“Sounds reasonable,” the general muttered, suddenly deflated. “I’m going to see to my staff.” He walked toward the command car and stopped short. The vehicle sat on three flat tires and the body and engine were peppered with bullet holes. His driver lay sprawled in the front seat with most of his head destroyed.
Riordan watched the old man’s shoulders slump and knew he had just inherited an army.
44
Refuge
Sitting on the highest point above the Refuge, Pelagian and Magda both lowered their binoculars.
“He did it,” Pelagian said.
“Yes. Did you see any smoke coming from the plane?”
“No, but I could hardly see the plane; the action was at least five kilometers away.”
Magda sighed, staring into the distance where the plane had disappeared. “I really like him, Papa. I like him a lot.”
“So your mother tells me. Did he speak of his family?”
“He mentioned that his father was a mechanical engineer. I don’t remember him saying anything about his mother.”
“He has certainly done everything he could so far.”
“Yes, yes he has.”
“But if he ever hurts you, I’ll cut his heart out.”
Magda smiled at her father. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”
They laughed in unison and rose to their feet as one.
“I’m to direct the defense of St. Anthony. Would you like to join me?”
“Since I plan to be there anyway, I thank you for the official invitation.”
They traveled down the mountain, skipping from boulder to boulder like mountain goats. As they neared the tree line, the boulders became smaller and farther apart. Soon they walked down through the thickets of spruce, birch, and willow.
A hummingbird zzzzed past and they could smell wild roses somewhere close.
“I love this time of the year,” Pelagian said. “It really pisses me off that we have to waste it on a war. By the way, thank you for everything you and the lieutenant did to help your mother when I was wounded.”
“You’re welcome. His name is Jerry; there are lots of lieutenants.”
“But not many you are in love with.”
“Good point.”
“Halt!” a voice bellowed, seeming to come from everywhere at once.
Pelagian and Magda slid to a stop.
“Who are you?” the voice demanded.
“Pelagian and—”
“—his daughter, Magda!” she yelled.
“Oh, sorry we bothered you.” A young man in Russian camouflage, but possessing long hair, stepped from behind a tree. The slap of straps on stocks and barrels attested to weapons being lowered.
“No, you were absolutely correct in challenging us,” Pelagian said. “You all are doing a good job. Keep it up.”
“Why do we have a skirmish line this far up the mountain?” Magda asked as they continued down the slope.
“They’re part of our reserve, the last part before the Refuge. They’re all volunteers and every one of them is willing to give their life to protect the Refuge.”
“Papa, do you know of anyone who was drafted into the Dená army?”
He grinned at her. “Point taken.”
The ground leveled slightly and they both stopped near a gun emplacement in the rocks.
“Any sign of the enemy?” Pelagian asked of the gun crew.
“Naw, I don’t think we’re gonna see that much action,” the sergeant said.
“Within ten hours I will remind you of your words,” Pelagian said with a ghastly smile. “Stay alert. When they discover how we have tricked them, they will be livid and out for blood.”
“Our blood?” the sergeant said.
“You’re Dená, aren’t you? Watch out for our people in front of you.”
Pelagian moved on down the mountainside and Magda followed.
45
“Major, we’ve made contact with the enemy.”
Riordan looked up from the map spread across his lap, glanced at General Myslosovich, then opened the door of the command car. “Show me where they are on this map, Charly.”
The two scouts looked at the map for a moment and Charly put his finger down next to the town. “They’re right there, Major. Aren’t they, Bondi?”
The other scout nodded his head. “That’s where we find them, sir. Right on the other side of the town.”
“They weren’t in the redoubt?”
“The gates of the redoubt are gone; maybe they burned them, I dunno,” Charly said, rubbing his neck. “The whole village seems to be deserted; we didn’t see anyone. So we went on down the road and saw a scout car headed toward us.”
“A Russian scout car?”
“Yes, Major, with a Zukhov tank right behind it.”
“They’re not supposed to have any tanks!” Myslosovich blurted.
“Sorry, sir, but I know a Zukhov when I see one,” Charly said evenly.
“I don’t doubt you, soldier,” Myslosovich said quickly. “This is getting entirely out of hand.”
Riordan unhooked the microphone from its clip on the dashboard. “This is Major Riordan, I want all three tanks to the front of the column—now.”
Three clicks on the small speaker confirmed his orders.
“How many tanks did you see, soldier?” Myslosovich asked.
“At least three, General. But there was a lot of dust obstructing visibility and they were on a bend in the road. There could have been fifty behind it.”
“You said there was a column moving up from Tetlin,” Riordan said. “Could it be them?”
Myslosovich frowned and pondered. Riordan could almost see wheels turning and smell burning gear oil. Riordan stopped and coughed, knuckled one eye.
“They would have to be moving at top speed to be that far in such a short period of time. Based on the column I brought north, they couldn’t have covered that much distance. This has to be the renegades from St. Anthony with their DSM allies.”
“Good enough for me,” Riordan said, picking up the microphone again. “All units, prepare to engage.”
