Alaska Republik-ARC

by Stoney Compton

  “So?” Carpenter said.

  “There’s a lot of old animosities and distrust to get past. That kind of thing takes time. Indian time.”

  “What’s ‘Indian time’?” Tilgen asked.

  “Pretty much the idea if you don’t get it done today, there’s always tomorrow.”

  “Oh, sounds a lot like Spanish Mexico time,” Carpenter said with a laugh. “Mañana!”

  The other two Californians laughed.

  “That means the same thing, huh?” Sergi said with a grin.

  “Precisely!” Carpenter said.

  Abruptly one of the poles jerked down and the reel sang out as something on the other end of the line grabbed the bait and ran with it.

  “Holy shit, I got something!” Frieze shouted, bounding to his feet. “You guys get your lines out of the way!”

  Titus and Tilgen both jumped up to grab their poles. Carpenter decided there was too much going on at the moment for him to get in the middle of it, so he stayed put and took another swig of beer.

  Suddenly Frieze’s head exploded, then Tilgen’s, and Titus screamed as something went through his chest. All three men were knocked into the water. Before Carpenter could sit up, he heard the rifle reports carry across the water.

  “What the hell?” he shouted.

  The boat rocked and a bright hole appeared in the gunwale. Another rifle report echoed across the Yukon.

  He lifted his head to look at the east bank from where the shots originated. Something buzzed past his head close enough that he felt the breeze it created.

  Another hole punched through the side of the boat. He rolled over to the main motor, grabbed the control arm, pulled it down and let it go. The engine slammed down into operating position.

  Carpenter pushed the control arm with his foot so it turned the boat toward the west bank. As soon as the boat turned, he sat up and grabbed the arm, pushed the ignition button and, like a lunatic, laughed aloud as the engine roared into life.

  Another hole appeared beside the motor and something hit his left boot, tearing the heel off and throwing it over the front of the boat.

  Carpenter gave the control arm a hard twist and the motor bellowed as the front of the boat rose and tore west across the Yukon. A round splanged off the top of the motor and Carpenter turned the boat to the left and back again to the right.

  Until the sob burst from his throat, he didn’t realize he was crying. He kept the boat moving upriver toward Tanana, but not in a straight line. He thought the war was over.

  103

  Tanana, Dená Republik

  “You were in the middle of the river when this happened?” Colonel Smolst asked again.

  “Dammit, Colonel, I’ve told you that twice already!”

  “Calm down, Carpenter!” Colonel Buhrman snapped.

  “It’s okay, Del,” Smolst said. “He’s had a damn lousy day.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill us?” Carpenter said in a pleading tone, looking from one officer to the other. “The frigging war is over, isn’t it?”

  “We thought it was,” Smolst said. “Okay, just one more question and you’re dismissed. How long do you think it took you to get back to Tanana?”

  “It seemed like forever, but…” Carpenter stared at the ground and frowned in thought. “Between forty-five minutes and an hour, Colonel. I think we were about twenty-five miles downriver when it happened.”

  Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “Those guys were the best buddies I ever had.”

  “Go see the doc, Carpenter,” Colonel Buhrman said gently and patted the man’s heaving shoulders. “Tell him I said to give you the good stuff.”

  Head down, Carpenter limped away, not bothering to compensate for the damaged left boot.

  Smolst looked at Colonel Buhrman. “This isn’t good. We must have a band of rogue Russians out there.”

  “But there aren’t any Russian outposts unaccounted for, are there?”

  “No. But there had to be more than two people shooting to get that many shots off in such a short amount of time.”

  “Colonel!” The shout came from the bank where the shot-up riverboat had grounded at high speed.

  Both officers hurried down.

  An RCAF first lieutenant was examining a bullet hole with a magnifying glass. He looked up. “Gentlemen, this is a very peculiar situation.”

  Buhrman glanced at Smolst. “Lieutenant McVey was a police crime scene investigator in civilian life.”

