Alaska Republik-ARC

by Stoney Compton

  “We trained in old fighters for months before they would let us touch a P-61 Eureka. Would you allow me to take her up and see what’s going on in the neighborhood?”

  “Provisionally. First we must make contact with your people so they don’t shoot you down. Then you must convince the chief mechanic that you won’t hurt his pride and joy.”

  “Lead me to him, sir.”

  35

  Delta, Russian Amerika

  “I’m fine, I tell you! Please stop this incessant questioning,” Pelagian said.

  “It’s only been a few days, my husband,” Bodecia said as contritely as she could. “I wanted to be sure your wound had knitted.”

  “Frank is making deals with Russians, there are armies advancing on us from both directions, and I have been completely out of the action for a week!”

  “You know Colonel Romanov is an honorable man. Why are you doubting his sincerity?”

  “Because he’s a Russian! They have no more control over their emotions than a Frenchman does, they just look at the situation in darker terms.”

  “Pelagian, the man is part Yakut. He’s only part Russian.”

  “They’re more like Eskimos than they are like us.”

  “Stop talking like that this instant!” she snapped. “It’s beneath you. Where is your head?”

  “I’m angry, damn it! I have worked for years to create a sovereign nation for the Dená. And when it finally starts to happen, I get winged by a damn ricochet and am on my back for a whole week.”

  She shrugged. “Ricochets happen if you’re around guns. It’s not your fault, nor mine. It’s kismet, why not accept it?”

  Pelagian opened his mouth, frowned, and then closed it. She watched him think and felt more in love with him than ever.

  “You’re right, I haven’t accepted this for what it is.” He gazed into her eyes. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit of a shit. You’ve done an incredible job of getting Rudi and me through this. You are the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known and I’m so happy you married me.”

  She hugged him tightly. “That’s one of the reasons I love you—you know when to retreat.”

  They both laughed.

  “I am so transparent to you,” he said.

  “But I like what I see.”

  The door opened and Naomi Jim filled it. “Hey, looks like my patient is much better.”

  Bodecia released her husband and moved across the room to her friend. “That’s because you’re such a good nurse, Auntie Naomi.”

  “Well, Auntie Bodecia, that’s because he had a healer with him. He’s a very lucky man.”

  “You’re both right,” Pelagian said. “Now I have to get out of here. Where’s Frank?”

  “Doyon Isaac is over at the redoubt,” Naomi said with a sniff and gave him a slight curtsy. “And you’re welcome.”

  “Thank you, old friend,” he said, suddenly hugging her to him. “You know I love you.”

  He vanished through the door.

  “He just wanted to get around me,” Naomi said with a chuckle.

  36

  Port Lemhi, Republic of California

  “No, Wing,” Grisha said with a sigh, “you can’t move your rook like that.”

  “Damn! I thought you said this was a war game. How can soldiers only move in certain ways? It doesn’t make sense.”

  General Grisha Grigorievich laughed at his wife’s expression until she impaled him with her “you’re walking on thin ice” look.

  He coughed. “Look, it’s just a silly game, don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried, I’m pissed! This game is too formalized to be a true depiction of war. Why did you think I’d like it?”

  “You said you wanted to learn chess…”

  A brisk knock rattled the door.

  “Come in!” they shouted in unison, him grinning and her glaring.

  Sergeant Major Nelson Tobias stepped through the door, assessed the situation, and snapped to attention. “General, Colonel, our next transport is here and they are ready for us to board.”

  “Finally!” Wing said. “We’ve been here for a whole damned day!”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Major. We’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  “General, Colonel,” Tobias said as he nodded. The door closed behind him.

  “You’ve been hell on wheels this trip,” Grisha said. “You’ve scared Tobias into acting like a subordinate instead of my mother, and you’ve got me wondering if I can talk to you without endangering my life.”

  When she looked at him her eyes widened and her fierce demeanor melted into one of compassion. “Grisha, I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, you know that.”

  “Not on purpose,” he said with a chuckle. “Now let’s go see what they have us doing next.” He grabbed his crutches.

