Russian Amerika (35 page)

Conflicting emotions warred in Grisha's mind. He tried to smile, wasn't sure if he made it. "They couldn't have chosen anyone better. Lieutenant Colonel Demoski is the best executive officer you could ask for."

"I know. I want you to know that I'm doing this for you-when you get back there's no question as to who's the skipper."

61

Russia-Canada Highway

The ride west to Tanana proved wearisome and tedious. Blue retreated into herself and spoke only when addressed. Grisha quickly tired of initiating one-sided conversation and lapsed into moody silence.

A new fortification bristled with armament on the near bank of the Yukon River.

"If the gate is breached, the bridge blows up," Blue said. "All the people on this side are volunteers."

"Is there anyone in this army who isn't a volunteer?" Grisha asked. The truck rumbled across the bridge and he stared at the rotten ice on the Yukon.

"When will the ice go out?"

"Any day now," Blue said, clearly pleased to dwell on a safe subject.

"We have a lottery going for the day and hour it goes. The engineers built a little box that's hooked to a clock on the shore. When the cable pulls on the clock it stops running-the ice has officially gone out and we know the winning time."

Grisha laughed. "Sounds like morale is high on the Yukon."

"It is. And let me tell you, Colonel Grigoriy Grigorievich is a hero to the Athabascan People. It pains me to be part of this dog-shit political posturing. But it's all for the Republik, right?"

"Right." Grisha felt embarrassed at her effusiveness. Blue remained in the scout car when Grisha got out.

"Good luck, Grisha," she called.

A matte-black twin-engined bomber with three gold stars triangulated on its tail waited on the runway built on the ridge behind the village, props ticking at idle. Two fighters roared in wide circles above. An entrenched antiaircraft battery manned by Republic of California troops bristled near the taxi strip.

Grisha entered the aircraft and a handsome, smiling woman took his bag and led him to a plush seat next to a bubble window.

"My name is Anita, Colonel Grigorievich. Please sit here and fasten your seat belt. As soon as we are in the air I'll get you something to eat and drink." She disappeared from the small cabin and Grisha wondered what the rest of the aircraft held.

The plane turned sharply and a muted roar filled the cabin. He stared out the window as they raced past the small fires outlining the field, and wondered if they were going as fast as he thought.

Then they tilted back and roared upward.

Once airborne, Grisha had his first beer in eight months. His last had been in T'angass the day he and Karpov picked up Valari Kominskiya for the trip north to New Arkhangel. Despite the memories the beer was excellent.

Anita walked toward him carrying a steaming tray. Suddenly the plane nosed downward without warning. She and the tray slammed into the overhead and hung there as the plane arced in a dive.

"Are we going to crash?" Grisha yelled.

Abruptly the plane pulled up and went into a steep climb. Anita crashed to the floor and steaming food rained across the cabin. The flash of an explosion above them pulled his attention briefly to the window.

"We're being attacked," he said to himself.

A fighter flashed upward and a rocket ignited under its wing as both streaked out of sight.

Grisha unbelted himself and hurried to Anita who sprawled moaning on the floor, grasping at seat legs. He picked the woman up, put her in a seat, sat beside her, and strapped them both in. He intently examined her for injuries.

A voice came from above their seats. "This is the pilot speaking. My apologies for that unannounced dive. We were under rocket attack from a bogey and I had to take evasive action. The two attacking aircraft have been destroyed. Would the stewardess please report to the flight deck? Once again, my apologies."

Grisha unstrapped and moved through the cabin to the flight deck. He rapped on the door and then pushed it open. A man wearing a headset sitting at a console of switches and gauges looked up and his eyes widened in alarm. Beyond him were the pilot and copilot.

"Hey, who're you? Where's Anita?"

"I'm Gri-, Colonel Grigorievich. The stewardess was injured and I've got her strapped down in a seat."

"I'll take care of it, Captain," the man said to the pilot. He pulled off the headset and unstrapped. "I'm Navigation Officer Donahue. After you, sir." He pushed Grisha ahead of him.

Anita's ashen and drawn face testified to her pain and shock. Donahue examined the woman. "Broken arm." He opened an overhead compartment, produced a first-aid kit and gave Anita an injection. He straightened her arm, wrapped splints around it, and positioned it in a sling before looking up at Grisha again.