  “Excellent!” Smolst said. “Why peculiar, Lieutenant?”

  “We have entry holes, but no exit holes. Theses holes are larger than a regulation rifle round would make, which could be attributed to a lead-point round, perhaps even a dumdum—both of which are illegal by treaty throughout North America.

  “But what makes this event even more puzzling is little or no evidence of what had to be a high-power round. There were no other boats on the river, so the shots had to be fired from the bank, approximately a half mile away. If the rounds had been standard military, there would be holes in the other side of this boat, and they would be lower than the entry holes.”

  “Which would have sunk the boat, right?” Buhrman said. “So what are we dealing with here?”

  “I would say mercury. To prove that, I am going to swab this area with cotton and send it to a real lab to be examined under a microscope to search for trace amounts. But that’s the only thing I can think of that would create a pattern like this.”

  “Mercury-tipped bullets?” Smolst said. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “For an assassination,” Buhrman said. “But whose?”

  “Can we go back to the mercury tips for a moment, Colonel?” Smolst asked. “Why mercury?”

  “It was probably between a .30 caliber and a .300 magnum round that made this hole,” the lieutenant said. “But the entry area is twice what it should be and the lack of exit holes is pretty much a giveaway. When a mercury tipped round hits a human head, the head explodes—it just ain’t there anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because mercury is a heavy metal, a liquid heavy metal. When the brass tip of the round fragments, the mercury keeps moving at the same velocity and it spreads. You don’t just get wounded with one of these rounds, you get killed.”

  “Oh. That’s why all three of the men who were hit were knocked completely out of the boat.”

  “Yup, you got it, Heinrich,” Buhrman said. “And keep in mind all three men were hit from half a mile. These people might be monsters, but they’re damn good shots.”

  “What are we going to do about them?”

  “Find them and kill them, the sooner the better.”

  “We don’t even know how many we’re up against.”

  “You bring your five best and I’ll do the same. I think the odds will be on our side.”

  “I hope you’re right, Del.”

  “Go get your people. We’ll meet up here in one hour, ready to travel cross-country.”

  Colonel Heinrich Smolst hurried up the riverbank.

  104

  Tanana, Dená Republik

  “Has every delegate signed the document?” Grisha asked from his desk in front of the ten tables where the delegates had hammered together a constitution.

  Eleanor Wright stood. “Mr. Chairman, every delegate has signed our new constitution. It is ready to be presented to the people of Alaska.”

  In less than a heartbeat, all of the delegates were standing and applauding, as was Grisha. Emotion filled him and he hoped this effort would bring the benefits every person in the room thought it would. Only time, and history, would tell.

  He let them stop of their own accord before speaking. “Each one of you has my heartfelt gratitude for the time you have given to create a framework for our new nation. I’m sure that August 16, 1988 will come to be known as Constitution Day for the rest of the Alaska Republik’s history.

  “Now we have to give each of our states about five months t
o form their governments and ratify what we have done here. This is going to be an interesting winter. I declare this constitutional convention to be adjourned.”

  He rapped his gavel for the last time.

  105

  Village of Klahotsa

  Major Timothy Riordan stopped in front of Trooper Smythe and examined the man intently for some reason to gig him. He snatched the rifle out of Smythe’s hands, opened the bolt and spun the weapon so he could peer down the barrel. The bore glistened with a light coat of oil and the rifling looked pristine.

  He threw the weapon back and Smythe caught it and returned to “present arms” in a blink. Riordan inspected the worn, but immaculate, uniform. Not even a loose thread.

  “What country does that uniform come from?”

  “Rhodesia, Major.”

  “You’re a long way from home, Trooper Smythe.”

  “As the major well knows, home is where the paycheck is, sir.”

  Riordan allowed himself to smile and moved to the next trooper. He wished all of his new people were as military as Smythe. His most slovenly soldier was First Lieutenant N’go.

