Alaska Republik-ARC

by Stoney Compton

  59

  Over Russian Amerika

  Captain Jerry Yamato knew his aircraft to be superior to the Yak growing in his gunsights. At 3,000 meters he fired short bursts from his wing cannons and watched the Yak run right into the tracers. The Russian craft shuddered and smoke poured from behind the propeller. The plane seemed to shrug and nosed toward the ground.

  The fighter immediately behind it came through its predecessor’s smoke like an avenging angel, cannon firing and no deviation in course as it headed straight for Jerry.

  Jerry rolled to the left and dove at full speed before pulling the Eureka up at a steep angle to come up behind the Yak. At least that was the plan. He snapped Satori—every P-61 he flew induced satori—around and the Yak wasn’t there.

  Immediately he rolled to the right and tracers streamed past the cockpit. He felt at least two rounds hit the fuselage as he pulled up and fought for altitude. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the sun flash off the Yak’s wings as it pulled up to follow him.

  He became aware of the radio chatter.

  “Dave, you got one on your tail!”

  “Good shooting, Currie, but watch out for the belly gun on the one behind it.”

  “Colonel Shipley, you got one coming straight down at you!”

  Jerry looked back at the Yak. It had reached its performance ceiling and rolled back in a dive to lower altitude. Jerry grinned and nosed over, roaring down on the now vulnerable Yak with his wing guns blazing.

  The Yak shook under the barrage as first smoke and then flame boiled out of it. It nosed over and hurtled toward the earth 6,000 feet below. Jerry didn’t see a parachute.

  Bullets smashed into his plane and two rounds came through the cockpit, barely missing his head. He felt the air movement of one as it passed his cheek. Suppressing panic, he twisted to the left and climbed as fast as the bird would go.

  Abruptly the belly of another Yak filled his sights and he squeezed off a long burst and veered to the right as the Yak exploded, filling the sky with debris. A burning tire streaked through the air and glanced off Satori’s nacelle. Jerry quickly thanked his ancestors that the thing had missed his prop.

  “Colonel Shipley, Fowler here. I’m hit.” The words poured out in a rush.

  “How bad, Dave?”

  Jerry could hear the man’s rasping breath over the radio and twisted around trying to locate the others. His acrobatic flying had taken him over a mile away from the main fight. Unwittingly, he had moved close to the bombers, now fighting for their lives against Sucker Punch Two. One of the birds from Sucker Punch One flew toward him, trailing heavy smoke. Jerry realized it was Fowler.

  “Ain’t gonna…make it. Chest wound. Losing lotsa blood, hard ta see.”

  “Where you going, Dave?” Jerry asked.

  “Wanna take…a bomber”—he coughed and his plane dipped and bobbed up again—“…with me.”

  Jerry looked over at the four remaining bombers in time to see one of the Eurekas take a burst of fire from the leading bomber’s belly gun. The Eureka tumbled and burst into flame.

  “Bail out!” he shouted. “Bail out!”

  “Major Ellis just bought the farm.” Jerry thought it was Cassaro’s voice.

  “Tell ’im to wait,” Fowler said. “I’ll go with…”

  Jerry saw Fowler’s plane streak by. The cockpit was shot to pieces and part of the tail elevator ripped away as he watched. The plane arrowed directly into the leading bomber, colliding amidships.

  A bright light filled the sky as the entire bomb load detonated, atomizing both aircraft. The shock wave knocked Satori out of level flight, rolling her violently to his left and into a spin. Jerry fought to pull her back into level flight. The second bomber took massive amounts of debris through the cockpit, nose gun, and top gun mount, killing those crew members. The bomber went into an earthward spiral.

  “Jesus,” someone breathed over the radio.

  “Got him!” Hafs shouted. Another Yak torched out of the sky.

  The two remaining Russian bombers turned left 180 degrees and dropped to a lower altitude as they abruptly reversed course.

  “They’re running away,” Captain Currie said. “Want us to pursue, Skipper?”