"Who fired on us?" Grisha asked.

"Don't know, Colonel Grigorievich. But we nailed both of them."

"Were we attacked over British airspace?"

"No, sir. Alaskan."

Grisha nodded at the nearly comatose Anita. "I'll watch her if you like."

"Thank you, we appreciate that." Donahue beckoned toward the flight deck. "If her condition changes, just let us know."

Grisha strapped himself in. The aircraft hummed swiftly through the night and he wondered if he would return in time to see the ice go out on the Yukon.

62

Columbia, Ohio, Capital of the U.S.A.

Colonel Konstine Kronov, seemingly oblivious of the motion-picture camera, grinned widely at Major Douglas. Both men, now slightly drunk, had dropped formalities some days before.

"But, Konni, why doesn't the Czar modernize Alaska?"

"It's my theory he has a secret agenda, James," Kronov said carefully, struggling tipsily with English. "An economically viable Alaska would pose the same threat that the Indians are currently pressing. By themselves, however, they do not have the political and military clout to make the transition to a true republic."

"You don't think they can win this fight?"

"Not alone." Kronov leered and tossed back more vodka. "And if you or any of the other NATO members assist them, you are risking a full-fledged war on this continent, and perhaps Europe as well."

"Why would the Czar fight a war over Alaska?"

"Would not your president fight a war over Pennsylvania? Wouldn't the French fight over Quebec?"

"Ask the British," Douglas said.

"Pah! The British," Kronov said with a rude laugh. "Let them posture all they wish, who else would want it? But France still owns Quebec."

Major Douglas opened his mouth then pursed his lips without speaking. He regarded Kronov with stony eyes for a long moment before continuing. "The Czar hasn't developed Alaska. He's kept it in the nineteenth century for ninety years longer than any other part of North America. Why would he fight for it at this late date?"

"Do you really believe that a mere colonel, who happens to be a distant cousin, has the ear of Czar Nicholas? What his majesty wishes and doesn't wish is of paramount consequence to me, but there's damn all I can do about it,
nyet
?" Kronov tossed back another inch of vodka.

"Why do you think the Czar will fight for Alaska?" Douglas persisted.

"Because he thinks he can sell it," Kronov said airily. "Just as his great-grandfather attempted to do in the 1860s."

"To keep it from being absorbed by Canada," Douglas said triumphantly.

"British Canada," Kronov corrected.

"Then"-Douglas's face became animated and his eyes wetly caught the light-"do you believe he could be bought off?"

"Good question, Major. But who would do the buying, and more importantly, who's willing to be bought?"

Douglas blinked owlishly before recovering. "Nobody would be bought. But a nation might be aided financially by its neighbors."

Kronov laughed so hard his eyes watered.

"What's so damned funny?"

"You, you Yankees. You still think you're the only ones in the world who have a brain or know how to use it." Kronov's countenance went steely.

"One of the most unsavory parts of being a Russian is knowing that our forefathers of the 1850s allowed themselves to be allied to you inept losers in your short civil war."

"You can relax now." Douglas shot to his feet, his lips a firm line. "I think we're through for today."

Two rangers eased into the room and stood on either side of Kronov.

The Russian stood and gave Douglas an exaggerated bow. "My thanks for the excellent vodka. Next time we should have bourbon, to which I'm sure you are more accustomed."

Douglas nodded, turned sharply on the balls of his feet, and marched over to the door.

"Good luck on your Indian purchase," Kronov called gaily as the door slammed.

63

On the Yukon River, Between Old Crow and Tetlin

"Who goes there?" The voice held menace.

"Friend! I am Georg Hepner, from Klahotsa, sent by Kurt Bachmann. I need to talk to Major Riordan."

"Keep your hands where I can see them and come forward."

Hepner put his hands on his head and moved forward in his customary loose, rangy amble. "I was here two weeks ago," he said in a friendly way.

"Yet you returned?" the mercenary said, motioning him to move down the trail. "If I could get out of this miserable mosquito factory there's no bloody way I would come back. I thought Scotland was a waste of dirt until I beheld this great sponge."