  Now he remembered why he had busted the man to private months ago. But N’go had done something none of the others had ever done: he had saved Riordan’s life. That was worth a silver bar, Riordan thought.

  Although twelve years in the past, the memory of lying on the steel deck of the freighter, bleeding from a severe beating only two days outbound from Boston, sprang unbidden into his mind. On the run from the Boston Police Department, which included his father, he’d taken a berth as apprentice seaman. Immediately he’d made the mistake of thinking that his status in the Feral Cherubs would mean something outside of the slums of Boston.

  Bosun Collette had tried to kill him for his insolence. N’go stepped in at the last moment and told the bosun he had done enough. N’go stood nearly two meters in height and his solid, muscular body filled out his frame.

  The huge African kept the crew at bay until they made landfall in Banjul, Gambia, where they both jumped ship. N’go wanted to flee before the authorities could be notified. But Riordan had correctly surmised that the bosun would be one of the first granted shore liberty.

  Before Bosun Paul Collette could even have a beer, he was ambushed and beaten to death with an iron bar by Timothy Riordan, who never forgot a slight or a debt. Even at a twelve-year remove, Riordan still appreciated the irony of the whole thing. Before he left Boston he was an avowed darky hater. At this point he would die for N’go, the closest friend he had or was ever likely to have. He forced his mind to the present. He stopped inspecting his small band and took a stance in front of them. “You’ve all done well. It’s a pity one of your targets was able to escape last week, but I doubt it will matter in the greater scheme of things. Your marksmanship is excellent and I congratulate you all.”

  The twenty-four troopers, five sergeants and one first lieutenant all grinned at him.

  Maybe this is the size of force I should have led all along.

  “Todd and Foster have perimeter guard, the rest of you are dismissed.”

  The men scattered to their duties and the few distractions of Klahotsa, Bachman’s store being first and foremost. N’go walked over to Riordan.

  “Are you sure that there will be no retribution for the shootings, Tim?”

  Away from others, rank disappeared between them.

  “What can they do, send a cop? The Dená are all wrapped up in their little civics class. Everyone is too busy to investigate three shootings.”

  “I have my doubts of that, Tim,” N’go said carefully. “Everyone has friends.”

  “You’re proof of that!” Riordan said and laughed.

  106

  Near Clahotsa on the Yukon

  Colonel Del Buhrman didn’t like all this snow. It put a damper on their efforts. Not to mention it was getting damn cold for guys from the Republic of California. But they knew who their quarry was and where they could be found.

  They had stopped in Nowitna to ask questions and replenish their supplies. At the Titus Brothers Mercantile they asked if anyone had seen any strangers.

  “Why you askin’?” Sergi Titus gave Major Smolst a hard stare.

  “Because someone murdered three innocent men on the river eight days ago. We want to find them before they kill someone else. That all right with you?”

  Sergi pulled back, glanced around the busy room, and then nodded toward the back of the room. “Follow me, please.”

  Smolst followed but grabbed one of his men to come too. Sergi Titus didn’t argue about the extra man when he saw who it was. He led them through a door and spoke only after the door shut.

  “My cousins, Prospero and Iago Titus, were driving back from Delta and met this man who came in by himself, no vehicle or anything. He was hungry and tired and said he was going to Klahotsa, could they give him a ride.”

  Smolst squinted at the man. “Prospero and Iago?”

  Sergi grinned and shrugged. “My Auntie Ruth likes to read. When the twins were born she was reading a lot of Shakespeare. What can I say?”

  Smolst laughed. “So did they give this fellow a lift?”

  “Sure. This is the bush. Everybody helps everybody.”

  Smolst frowned and said, “So why—”

  “Allow me to finish. My cousins were immediately suspicious of the man because of his destination. The man who runs Klahotsa is a tyrant, a cheat, and not to be trusted.”

  “Who is that?” Smolst asked.