  They exited the building and entered a staff car, a long, dark affair with leather seats and a glass window between them and the driver. Grisha remembered the hidden microphone in the console of his boat and didn’t believe for a second that anything they said while in the car would not be recorded.

  He abruptly realized he had not thought about Pravda for weeks, perhaps months. For the first time, he truly understood that the years skippering his boat were the last when he was truly his own master. Now he had responsibilities and interrelationships that demanded most of his time and might possibly take his life.

  He was fine with that. If he could turn things back the way they were, he wouldn’t do it. Something shifted in his head and he completely accepted the turn his life had taken; not only accepted it, but welcomed it.

  “Grisha, did you hear what I said?” Wing asked.

  “I’m sorry, but no, I didn’t.”

  “Are you feeling worse?”

  “Actually I feel better than I have in a very long time. Have I told you lately that I love you?”

  She laughed and his heart warmed.

  “About half an hour ago, if that.”

  “Oh, good. You remembered.”

  The car stopped and a muscular, blonde RCN officer with a wide grin opened the door for them.

  “General, Colonel, I am Lieutenant Commander Darold Hills. My friends call me ‘Bud.’ I will be your RCN liaison for the rest of your journey. Would you come with me, please?”

  Grisha smelled the sea and the lush forest, transporting him emotionally to the Alexandr Archipelago. The horizon revealed a landmass in the distance. The port teemed with military life.

  Huge cranes loaded transports while troops marched aboard. Bosun pipes shrilled from a variety of quarterdecks and, as they watched, a ship slipped its lines and slowly made its way toward the open water.

  “Commander,” Grisha waved at the activity, “what is going on?”

  Bud presented his wide, easy smile. “We’re at war, General. The Japs declared war on us in the middle of the f—, uh, the middle of the night, and we’re going to make them wish they had waited for morning and thought about it first.”

  “We have been in transit. When was war declared?”

  “About 0300. I’m not sure of the exact time, but they did wake me up for officers’ call.”

  “Did they declare war on anyone else?”

  “Not that I know of, sir. But then there are a lot of things they don’t tell me.”

  A large man stood by a gangplank, waiting as if he had nothing else to do for the rest of the day. Lieutenant Commander Bud Hills saluted the man as they approached. Grisha noted the fellow had three half-inch rings on his cuffs.

  “This is Commander Josh Vandenberg, also known as PacSubFlot One.”

  Commander Vandenberg laughed at the expression on Grisha’s face. “Welcome to Pacific Submarine Flotilla One, General and Colonel Grigorievich. The RCS Mako is the most modern boat in our fleet and I’m proud to be her skipper.”

  Grisha returned the salute and then shook hands with the submariner. “So you’re our next ride, Commander?”

  “Yes, G
eneral, and honored to have the opportunity to be of service to two heroes of the Second Battle of Chena.”

  “They tend to toss that ‘hero’ term around a bit too easily to suit me,” Wing said. “Commander, we appreciate your assistance to our cause. I thought all naval vessels were called ships, you called yours a ‘boat.’ ”

  Commander Vandenberg’s grin was infectious. “Colonel, submarines were called pigboats when they first entered the fleet, since they were made out of pig iron, and the boat part has stuck.” He cracked his knuckles loudly. “We submariners persuaded the surface fellows to drop the ‘pig’ part.”

  Grisha and Wing laughed.

  Behind them, Grisha heard Sergeant Major Tobias chatting with Lieutenant Commander Hills.

  “Please,” Commander Vandenberg said with a wide sweep of his arm, “come aboard our shark boat.”

  The gangway angled down to the narrow deck of the RCS Mako where two men waited.

  Grisha handed his crutches to Wing and grabbed the steel handrails of the gangway, swung his body back and up so both legs hooked over the railings and he easily slid down to where the railing bent and anchored itself in the bottom planks.

  Both men on the submarine laughed in surprise when the general landed and stood tall in front of them.

  Grisha turned and saluted the Bear flag hanging limply on the stern, then turned to the lieutenant wearing the Officer of the Deck armband.

