Russian Amerika (39 page)

Can it be I'm on the wrong side?

A vein of ice pulsed through his head as he considered his past decisions and present limited options.

I wish I had a bottle of vodka.

A dirt encrusted motorcycle, its engine sounding like an army of flatulent men, came up next to the car and the rider handed something to the guard in the front seat. After a quick glance at the paper, he passed it back to General Myslosovich.

"Excellent. The rabble are moving up behind their fortifications in front of Chena Redoubt. We finally have them in a position where we can smash them!"

"You will pardon me for saying so, General, but I've heard that before." Bear spat out the window again.

"If you continue to spout defeatist sentiments, I will have you shot in front of the troops as an object lesson."

Bear bit his tongue to keep silent. He had no doubt the old bastard would do it.

Time to cut my losses, disappear into British Canada for a few years.

Bear glanced at the General. "I feel boxed up in here. It's not to my liking. I'm a man of the forest."

"You're here to interpret anything I do not understand at first glance. If I allow you to leave you will instantly disappear like a jinni." He patted the holstered pistol on his hip. "I want you where I can get a good aim at you."

Bear estimated the time it would take to kill the guard in front of him. Could he get to the general before the fat bastard shot him? His fingertips caressed the haft of Claw in its oiled boot sheath; he thought about the razor-sharp edge.

Perhaps something would pull their attention outside the car. Bear knew patience-he was a hunter.

72

Flight Delta, 5 Kilometers Above British
Canada

Colonel Grigorievich." The headset provided incredibly clear communications. "Would you come up to the flight deck, please?"

"Certainly." Grisha pulled off the headset, unsnapped his harness, and picked his way between the rows of paratroopers who constantly examined and reexamined their equipment. The tension in the aircraft felt tangible. The sergeant major opened the hatch to the flight deck, waving him through, his black face impassive.

After days of total isolation Grisha was exultant to be heading north again. Colonel Buhrman flew in the lead plane, and Major Coffey flew in the second transport. Grisha had been more than happy to fly as senior officer in the third aircraft.

He wasn't sure where Benny Jackson and his Special Forces were, but it really didn't matter as long as they were in the fight.

"Over here, Colonel." The navigator, Major McDaniel, waved him to a seat in a bubble in the side of the aircraft. "Colonel Buhrman asked us to show you this. Here-" binoculars were pushed into his hands "-take a look down there and tell us what you think it is."

Grisha estimated their height at five kilometers. He saw two other transports, each with huge propellers on their four engines reflecting perfect circles, droning along in formation with them. A P-61 Eureka fighter passed in the distance. He peered down at the ground.

The RustyCan wound across the ground like an indolent reptile-whose scales glistened as he watched.

"What the hell?" Grisha sharpened the focus and tapped the enhancer control. The ground quickly swam up at him and he could clearly see an extensive armored column moving north up the highway.

"Those aren't Russian," he said. "Where are we?"

"Over northern British Canada." Major McDaniel lowered his binoculars and studied Grisha. "At first we thought they were Canadian, but look at the insignia."

Grisha strained his eyes to pierce the distance and dust. He anticipated the Union Jack and felt amazement when he saw the stylized Cheyenne war shield. "They're from the First People's Nation. What the hell are they doing this far north?"

The major grinned. "It looks like they're going to hit the Russkies in the ass. This war is beginning to get interesting."

"But their fight is with the British, not the Russians."

"Perhaps, Colonel, they're coming to help their fellow Indians," Major McDaniel said.

"But how did they get past the British?"

"The word we got says they went through the British. The Brits're fighting two battles as we speak. They sent too much of their army south and now they're paying for the blunder."

"If the F.P.N. hits the Russians at Tetlin, the only forces we'd have to worry about are the ones at St. Nicholas and St. Anthony." Grisha felt his excitement grow.

"If they hit the Russians soon enough." The major peered down through the fleecy cloud cover. "But I'd bet a month's pay the Russians know they're coming."

Grisha chuckled. "If we got paid I'd be willing to take that wager. The Russians are incredibly arrogant. If they weren't so mule-headed they would have defeated us by now."

"I've wondered about that," the major said. "We know you guys are hell on wheels, but you're outnumbered by at least five to one."

"More like seven or eight to one. But the Dená Republik isn't nice, flat farmland like Canada back there." He nodded his head. "Russia depends on her air force and her armor. Our antiaircraft have pulled her aviation teeth and her armor is confined to the RustyCan."

"You can hold the highway?"

"That remains to be seen, Major. Perhaps if we arrive in time."