46
1,000 meters over Russian Amerika
First Lieutenant Jerry Yamato thought the rudder control seemed a little sluggish, but the Grigorovich fighter roared forward, as if eager to see what was over the next ridgeline. He had taken hits from both columns. Fire from the first target had only hit his left wing once, a mere nothing in the greater scope of things.
The second column put three rounds through the cockpit and God knew how many elsewhere in the aircraft. One of the rounds had blown a hole in the left side of the fuselage and shattered part of the windscreen. The second round had taken out the instrument panel with a great shower of sparks.
The third round had ripped along the side of his left thigh muscle, cutting him open. He had immediately tied it off with his belt. But Christ almighty, it hurt!
So far he had fought off the lightheadedness he recognized as a symptom of shock, and concentrated on just crossing the next ridge while ignoring the other ridgelines beyond his position. Not knowing the condition of his bird bothered him more than he thought possible. Perhaps it was because he had nothing else to think about?
“No, dammit, it’s because I might be low on fuel or running hot!” he bellowed into the wind whipping past the open cockpit. One thing he knew for certain: an enclosed cockpit was infinitely superior to the alternative. All his life he had read stories about the early days of aviation—open cockpits, goggles and scarves catching the wind, seat-of-the-pants navigation.
He decided they had to be crazy or so bored with their lives they would do anything for excitement.
The next ridge passed beneath his wings and he peered through his goggles, trying to pierce the hazy air. A ribbon of reflection snaked from one side to the other and he realized he was looking at a river, a big river.
“Damn, that has to be the Yukon!” he shouted.
He
ducked his head and studied the map Romanov had given him. According to the map, Fort Yukon was right on the river. He jerked his head up and searched for signs of civilization.
Too high, he decided, pushing the stick forward and arcing toward earth. Still nothing. The banks all looked wild and untouched to him.
He had to go right or left…which? How much fuel remained in the tank? Had one of the rounds holed his fuel tank?
The fact he didn’t have a parachute throbbed in the back of his head like a whiskey hangover. He had to land safely or die. Flipping a mental coin, he angled to the left and flew directly over the river.
The river made a bend to the left and he put the Grigorovich over and followed the water. Something glinted in the distance on the right side of the river. He dropped to what he thought might be three thousand feet and stared hard at the spot.
And there was a village. Just behind it was a runway. Something big and fast roared over him and he snapped his head around to see a P-61 twist into a turn.
He pushed the lever to lower the landing gear and it stuck halfway. Fear ran through him like ice water. He had to lower his landing gear so they knew he didn’t want to fight. So he could land!
He pulled the lever back and slammed it forward again. It stuck in the middle again. The Grigorovich rocked violently to the right as the P-61 buzzed him again.
He sat back and held both hands in the air, waiting. The wind beat on his gloves, tried to tear the sleeves off his flying suit. And a P-61 edged up beside him while the pilot closely inspected him.
Jerry pointed down and mimicked landing gear lowering. Then he slammed the lever forward as hard as he could.
The other pilot gave him a thumbs-up and peeled away. Jerry put his bird into a bank and lined up with the runway. He felt so happy he could almost cry.
47
Delta
“Lieutenant Colonel Janeki, our scouts report Russian armor ahead and in battle formation.”
“Have you tried to contact them by radio, Vladimir?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Colonel. No response. We seem to get a lot of interference around here.”
“I don’t like this, gentlemen,” he said to the officers gathered around him.
“We know that St. Anthony Redoubt has gone over to the enemy, Lieutenant Colonel,” Colonel Brodski said. “They wouldn’t answer us anyway.”
“Have you been able to raise Third Armored?”
“No, Lieutenant Colonel, that interference again.”
“Where the hell are they? They couldn’t have been completely annihilated.”
“Perhaps their communications have been knocked out?” Captain Vladimir said in a hopeful tone.
“Or perhaps they have been overrun by the damned Dená and their California allies.” Janeki spat in contempt.
“If that’s the case, Lieutenant Colonel, would there still be Russian crews in those tanks?” Major Brodski asked.
“Do you think Russian soldiers would join the Dená?”
The six officers grew quiet. Only two of the six would meet his gaze.
“I think they would, too,” Lieutenant Colonel Janeki said. “Especially the lower ranks.”
“If we capture any Russian renegades, I think they should be shot!” Major Pyotr Bulganin snapped.
“Absolutely,” Samedi said. “For now, I want every weapon loaded and ready to fire. Put as many tanks abreast as the terrain allows, with the rest of our armor behind them. We’re going to hit them with everything we’ve got.”
The officers ran to carry out his orders.
48
Battle of Delta
Colonel Del Buhrman held the binoculars to his eyes and watched the Russian armor below the ridge where the 3rd PIR waited for events.
“I believe this thing is working, Sergeant Scally, both sides haven’t wavered.”
“They told us at the Weasel Works in Fresno that it would work better if you were closer to the target, but I think we’re delivering hash to all concerned.”
Buhrman lowered his binoculars and regarded the clear-eyed youth.
“Well, you just made staff sergeant with your little magic box there.”
“Thank you, sir! I can use the money.” He bent back to the machine and gave one knob a slight nudge. “But it’s really the scrambler doing all the work.”