  “Negative that. Let the Yaks go, too. We’ve stopped their mission. I want a status report from everyone. Currie?”

  “Quarter tank of gas, about a third of my ammo left, no damage that I know of.”

  “Cassaro?”

  “Same on fuel, little bit less ammo, and I’ve got a piece shot out of my tail.”

  “Can you still maneuver safely?”

  “I shot down the bastard that did it, so I guess so.”

  “Cooper?”

  “Lead me to them!”

  “Yamato?”

  “Fuel at one quarter, ammo half gone, multiple hits including cockpit but no injuries and I’m still airworthy.”

  “Kirby?”

  “Good to go, Skipper.”

  “Hafs?”

  “I’m with everyone else on fuel and ammo, no hits and I scratched a Yak.”

  “Good work, men. Captain Yamato, you nailed two of them, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Can we go after the armored column now?”

  “We have enough fuel to hit them once and then we haul ass back to Fort Yukon, got it?”

  Six comm clicks answered.

  “Yamato, lead the way.”

  60

  Battle of Delta

  Magda and her scouts entered the front line of Refuge’s defense. Anyone farther out was an enemy or terribly lost. No matter how you cut it, they would be targets.

  The line consisted of four .30 caliber machine gun emplacements joined by a well-protected trench feeding into the second line of defense, 100 yards to the rear.

  “They’re on the other side of those boulders, Magda,” Tom Richards whispered out of the side of his mouth. “You’re better off here for the time being, okay?”

  “Is that an order, Lieutenant?” She smiled when he glanced at her. She liked Tom. He had more Yup’ik blood than Athabascan, but he was a clever leader and the DSM could use a lot more just like him.

  “For ten minutes, okay?”

  Machine gun fire on the far right blotted out her response and everyone in the trench readied weapons.

  “They’re probing, Tom,” one of his soldiers said.

  “I know, Howard. Be ready for them.”

  Magda eased to the left to fill in the wide space between the machine gun emplacement and the rest of the people in the trench. Anna Demoski automatically moved equidistant between Magda and the soldier on the other side of her. Magda studied the terrain with the eye of a hunter.

  The left flank Dená gun emplacements were within 30 meters of each other. Both had incredible fields of fire across rocky ground and could be brought to bear on the boulders in the center of the line. Putting herself on the other side, Magda winced when she realized what the enemy faced coming up that steep slope.

  “They should just go home,” she muttered, “and leave us alone.”

  Two heartbeats later, Russian soldiers poured over and around the boulders, screaming, firing light machine guns ineffectually into the air and at rocks. The Dená line answered with immediate precision.

  The machine gun emplacements cut the attackers down with surgical skill. The attack foundered in less than a minute and ebbed back into the rocks leaving at least thirty causalities.

  “I want volunteers,” Lieutenant Richards snapped. “We need to pursue and harass.”

  “My squad is on it,” Magda said, waving her people forward.

  “Sergeant Laughlin,” Richards yelled, “You and your squad go with them.”

  Athabascan warriors moved quickly and quietly among the boulders, intent on their mission.

  61

  Battle of Delta

  “Majeur Riordan!”

  Riordan turned to his executive officer. “René?”

  The small man glanc
ed around at the men working on machinery, cleaning weapons, laying about smoking and gabbing. He fixed his eyes on Riordan and harshly whispered, “The Russians are going to arrest you!”

  “Say what? Why?” He put his hand on his holstered 9mm. “Or for that bloody matter, how?”

  “They know about the mechanized scout incident.”

  Riordan scowled, glanced around, looked back at his comrade. “And how the hell did they tumble to that?”

  “Someone sent them a message. I don’t know who. The message said you shot a Russian officer in the head, at close quarters, from behind.”

  Riordan felt a chill slide down his spine and freeze his scrotum. He opened his mouth twice before he could actually say anything. “God’s cod piece, René, you didn’t even know that, only I did!”

  “How could this be known by anyone?” René asked.

  “Someone had to be there; someone I obviously didn’t see. Jesus wept, we were out in the wilderness!”

