for beating an old Athabascan man.

  Now this stupid war has made a hash of everything, he thought. Not that he blamed the Den . In fact he felt they were right: the Czar and his ancestors had caused limitless suffering in Alaska and the time for change had long since passed.

  Colonel Romanov glanced up guiltily at his sergeant to see if the man had interpreted his silence correctly. The sergeant was staring out of the other window at the same view.

  Romanov grinned, then eased back into his military role.

  "Very well, Sergeant Severin, notify Captain Kobelev to bring his people in, we have room for them now."

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  71

  Russia–Canada Highway, East of Chena

  General Taras Myslosovich pulled idly on his white mustache until the scout finished his report. His jowls shook as he turned to Bear Crepov sitting next to him in the command car. "They only shoot from concealment, like the brigands back home?"

  "Yes, they are animals without courage. They cannot stand up to the might of the Imperial Army, so they attack like coyotes in the night." Bear kept his eyes in constant movement as the column clanked up the RustyCan. The Den could be anywhere.

  His loathing for the Indians barely eclipsed his hatred of the Russians. Fate had dealt him a deadly hand. The Russians didn't trust him and the Indians had put the price of five hundred California dollars on his head.

  The Den bounty was the only thing that kept the Russians from shooting him outright for leaving Valari behind at Chena Redoubt. They thought he should have died to save her, the two-faced bastards, after they had bombed the place flat! He spat out the window of the command car.

  "Perhaps war is not to your taste, woodsman," the fat old general said, barely concealing a sneer.

  "The way you wage war is not to my liking," Crepov said. "The Indians have already proven they can destroy your fancy machines, whether they fly or crawl. We should be advancing quietly through the forest to surprise them in their beds."

  "Reconnaissance shows they have fortified the road at Chena Redoubt as well as the bridge over the Yukon. Infantry, no matter how brave or skilled, cannot take positions like that without armor or air support." General Myslosovich pulled on his walrus mustache again. Squinting at Bear, he continued with an air of condescension.

  "When you have fought as many battles for the Motherland as I have, understanding tactics will beco
me as instinctual as mating with a woman." He broke into hoarse laughter. "And it can be a damn sight more fulfilling!"

  Bear watched the old man crumple into a coughing fit. He felt doomed. This fool was like all the others.

  Bear didn't think the Imperial Army had won a major engagement since the Great War. As far as he knew the troops had spent the past forty years balanced on the backs of the people of Russian Amerika.

  Can it be I'm on the wrong side?

  A vein of ice pulsed through his head as he considered his past decisions and present limited options.

  I wish I had a bottle of vodka.

  A dirt encrusted motorcycle, its engine sounding like an army of flatulent men, came up next to the car and the rider handed something to the guard in the front seat. After a quick glance at the paper, he passed it back to General Myslosovich.

  "Excellent. The rabble are moving up behind their fortifications in front of Chena Redoubt. We finally have them in a position where we can smash them!"

  "You will pardon me for saying so, General, but I've heard that before." Bear spat out the window again.

  "If you continue to spout defeatist sentiments, I will have you shot in front of the troops as an object lesson."

  Bear bit his tongue to keep silent. He had no doubt the old bastard would do it.

  Time to cut my losses, disappear into British Canada for a few years.

  Bear glanced at the General. "I feel boxed up in here. It's not to my liking. I'm a man of the forest."

  "You're here to interpret anything I do not understand at first glance. If I allow you to leave you will instantly disappear like a jinni." He patted the holstered pistol on his hip. "I want you where I can get a good aim at you."

  Bear estimated the time it would take to kill the guard in front of him. Could he get to the general before the fat bastard shot him? His fingertips caressed the haft of Claw in its oiled boot sheath; he thought about the razor-sharp edge.

  Perhaps something would pull their attention outside the car. Bear knew patience—he was a hunter.

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  72

  Flight Delta, 5 Kilometers Above British Canada

  "Colonel Grigorievich." The headset provided incredibly clear communications. "Would you come up to the flight deck, please?"

  "Certainly." Grisha pulled off the headset, unsnapped his harness, and picked his way between the rows of paratroopers who constantly examined and reexamined their equipment. The tension in the aircraft felt tangible. The sergeant major opened the hatch to the flight deck, waving him through, his black face impassive.

  After days of total isolation Grisha was exultant to be heading north again. Colonel Buhrman flew in the lead plane, and Major Coffey flew in the second transport. Grisha had been more than happy to fly as senior officer in the third aircraft.

  He wasn't sure where Benny Jackson and his Special Forces were, but it really didn't matter as long as they were in the fight.

  "Over here, Colonel." The navigator, Major McDaniels, waved him to a seat in a bubble in the side of the aircraft. "Colonel Buhrman asked us to show you this. Here—" binoculars were pushed into his hands "—take a look down there and tell us what you think it is."

  Grisha estimated their height at five kilometers. He saw two other transports, each with huge propellers on their four engines reflecting perfect circles, droning along in formation with them. A P-61 Eureka fighter passed in the distance. He peered down at the ground.

  The RustyCan wound across the ground like an indolent reptile—whose scales glistened as he watched.

