Russian Amerika (23 page)

"What's his name and rank?"

"I think he is a captain by the name of Smolst, do you know him?"

Grisha laughed and danced in a circle.

"I'll take that as a yes," Wing said with a smile. "Catch up with Malagni, you and he are going to take the lead."

Grisha gave her a level stare. "See you in Chena."

35

Chena

Nathan, Nik, and Haimish, surrounded by a squad of eight nervous, heavily armed soldiers, trotted down the deserted highway toward Chena Redoubt. Shops and homes stood quiet and still in the pale noon brightness. The civilian Russian and
Creole
population never knew what the Cossacks might do next. When gunfire filled the air they went to ground.

Three men carrying equipment abruptly stepped from between two buildings. The Dená squad leader crouched and aimed at them. The squad followed her example.

"Wait!" one of the men shouted. "We're friends."

The squad leader glanced over at Nathan.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"Keep them covered, Eleanor," Nathan said in a low voice. Then he shouted. "What is that you have there, friend?"

The heavily clothed men walked toward them slowly with their hands in the air. One held a bulky object over his head. A thick, short barrel pointed from the front of the thing.

The second man carried a short tube with a knob on one end with wires running from the opposite end to a backpack carried by the third man. The man with the smallest load did all the talking.

"We're from RepCal Productions!" he said eagerly. "You've heard of RepCal, haven't you?" The three men closed to five meters.

"Stop or you're dead," Eleanor said in a flat voice, peering through the sights of her 9mm rifle.

They stopped.

"Look, we're just up here getting some footage for movie commercials," the man said quickly, pushing back his parka hood. "We just want to know what's going on around here. Is this a war or something?"

"Who are you?" Haimish asked.

"Benny Jackson. I'm a producer." He grinned quickly. "And this is Alf Rosario, my cameraman, and over here-" he patted the man carrying the knapsack on the shoulder "-is Jimmy Scanlon, our sound tech."

"That's a camera?" Nathan asked.

"Yeah, top-of-the-line 35mm camera."

"I saw one of those in St. Nicholas," Nik said. "They make movies with them."

"Yeah!" Jackson agreed. "Like the man says, we make movies."

"Why are you here?" Haimish asked.

"We've been traveling all through Russian America getting footage for commercials and maybe a documentary." Jackson paused and stared hard at Haimish. "You sure don't sound like the rest of these guys, where you from?"

"That doesn't matter. What does matter is that I'm here and helping birth a nation."

"Yeah? Who's gonna know about it if it isn't covered?"

"Covered-you mean observed?" Nathan asked.

"Filmed, baby, and shown to the public." Jackson patted the camera.

"You would do that for us?"

"Look, no offense, but you people are still in the stone age or something up here. Down south we got radio networks that span the continent and even go into New France, New Spain, and Brit Canada. We have a network of theater chains even more extensive, and the public is hungry for news and the unusual.

"The Russkies told us we could go anywhere we wanted in Russian America to shoot footage to entice people up here and spend money. But we didn't know nothin' about you people, or about any wars being fought."

"Actually it's just begun," Nathan said with a smile. "You can make money somehow from all this, can't you?"

Jackson grinned and spoke to Alf out of the corner of his mouth. "Start shooting, Alf. Jimmy, make sure you get sound levels on everything." He stuck the wire mesh knob in front of Nathan's face.

"This is a microphone, we can record your words with it."

"Answer my question," Nathan said.

"You must be a mind reader, mister. Yeah, we can make plenty off the rights to this stuff, even the Japanese will buy it."

"Perhaps we should talk before you begin."

Jackson's eyes narrowed and he reached down and snapped a switch on the machine in the backpack.

"So talk."

"We are not a rich people. It would be a good thing if you contributed a percentage of your profits to the Dená Separatist Movement. Sharing can open many doors."

Jackson smiled. "Ain't no moss growing on you, is there? Okay, how about fifteen percent?"

"Very generous, but twenty-five is the number I had in mind."

"Done."

"Make sure it tells the story we want people to hear."