"Some of us like it here."

"Aye, you'll find the daft nae matter where ye travel. Stand tall, this is as far as I go." The mercenary was a raw-skinned man with a head of burnt orange hair and muscles that rippled under his shirt. He seemed sure of himself.

"Corporal of the Guard! Visitor at Post Three!"

Two men stepped out of the brush as if they had been waiting for their cue. "Who is this, now? Corporal Harris, Timothy me boy?"

"I'm not your bloody boy, O'Hara. This man says he was here last week, yet he came back for another visit. I'd say he was daft, wouldn't you?"

O'Hara looked Hepner up and down. O'Hara stood a foot shorter than the sentry, yet looked far more dangerous.

"Who are you and what's your business?"

"Name's Hepner. Work with Kurt Bachmann up at Klahotsa. Kurt's got an offer for your boss."

"If it's more than five California dollars, we'll take it," O'Hara said with a laugh. Harris and the large black man behind O'Hara laughed with him.

"What?" Hepner said.

"What do you expect?" Harris said. "He already told me he likes it here."

"I got 'im, Timothy, you go back to your post."

Harris nodded and disappeared in the brush.

"You visited us about two weeks ago, am I wrong?"

_"Yes, I mean no!" Hepner didn't like people playing with his mind.

"Yes, I was here two weeks ago. You're probably wrong in some very fundamental ways but I haven't the time to really help, or care."

O'Hara grinned. "Yer not as dumb as you look, that's good. You follow me and Private N'go will take up the rear."

The black man smiled, revealing brilliant white teeth filed to points. Hepner shuddered despite himself. He followed O'Hara through the mercenary camp, which consisted of dozens of tents, and stopped at a tent three times the size of any other in sight.

A small man emerged. French
captaine
boards rode his shoulders and he stopped at the sight of O'Hara. "I have explained already there is no whiskey to be had, Corporal O'Hara."

"I hadn't forgotten, Captain Flars. It seems this gentleman has an offer for the major, and I hope to sweet baby Jesus that he takes it, 'cause there's no tellin' what a another missed payday might bring, sir." With an exaggerated salute, the corporal turned and marched away. N'go followed him, chuckling and glancing back over his shoulder.

"I know you, yes?" Captain Flars said.

"I was here two weeks ago. I need to see the major, my boss wants to hire you fellows."

"Excited I am to hear this. Please enter in."

"Well, if it isn't our old friend, Georg!" Major Riordan stood and offered his hand.

He measured a few inches shorter than Hepner, but Georg thought none the less of him for that; Napoleon had been a lot shorter than either of them.

"What brings you out here beyond the pale?" He grinned and moved his lean body about as if he were on euphorics. "Missed my brilliant conversation and insights, did you?"

"Not as much as you would imagine. I bring you an offer from Kurt Bachmann. He wants to hire you and your men."

"For how long?" Riordan stood very still and stared at Hepner with the aspect of a very hungry lion.

"He said three months."

"Did he send money with you, to seal the bargain?"

"Do you want his offer in rubles or dollars?"

"Dollars, preferably California or Texas dollars."

"He offers three hundred forty-five California dollars per day, for three months."

"Shit on my grave, why don't you? That's less than five dollars an hour for each of us!"

"Take it or leave it."

"What does he want us to do?"

"Fight Indians, the Dená, I think. But he wants you and your men at Klahotsa."

"That's bloody days away!"

"You start getting paid today if you agree."

"I need an advance to show the men we're not getting rogered yet again."

"Then you agree?"

"Yes, I bloody well agree!"

"Then sign this," Hepner pulled a folded page from his pocket and handed it to the major, "and I'll give you a thousand California on the spot."

"If you have that much on you, why would I not just kill you and take the money?"

"Because you would forfeit so much more for very little effort."

"How do we get to Klahotsa?"

"There's a road they call the RustyCan-"

"Don't be impertinent! You know there are Russians everywhere, you can't just glide through them like it's some bloody dance with an 'excuse me'

here and an 'excuse me' there."

"You're an ally. You're fighting the Dená just as they are. Bachmann said you'd figure out something. Are you going to sign or do I need to look for professional soldiers elsewhere?"