  "What the hell?" Grisha sharpened the focus and tapped the enhancer control. The ground quickly swam up at him and he could clearly see an extensive armored column moving north up the highway.

  "Those aren't Russian," he said. "Where are we?"

  "Over northern British Canada." Major McDaniels lowered his binoculars and studied Grisha. "At first we thought they were Canadian, but look at the insignia."

  Grisha strained his eyes to pierce the distance and dust. He anticipated the Union Jack and felt amazement when he saw the stylized Cheyenne war shield. "They're from the First People's Nation. What the hell are they doing this far north?"

  The major grinned. "It looks like they're going to hit the Russkies in the ass. This war is beginning to get interesting."

  "But their fight is with the British, not the Russians."

  "Perhaps, Colonel, they're coming to help their fellow Indians," Major McDaniels said.

  "But how did they get past the British?"

  "The word we got says they went through the British. The Brits're fighting two battles as we speak. They sent too much of their army south and now they're paying for the blunder."

  "If the F.P.N hits the Russians at Tetlin, the only forces we'd have to worry about are the ones at St. Nicholas and St. Anthony." Grisha felt his excitement grow.

  "If they hit the Russians soon enough." The major peered down through the fleecy cloud cover. "But I'd bet a month's pay the Russians know they're coming."

  Grisha chuckled. "If we got paid I'd be willing to take that wager. The Russians are incredibly arrogant. If they weren't so mule-headed they would have defeated us by now."

  "I've wondered about that," the major said. "We know you guys are hell on wheels, but you're outnumbered by at least five to one."

  "More like seven or eight to one. But the Den Republik isn't nice, flat farmland like Canada back there." He nodded his head. "Russia depends on her air force and her armor. Our antiaircraft have pulled her aviation teeth and her armor is confined to the RustyCan."

  "You can hold the highway?"

  "That remains to be seen, Major. Perhaps if we arrive in time."

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  73

  Chena Redoubt

  Wing inspected the fortifications carefully. This is where the Russians would hit first. Both banks of the Chena bristled with mines.

  The Den weapons could traverse the minefields with impunity by lining up on the bright swatches of cloth tacked to trees on the far side. Even if the Russians noticed them, they wouldn't know how to interpret the markers.

  Behind the minefield stood a reinforced log-and-rock wall spanning the highway and stretching into the muskeg on both sides. The muskeg itself aided defense, consisting of meter-wide pods of lichen, called pingos, rearing up to a half meter in height, where a hastily placed foot sinking between the thousands of pingos could easily break a leg. Beneath the muskeg was a watery gruel of soil and gravel, below that lay the implacable permafrost, frozen to a depth of fifty meters or more.

  After fording the river the first few tanks might make it through the muskeg but the rest would bog down. Six newly imported artillery pieces from the United States had the area zeroed in, complete with range markers.

  "Placing those markers is something we learned in the Great War," Captain Lauesen told her. "The advancing troops rarely notice them and it tells us their exact distance."

  The initial assault would be horrendously costly for the Russians. Wing almost felt sorry for them. A Russian-built command car roared up. The Imperial two-headed eagle had been painted out and what looked like an eight-pointed star replaced it.

  Malagni jumped out of the car and slammed the door.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Wing pointed.

  "The North Star, of course! Made from dentalium shells. It's the insignia of the Den Republik." He glanced around. A huge axe hung from a loop on his belt. "Are we ready for them?"

  "God willing and the creek don't rise," Captain Lauesen said.

  "Which God, white or Indian?" Malagni asked. Sometimes, Wing thought, he sounded as balanced as anyone else. But it never lasted long. "It could make a difference, you know." Malagni darted off down the fortification, talking to the heavily armed Den who watched the d
istant tree line with flinty eyes.

  "Is he always that, ah, exuberant?" Captain Lauesen asked.

  "Malagni is a madman. But a very crafty madman. He has absolutely no fear. I don't think he will live through this war—I don't think he wants to."

  "What did he do before the war?"

  "There's always been a war here. It just took some of us longer than others to realize it."

  Captain Lauesen stared at her frankly. "How about you, are you going to survive the war?"

  "Only if the man I love does." She turned and walked back toward the command car. Her feet hurt and she worried about Grisha.

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  74

  Russia–Canada Highway, East of Chena

  The lead column sat in the middle of the road. Engines idled as men relieved themselves and slapped at mosquitoes. Bear heard the motorcycle before he saw it.

  Filth caked the rider and the lenses of the smeared goggles looked unnaturally clean on his dusty face. The motorcycle came to a stop next to the command car. "General Myslosovich, we are two kilometers from the front."

  "Excellent." He smacked the back of the driver's seat with his jeweled baton. Bear had already heard the story how the Czar had presented it to the general for pacifying the Yakuts fifteen years before. "Vladimir, spread the word, I want an officer's meeting in ten minutes."

  Bear absently rubbed his scar and noted the insignia on each officer as they arrived. Captain of Artillery. Major of Infantry. Lieutenant Colonel of Armor. An Okhana captain.

  Bad sign. The cossacks had a way of fucking everything up. Back in his grandfather's day cossacks had a reputation for being noble, honorable warriors. That was before they sold their souls to the Czar and joined his secret police.