  “Request permission to come aboard, sir.”

  The lieutenant returned the salute with a practiced snap and said, “Permission granted. Welcome aboard, General Grigorievich; it is an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Grisha glanced down at the name tag on the officer’s uniform. “Thank you, Lieutenant Walls. What does the ‘D’ stand for?”

  “Douglas, General. But I answer to ‘Doug’ just as fast.”

  Wing stepped off the gangplank and poked Grisha in the ribs, muttering so only he could hear: “You ever pull another stunt like that and I will break your leg again!”

  “And this is my lovely wife and adjutant, Colonel Wing Demoski Grigorievich. Keep her safe and I hold you all in my heart forever.”

  Lieutenant Walls saluted Wing, then turned to the enlisted man at his side. “Allow me to introduce Chief of the Boat Keith Busch, our leading enlisted man.”

  Grisha shook hands with the chief. “Gentlemen, I was in the Russian Army for a number of years and had little to do with the Russian Navy, so I’m at sea here in more ways than one.”

  “If there’s anything we can do to make this easy for you, General, you just let us know,” Chief Busch said.

  “Well, for starters, I can understand that crossed anchors indicate a bosun. But what does the device between all those stripes on your arm mean?”

  “That is a diagrammatic representation of a sound wave, General. I am a master chief sonarman bumped up to serve as the senior enlisted man on the RCS Mako.”

  “I’m sure the California Navy picks only the best.”

  “General, I’m certainly not going to argue with you.”

  Commander Vandenberg stepped toward the open hatch in the center of the deck. “General, Colonel, if you’ll please follow me, I’ll show you to your quarters.”

  As they went down the steel ladder, Grisha commented, “I know that submarines don’t have guest accommodations, Captain. So who is giving up their stateroom for this trip?”

  “They told me you were very perceptive, General. You and your wife will be sharing my cabin, and I apologize that it’s not larger than a standard telephone booth. But I am also impressed that once on board you addressed me as captain. Not many non-sailors are that well versed with naval protocol.”

  “I owned my own boat for ten years, and it was important to me that passengers knew I was the captain. Thank you for the compliment.”

  The compartment was small, but the bunk was adequate for both of them as long as they liked one another. Wing stared at the curtain that served as the only door.

  “The entire crew treats that like it was made of three-inch oak, Colonel,” Captain Vandenberg said. “Including me.”

  “I truly appreciate that,” she said. “Thank you for your hospitality, Captain. Now I need to sleep.” She slid the curtain closed.

  37

  St. Anthony Redoubt

  “Lieutenant Yamato, this is Vzvodnyi Unterofitser Yuri Suslov.”

  “Yamato looked at Colonel Romanov. “I apologize, my Russian is barely existent.”

  “No apologies needed, except mine. This is Sergeant Yuri Suslov, chief aviation mechanic for St. Anthony Redoubt. The Grigorovich is his pride and joy.”

  Sergeant Suslov, having popped to attention when Romanov entered the immaculate hangar, saluted Jerry.

  Jerry returned the salute. “Sergeant, may I please see your aircraft?”

  “The aircraft belongs to the Czar, it has been my honor to keep it mechanically fit. Of course you may see her, Poruchik.”

  “Our guest has no Russian, Yuri, please keep it all in English.”

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant, I meant no—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Jerry waved. “Where’s your bird?”

  The sergeant gave him a gap-toothed grin and led the way. The hangar was huge, even for Californian sensibilities. A large tarp hanging from the rafters made an effective wall across the end of the building. After edging around one end of the rank, heavy material, Jerry beheld a jewel.

  The deep blue cowling blended into a polished aluminum fuselage. The three-blade propeller promised power. The windscreen spotlessly protected the cockpit, waiting for a pilot. Prominently displayed on the fuselage was the imperial twin-headed eagle, looking freshly painted in black, red, and gold.

  “My God, Sergeant,” Jerry’s voice had gone husky. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you, sir. My men and I have put many hours into this machine.”