  “Bachmann. He showed up in Klahotsa one day about ten years ago with a signed deed for the store. Everybody who looked at the paper said it was the signature of the old owner, Konstantin Demientieff. But no one ever saw Konstantin after that: he had vanished.”

  “So you pulled us back here to tell us that?” Smolst said.

  “No. There are two men out there in our store that we don’t know. They could be Bachmann’s men.”

  “Did your cousins give you a description of the man to whom they gave a ride?”

  “Yeah, they did.” Sergi described Riordan perfectly and succinctly.

  “We won’t forget your help, Sergi. You have our thanks.”

  “Just be careful, Major Smolst. Bachmann has gathered a number of men around him, all strangers to us, and they are all killers. Let us know if we can be of more help.”

  “Is there a back way out of this room?”

  “Through that door, Major Smolst.”

  Smolst walked out and found Colonel Buhrman. After telling him the situation, they decided to find the two spies. It didn’t take long.

  “So who are you people?” Buhrman asked the two men tied to adjoining trees about half a kilometer from the village of Nowitna.

  “We’re—” said the first.

  “Tellin’ you nuthin’!” said the second.

  Buhrman pointed at the second one. “Peterson, Kyle, take this guy over there about a hundred meters, make sure you’re out of hearing from us, and question him further.”

  While the man was moved, Buhrman stared at the first man as if he could see through him. After five minutes of silence, growing increasingly nervous throughout, the first man blurted, “Listen, we haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “So what have you done?” Colonel Buhrman asked in a disinterested tone.

  “Some training, that’s all.”

  “Training?”

  “Yeah. Basic tracking, some fieldcraft, a bit of marksmanship…”

  “Using what kind of weapons?”

  The man licked his lips. Light snow started falling which gave the space around them more visual intimacy.

  “Uh, .30-06 mostly. Just run-of-the-mill weapons.”

  “What kind of rounds did you use?”

  Fear suddenly radiated from the man’s eyes and Buhrman knew he was close to long-sought answers.

  “B-bullets. Just regular bullets.”

  “There’s this thing I have, not sure what to call
it, but I absolutely know when someone is bullshitting me. As soon as this thing goes off in my gut, I start losing control of my better nature. And then I tend to hurt people who bring this thing on me.

  “You have just slipped into that category.” He lost his good-natured mien and sharpened his voice. “And if you want to live through the next hour, you need to be truthful with me, otherwise at the end of the hour you will be begging us to kill you!”

  “Th-this is crazy! I don’t know any—”

  “Is Bachmann paying you enough to die under torture?” Buhrman demanded.

  The man’s face blanched and he nearly fainted.

  “Answer me!”

  “No. No, he isn’t.”

  “How many men does he have?”

  “Th-thirty. Two dozen troopers like me, five sergeants, a first lieutenant and that g-gawddamn major.”

  “That would be Major Riordan?”

  “Yeah. If you know everything, why you asking me questions?”

  “To see if you’ll lie to me and then I can hurt you.”

  “L-look, this thing with Bachmann has gone all wr-wrong from the beginning. I haven’t hurt anyone and I want out of this mess.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “C-Clarence Needham.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Ohio. What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Because if I let you go and I find out you lied to me, I will hunt you down and kill you.”

  “I haven’t lied to you, dammit!”

  “I haven’t finished asking questions yet.”

  Needham chewed his lower lip, and despite the growing cold, sweat ran down his forehead.

  “Who shot those guys in the riverboat three weeks ago?”

  “Smythe, Lockhart, Innoko Mike, and Murphy over there.” He nodded toward the man Smolst and two soldiers were interrogating.

  “What kind of rounds did they use?”

  “Mercury tips.”

  “Why?”

  “Bachmann wants us to kill some people and he thinks we’ll only have time to get off a couple of shots.”

  “What people?”

  “Some Indians who he says are pushing him around.”

  “How many of these pushy Indians does he want to kill?”