"No sweat, baby. Roll it, Jimmy. You focused there, Alf? Okay." He held the microphone up again. "Just who are you people?"

"We are the Dená Army. For centuries our people have been exploited and oppressed by the Russians. As far as they are concerned, we are at the bottom of the social strata-"

“ 'Scuse me, but we got a war to fight," Haimish said waspishly.

"Let's go!" Jackson seemed delighted at the idea. "We can move and interview at the same time."

Nik and Haimish, surrounded by half of Eleanor's squad, ranged out ahead of the camera crew. The sun sank toward the early afternoon horizon and the temperature dropped with it. A few random gunshots echoed through the crisp air, shattering the crystalline stillness.

Two Dená holding Kalashnikovs emerged from the shadows at the main gate.

"We need the others, Hamish," Jimmy Burton said. "We've got the operations bunker and the prison. They have everything else, including the armory."

"How many 'ave we lost?"

"I don't know the exact number. Heron's over in the operations complex, I think he has numbers and names. Who are those guys?" He pointed to the camera crew that busily recorded their conversation.

"They're movie people, telling the other North Amerikan countries about us."

"Who are you people?" Burton asked.

"We're harmless. Just pretend we're not here," Jackson said with a wink.

Burton shook his head and disappeared back into the shadows.

As they passed through the cell blocks, prisoners were being freed and herded into a large room where they could be briefed and offered positions in the DA. The camera crew slowed considerably in order to get shots of everything, including pools of blood and shattered buildings.

Nik hurried into the radio room, where a war of deception could still be won or lost. Six people crowded the room, removing bodies on litters. Half of the radio equipment lay in shards. Pockmarks from bullets cratered the walls and ceiling.

Two medics worked feverishly on someone whose face Nik couldn't see. He walked around them to get a better view. Cora lay on the litter, blinking up at the ceiling, her lower lip trembling.

"Cora! Oh my God, Cora!" Nik knelt down beside her and caught the eye of a medic. The medic shook his head slightly and went back to work stanching the flow of blood from her wounds. "Oh my darling, what have you done?" he said gently.

"I'm, so, sorry." She coughed up a large gobbet of red froth. Nik realized her lungs were destroyed and she was drowning in her own blood. ". .

I wanted, to be your, wife, but . . ."

The animation in her eyes froze into a glassy stare. The tears running down his cheeks surprised him for a moment before he began to sob.

Behind Nik, Benny Jackson tapped Alf Rosario on the shoulder.

"That's enough, Alf, it's a wrap."

They left Nik to his grief.

36

On the Russia-Canada Highway

Grisha pushed down harder on the accelerator. The increased speed caused the half-track to bounce even more, so he slowed again.

"We'll get there, Grisha, don't worry." Malagni peered out the side window. The man filled the cab, adding to Grisha's anxiety.

"Why don't they send us a message?"

"We agreed not to break radio silence until after all the attacks began. The other Russian bases might be monitoring every wavelength. The longer we can keep them out of this, the better."

"Six more kilometers," Grisha said through clenched teeth. "At this speed I could outrun the whole column on foot."

"We need every vehicle, every rifle, every bullet," Malagni said. "We need every break we can get."

Driving a half-track called for the same habits as piloting a boat. Grisha kept his eyes moving all the time, glancing from side to side, watching the rearview mirror, minding the ditches and keeping a keen eye as far ahead as possible. Diesel stench wafted through the firewall but he couldn't roll down the window without subjecting his ears to frostbite. He noticed they were near the end of a long straightaway and then glanced in the mirror.

As if waiting for his attention, the sound of a plane passed overhead. He glanced up in time to see a Yak fighter flash by in the fading light. The aircraft waggled its wings and flew in a wide circle around them.

"Colonel Yuganin," a voice rasped from the radio. "This is Talon Six. Chena Redoubt is under attack. Tetlin has lost radio contact with them. Over."

Malagni picked up the microphone. "We are advancing at top speed. Are there more aircraft to assist us?"

"No. Only three other aircraft exist in this sector. Four other redoubts are also under attack. The other three Yaks have gone north to hit Tanana Redoubt. We believe our garrison there has been nullified."