  “May I take her up?”

  “You are the flying officer shot down a few days ago, yes?”

  “Yes, that’s true. I fly P-61 Eurekas.”

  “Please to bring her back in the same shape?”

  “I have to do a recon mission. I will do my best, I promise you.”

  “I can ask no more than that.” Sergeant Suslov shouted at his men and they pushed open the great door in the front of the hangar. Others pushed the aircraft out into the sunshine resulting in reflections painful to the eyes.

  Romanov thrust a map into Jerry’s hands. “This has the areas we spoke of earlier all marked for your reference. Be careful, just look around, and do not get aggressive.”

  “Are the guns loaded?”

  “Of course they are, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Suslov said. “If they weren’t, she wouldn’t be a war plane.” He waved Jerry toward the ladder hung over the edge of the cockpit.

  “I am acutely aware that I am not wearing a parachute.” He mounted the ladder and dropped into the seat. On the other side of the cockpit a corporal helped him into his straps, tightening them firmly.

  Jerry surveyed the abbreviated instrument panel, and glanced around.

  The corporal gave him a sad smile. “I’m sorry about the lack of parachute, Lieutenant, there isn’t enough space; you’ll just have to bring her back.”

  “I must admit, that’s a very strong incentive. What’s her top speed?”

  Sergeant Suslov, standing on the ladder Jerry had used, handed him a leather helmet and a pair of goggles, and double-checked all the straps. “Approximately 410 kilometers per hour, sir.”

  “What’s that in miles?”

  The sergeant looked thoughtful, then said, “About 255, I think.”

  “What’s her ceiling?”

  “About 7,500 meters and she has a range of 600 kilometers before refueling.”

  “So that’s around 25,000 feet and 370 miles, nyet?”

  “I was led to believe you had no Russian,” Suslov said with a laugh as he slid to the ground and removed the ladder.

/>   Jerry flipped the ignition and nodded to Sergeant Suslov who waved at the men in front of the huge engine. They immediately began walking the prop to turn the engine over. Jerry switched on the magneto and the engine coughed, sending the prop into a brief spin before stopping.

  He increased the throttle and the men resumed turning the prop, displaying more skittishness than previously.

  The engine popped and the prop spun lazily as the men leapt away. Jerry grinned and opened the throttle, running the engine up until the aircraft rocked in its chocks. He pulled the leather helmet tightly onto his head and eased the goggles up to his forehead. After he tightened the chinstrap, he held his fisted hands butt to butt with thumbs sticking out in opposite directions, made eye contact with the sergeant and jerked his hands apart.

  Suslov repeated the gesture to his men and they simultaneously pulled the chocks away from the wheels. The plane danced forward slightly as Jerry ran the engine up to maximum revolutions.

  The roar of the engine filled him and he breathed deeply, intoxicated by the power at his fingertips. After moving the rudder back and forth and his flaps up and down, he released the brakes.

  The Grigorovich abruptly sped down the packed-gravel taxi strip and onto the macadam runway. Jerry slowed to turn into the wind before fully opening the throttle and releasing the brakes. The fighter hurled itself down the runway in a satisfying blaze of speed.

  He grinned and pulled back on the stick. The Grigorovich roared into the air and Jerry laughed.

  Damn, I’m home again!

  38

  20 miles east-northeast of St. Anthony Redoubt

  General Taras Myslosovich felt empty. His armored column retreated east at a steady 7 km per hour. Less than a third of his original force rolled down the road with him.

  Wounded soldiers lay on every flat surface of the tanks and APCs, some being held by unwounded but exhausted friends. The rear guards had to trot in order to keep pace and therefore had no idea what was behind them. Most didn’t care.

  “It’s unthinkable,” he repeated. “How can the Czar allow foreign military adventurers to interfere with internal Russian matters like this?”

  Lieutenant Colonel Bodanovich, his adjutant, fighting shock, hovered near complete collapse. His ruined right arm had stained the bottom of his field dressing a dark red. Myslosovich felt it his duty to keep the colonel distracted and alert.