  “You must flee or they will have you on charges, Majeur.”

  Riordan felt sweat beading on his forehead. He was acutely aware of the smell of diesel exhaust and cordite, and of the fear that suddenly slid over his mind. The old anger welled up, the absolute source of his driving energy, breaking through bonds perfected over the years, refusing to be internalized one moment longer.

  “They need me, damn them! Nothing I’ve done in the past can stop my greatness, my future.”

  “Majeur,” René said softly, as if soothing a frightened child, “I have for you the motorcycle, just here, non?” He pointed to their BMW. “I will tell them you have gone on reconnaissance, to find a way around the enemy defenses, non?”

  His hard-earned training kicked in and Riordan collected himself in an instant. “Yes, you’re absolutely right, René. Thank you, my friend. I’ll sneak in after nightfall and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Oui. Now hurry; they will be here soonest.”

  Riordan mounted the motorcycle, noted that it carried water, rations, even a sleeping bag. He snapped the cover of his holster shut, grabbed the goggles hanging off the handlebars and pulled them on.

  “René, I’ll be back.” The engine caught on the first kick and he accelerated off through the war machines and soldiers, heading for the rear. If he had glanced in the mirror, he would have seen René wave in farewell. But he only had eyes for the road ahead.

  62

  Lieutenant Colonel Janeki pondered the report from the only surviving noncommissioned officer to survive the assault on the mountain. “How many rounds do we have for the cannon?”

  “Approximately three hundred shells remaining, Colonel,” Major Brodski said.

  “This is the only enemy strongpoint before Chena, is it not?”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “We cannot advance with this pocket of rebellion and potential assassination at our backs. Use half of the remaining ammunition; shell that damned mountainside until every boulder is reduced to sand.”

  Major Brodski saluted and turned to the waiting staff officers. In moments the first rounds whistled over and impacted the mountain. The barrage settled into a constant cacophony of high explosives.

  “Colonel, there is the matter of the letter.”

  “What letter is that, Leonid?”

  “The letter that accuses Major Riordan of murdering a Russian officer.”

  “Have you been able to find him?”

  “I haven’t heard back from the provost marshal, Colonel. I anticipate word at any moment.”

  A huge cloud rose from beneath the rain of destruction on the mountainside. Janeki peered up where the enemy had chosen to make their stand and tried to fathom their decision. A scout car stopped near him and two MPs stepped out with a mercenary captain between them.

  Both MPs saluted and the sergeant reported. “Colonel Janeki, this is Captain Flérs of the—”

  “I know who he’s with,” Janeki said crisply. “What about him?”

  “He was observed aiding the escape of Major Riordan, sir.”

  Janeki turned cold eyes on the captain. “Captain Flérs, how did Riordan know he was being sought by our provost marshal?”

  “I told him, Colonel.”

  “You are his second-in-command, Captain Flérs?”

  “Oui. For the past three years I have had that honor.”

  “So there is honor among thieves and murderers?”

  “We are neither of those things.” Captain Flérs kept his tone conversational but Janeki detected a flash in the man’s eyes that promised retribution. “We are professional soldiers for hire. We are very good at our profession and have enjoyed many successes.”

  “Do you consider mass murder a ‘success’?”

  “I do not know what you speak of, Colonel.”

  “Three, four days ago, did your brigands not kill every man in a Russian Army scout unit in order to rob them and steal their vehicles?”

  Janeki saw the fleeting expression of the guilty flash across the Frenchman’s face. Flérs blinked and stared at Janeki.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, Colonel. We did no such—”

  “Take him out and shoot him!” Janeki bellowed, startling everyone in the area.

  Two troopers had the presence of mind to grab the stunned Captain Flérs.

  “Sir?” the MP sergeant said. “You want him shot, now?”

  “Yes. He’s a lying French weasel who abetted the murder of scores of Russian soldiers and—”

  “Wait!” Captain René Flérs’ practiced nonchalance fled from his face and fear crawled from every pore. “I had nothing to do with it, I swear.” Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and he blinked through them.