"And the other battles?" Malagni tried to put disbelief into his voice.

"In question," the pilot said. "Are you going to attack now?"

"Yes!" Malagni said. He dropped the microphone, pushed the roof hatch open and pulled on the mottled Russian parka next to him.

"Do you want me to stop?" Grisha asked.

"No, this won't take long." Malagni stood up behind the twin 9mm machine guns mounted above the cab roof.

Grisha heard the plane coming back over them. The machine gun fired four quick bursts. Trailing fire and smoke, the fighter angled down ahead of them, veered to the right, and dropped into the trees. The explosion lit the roadside forest for a blinding moment.

Malagni slammed the hatch shut and dropped onto the bench seat. "How's that for nullify? By all that's holy," he said wonderingly, "we might actually pull this off."

Complete darkness shrouded Chena when they roared down the street. The
aurora borealis
scrolled and winked overhead as the wood portions of the gates of the redoubt burned furiously.

Bullets
splanged
across the hood of the half-track. Grisha stomped on the brake, slewed the vehicle sideways, and roared off the street to crash through the wall of a house. The trucks behind them pulled to the sides of the road.

"By the Raven!" Malagni shouted.

"Are you hurt?" Grisha asked.

"Why are they shooting at us?"

"Perhaps they don't know who we are?"

"Good point, Grisha," Malagni said with a grin. "We
are
in a Russian halftrack."

Both men broke into maniacal laughter.

Malagni crawled out of the cab and screamed into the night.

"This is the Dená Army! Who dares fire at us?"

"Friend," someone shouted. A figure materialized out of the gloom. Claude stopped a few meters from them and smiled. "I think you're just in time to make a difference."

"What do you want us to do?" Malagni asked, suddenly sane again.

Claude told them, then disappeared behind the walls. Malagni conferred with the other drivers, then jumped back in the cab with Grisha.

"Temperature's dropping fast out there," he said absently. "You ready to go kill some more Russians?"

"Do we have a choice?"

"No," Malagni said with a humorless laugh, "I guess we don't. Drive right up to the gate."

Grisha gunned the half-track backward and spun it around on one track until he was straight on the road again. He roared up to the gate and blew the air horn. Gunfire slackened inside the walls.

An iron shutter crashed open and a gun barrel poked out.

"Who is there?" a voice demanded in Russian.

"Colonel Yuganin and the remnants of the Troika Guard!" Grisha roared.

"Open the gate, we're freezing out here!"

"At once, Colonel. There has been an attack. Rebels are inside the compound."

The gates opened swiftly and Grisha sped inside. The five trucks followed close behind him. When the tanks entered, they separated and scattered around the courtyard, stopping next to Russian strong points.

A sergeant with red flashes on his parka ran up to the half-track and pulled the door open.

"Colonel Yuganin. We must make an immediate assault. They have the operations complex."

Malagni put the muzzle of his machine pistol between the man's eyes.

"Cooperate and you'll live, Sergeant."

The man jerked to a stop and his breath puffed out in a cloud around his face.

"Where-where's the colonel?"

"Dead, along with the rest of his command," Malagni said flatly.

The tanks swiveled their turrets around until they menaced the armory from three directions.

"You can't win," the Indian said, "but you can live."

The sergeant lost all animation and his shoulders slumped.

"Very well, I'll signal my men to lay down their arms."

Before the men in the cab could say anything, the sergeant put a whistle to his lips and blew three short blasts.

A streak of fire shot out from the armory and exploded in the right front wheel well next to the sergeant, blowing him to pieces and fragmenting the cab door. The pressure and shrapnel blew Malagni against Grisha with such force that they both burst out through the driver's side of the cab into a heap on the frozen ground.

Weapons crashed and shrieked around them. Each of the tanks fired at the armory three times before hitting explosives inside. Suddenly the doors and windows blew outward with stunning concussion. Everything fell silent.

White sheets and towels appeared at the smashed windows of the barracks. Russian troopers crawled from their shelter with hands high in the biting air. Grisha sat up and held his hands over his ringing ears.