Buhrman stared down at the Third Armored and the unknown unit they had met. The Californians had watched the whole thing from their vantage point on the ridge. At first Colonel Buhrman thought there was going to be a fight, but the two units had parleyed instead.
The unknowns had Russian tanks but the Imperial double-headed eagle had been painted over with a stylized “IF” and the Russians hadn’t paid it any mind.
“If they had Fremont tanks, I’d sure as hell want to know where they got them!”
“Colonel?” Scally looked up from his scrambler.
“Just talking to myself, Ryan. One of my bad habits.”
“Gosh, Colonel, I didn’t know you had any other kind.”
“Sergeant Scally, mind your machine if you want to keep all of your stripes.”
“Yes, sir!”
As they watched, the Russians began firing on each other.
49
Battle of Delta
“Incoming!” screamed Sergeant Yalushin of the Third Armored. A deadly rain of cannon shells impacted among the leading elements. One of their precious tanks took a direct hit and promptly exploded, raining debris across the column.
“Fire at will!” Major Riordan screamed. All seven remaining tanks of the Third Armored and the International Freekorps answered in unison, filling the road ahead with armor-piercing shells.
The Imperial Fifth Armored took massive damage, losing a fifth of their strength in moments. The entirety of the first wave of tanks and half of those in the second wave received direct hits, bursting their hulls and killing their crews.
Both columns rocked to a halt during the exchange but continued firing.
“Major Riordan!” General Myslosovich bellowed. “We are being annihilated.” Explosions bracketed the column while tanks and APCs in the middle of the force took direct hits and exploded.
“We must surrender!” Riordan screamed back. “They’re too much for us!”
“Agreed!”
A white flag surfaced almost immediately when the word of surrender passed back through the ranks. The terrible shelling ceased and five minutes later a scout car bearing a white flag emerged from the dust cloud hanging over the road.
General Myslosovich felt like taking his own life. He may as well: two defeats in six days meant his career had ended, no matter to whom he was related. The scout car stopped in front of them and an Imperial Russian Army major stepped out, straightened his tunic and marched toward their vehicle.
“That’s a Russian column, isn’t it?” Riordan said with defeat evident in his voice.
“Yes,” said General Myslosovich, feeling an intense headache explode between his eyes. “We have been fighting our own people.”
The major strode up to them and snapped to attention.
“In the name of Lieutenant Colonel Samedi Janeki of the Imperial Russian Army, I demand your immediate surrender.”
“Christ, man!” General Myslosovich shrilled. “We are the Russian Army!”
50
Fort Yukon, Dená Republik
“Lieutenant Yamato, I don’t think it’s advisable for you to fly,” Lieutenant Colonel James Burton said.
“You’re the flight surgeon. You can order me not to go up, but if it’s my decision, I’m on my way.”
“Your wound is as good as it can be; the stitches make a big difference. I think you could use some more rest, but your responses are fine and I know you have more investment in this war than others.”
“And I told them I’d be back with modern aircraft.”
“That’s a beautiful bird you brought in. The mechanics are treating it like royalty.”
“They know quality when they see it, sir.”
“Okay, you’re back on the flight list. I’ll call Major Shipley and tell him you’re cleared.”
“Thank you, Colonel Burton.” With a salute Jerry was out the door and hurrying toward the flight line. He entered the Operations Building next to the hangar.
A sergeant in ROC uniform looked up from the front desk.
“May I help you, Lieutenant?”
“I need a plane.”
“Your name, sir?”
“First Lieutenant Gerald Yamato, 117th Fighter Squadron, ROC.”
“You were shot down out there in the wilderness, right, sir?”
“Yeah, I sure as hell was.”
“Through that door, Lieutenant Yamato”—the sergeant pointed—“you’ll find the Operations officer. He has all the planes. Glad you made it, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I’m glad I made it, too.”
He pushed through the door where a corporal glanced up from a typewriter. “Hi, Lieutenant Yamato, welcome back.”
“Corporal Anderson, it’s good to see you.” Jerry immediately turned his attention to the Flight Status Board. “Wow, we have seven operational birds and all of them are on the ground?”
“We’ve been ordered to stand down, Jerry,” Major Shipley said, coming out of his office. Captain Kirby and Lieutenant Currie trailed him.
Jerry snapped to attention and saluted his commanding officer. “Congratulations on your promotion, sir. Good to see you.”
Shipley returned the salute. “Thanks, but I’d rather still be the XO and have Major Hurley back. You’ve done a hell of a fine job, Lieutenant, or should I say, Captain?”
“Major?”
“Actually that’s wrong too. I received a message from Sacramento this morning promoting the entire squadron to the next rank. It seems we benefited from some good press over our battle with the Russian armored column.”
“That’s because there weren’t any reporters there,” Captain Kirby said.
When they finished laughing, Jerry asked, “So is the war over?”
“Not that I’ve heard. This morning we had orders from Dená Southern Command to stand down for the day, no reasons why, but then we’re just a bunch of fighter jockeys, right?”
“Maj— Colonel Shipley, I have obligations which require the use of a P-61.”
Alaska Republik-ARC Page 17