  “The majeur listens to no one,” he said with a catch in his voice. “He makes all la reglement du jeu—”

  “Speak English or Russian,” Janeki snapped.

  “Sorry,” Flérs said with a sniff. “He makes all the rule of the games. He thinks he is some sort of avenging Irish god.”

  “What does Irish have to do with it?”

  “Mon dieu, where would one start?” Flérs threw his hands in the air, finally breaking the MPs’ grips. His eyes widened even further.

  “Only to suggest a question and he begins the lecture! The inhumanity of the British against the Irish is all he can speak of. And the Czar he is cousin to the King of England.”

  Janeki blanched. “Do you mean the man is an anarchist?”

  A Gallic shrug from Flérs. “The case can be made, I’m afraid.”

  Janeki turned to the provost marshal, a senior lieutenant promoted from the ranks for heroism. “Place this man in solitary confinement; he is to speak to no one. Very carefully isolate the mercenary troops, disarm them, and place them under arrest.”

  “Colonel, we are in the middle of a battle. I have but ten men to police this regiment now, and there are over a hundred mercenaries.”

  “They will listen to me,” Captain Flérs said in his executive officer voice. “They will fight for you.”

  “They murdered Russian soldiers! You didn’t give them a chance to fight for their lives—”

  “But you need us!” Flérs cried out, his face twisted in fear and supplication.

  Janeki hesitated, thought for a moment. “All right; call your men together. Sergeant, you go with him.”

  “Thank you, mon Colonel. You will not regret this.”

  The men walked away toward the majority of the mercenaries waiting to go into battle.

  Janeki stepped closer to his provost marshal and put his mouth within inches of the man’s ear: “Lieutenant Kubitski, here’s what I want you to do.”

  63

  Battle of Delta

  In a pocket between three boulders, Magda hugged the heaving earth as the salvos impacted around her. She and her squad had dropped Russians all the way down the slope. She stopped her people when they were within three hundred meters of the road and waved them back toward the Dená
lines.

  Halfway up, the mountain erupted in front of them. The first shells smashed four of her people into gory atoms and she screamed for the remainding troops to take cover. Armageddon rolled over them.

  Each time a shell landed, the ground and rocks sprang into the air, hitting her, pummeling her, striking at her from directions she could not anticipate. It was a huge club of sounds, repeating over and over and over. The noise and concussion filled her soul with abject terror.

  She looked around at her team, watching the flesh on their face shake, their eyes going bright as if ready to cry, blood draining from faces leaving them pale like diluted tea. Her people looked older, flabby, and the only sounds she heard between the smashing shells were cries of prayer, pain, the rattle of teeth, and whimpering that reminded her of a badly injured dog.

  As the barrage continued, the members of her team found shelter that, true or false, promised protection, and huddled where they could. The very earth proved to be their enemy as well as their salvation. Suddenly the world grew quiet and she suspected a trap.

  After a full minute she raised her head and looked around.

  “Sergeant Laughlin!” she yelled. Her voice sounded faint in her own ears.

  The rocks and dust absorbed her shout. Nothing moved. No response answered her call.

  “Anybody!” she shrieked at the mountainside.

  “M-Magda?” a voice scarcely above a whisper registered on her consciousness.

  She twisted from one side to the other trying to ascertain its source. A dusty, bloody hand reached over a rock and clawed at it, seeking leverage. Magda scurried over, grabbed the hand and hauled the person into view.

  Corporal Anna Demoski bled from both nostrils and one ear.

  “My God, Anna, are you all right?” Magda pulled the woman close to her and eased her down onto the rocky ground.

  “Don’t really know. I hurt like hell, y’know? Anybody else alive?”

  “I’m not sure. Hell, I’m not sure we’re alive!”

  Anna laughed and a droplet of bloody sputum dropped from the corner of her mouth and hung, glistening, in the dust-filled air for a long moment before sagging to her uniform jacket and soaking into the sweat-darkened material. Anna visibly ebbed.