73

Chena Redoubt

Wing inspected the fortifications carefully. This was where the Russians would hit first. Both banks of the Chena bristled with mines.

The Dená weapons could traverse the minefields with impunity by lining up on the bright swatches of cloth tacked to trees on the far side. Even if the Russians noticed them, they wouldn't know how to interpret the markers.

Behind the minefield stood a reinforced log-and-rock wall spanning the highway and stretching into the muskeg on both sides. The muskeg itself aided defense, consisting of meter-wide pods of lichen, called pingos, rearing up to a half meter in height, where a hastily placed foot sinking between the thousands of pingos could easily break a leg. Beneath the muskeg was a watery gruel of soil and gravel, below that lay the implacable permafrost, frozen to a depth of fifty meters or more.

After fording the river the first few tanks might make it through the muskeg but the rest would bog down. Six newly imported artillery pieces from the United States had the area zeroed in, complete with range markers.

"Placing those markers is something we learned in the Great War," Captain Lauesen told her. "The advancing troops rarely notice them and it tells us their exact distance."

The initial assault would be horrendously costly for the Russians. Wing almost felt sorry for them. A Russian-built command car roared up. The Imperial two-headed eagle had been painted out and what looked like an eightpointed star replaced it.

Malagni jumped out of the car and slammed the door.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Wing pointed.

"The North Star, of course! Made from dentalium shells. It's the insignia of the Dená Republik." He glanced around. A huge axe hung from a loop on his belt. "Are we ready for them?"

"God willing and the creek don't rise," Captain Lauesen said.

"Which God, white or Indian?" Malagni asked. Sometimes, Wing thought, he sounded as balanced as anyone else. But it never lasted long. "It could make a difference, you know." Malagni darted off down the fortification, talking to the heavily armed Dená who watched the distant tree line with flinty eyes.

"Is he always that, ah, exuberant?" Captain Lauesen asked.

"Malagni is a madman. But a very crafty madman. He has absolutely no fear. I don't think he will live through this war-I don't think he wants to."

"What did he do before the war?"

"There's always been a war here. It just took some of us longer than others to realize it."

Captain Lauesen stared at her frankly. "How about you, are you going to survive the war?"

"Only if the man I love does." She turned and walked back toward the command car. Her feet hurt and she worried about Grisha.

74

Russia-Canada Highway, East of Chena

The lead column sat in the middle of the road. Engines idled as men relieved themselves and slapped at mosquitoes. Bear heard the motorcycle before he saw it.

Filth caked the rider and the lenses of the smeared goggles looked unnaturally clean on his dusty face. The motorcycle came to a stop next to the command car. "General Myslosovich, we are two kilometers from the front."

"Excellent." He smacked the back of the driver's seat with his jeweled baton. Bear had already heard the story how the Czar had presented it to the general for pacifying the Yakuts fifteen years before. "Vladimir, spread the word, I want an officers' meeting in ten minutes."

Bear absently rubbed his scar and noted the insignia on each officer as they arrived. Captain of Artillery. Major of Infantry. Lieutenant Colonel of Armor. An Okhana captain.

Bad sign. The Cossacks had a way of fucking everything up. Back in his grandfather's day Cossacks had a reputation for being noble, honorable warriors. That was before they sold their souls to the Czar and joined his secret police.

The other officers edged away from the Okhana captain. General Myslosovich cleared his throat and all eyes fastened on his fat, red face.

Bear smiled. Put tusks under that moustache and the first Eskimo he came across would have him for dinner.

"Radio the main column to make all speed and catch up with us. We may need them to consolidate our holdings. I want an immediate artillery barrage on the barricade and everything within five hundred meters of it. Then I want armor to advance all the way to Chena Redoubt."

When Myslosovich spoke his jowls quivered, enhancing the walrus illusion. Bear looked away so they couldn't see his grin.

"Infantry will follow armor. Mop up anything the tanks leave behind. Short and sweet. Any questions?"

"General, I understand they have antitank weapons." The tanker lieutenant. colonel let his voice drift away as Myslosovich glared at him.

"That's what your cannon are for, Colonel. Besides, the Siberian Tigers are up there clearing out that sort of thing right now."

Bear felt impressed despite himself. The Siberian Tigers were the best commandos the Czar had. They all had to serve four years in the regular army before they could volunteer for the elite force. Their training proved so grueling that, of every one hundred recruits who began the program, three finished.

Bear almost felt sorry for the Indians.

I hope they leave Grigorievich for me. Of all the people to make
colonel! The Indians must be in dire straits.

The officers hurried off, shouting orders. General Myslosovich sat back with a grunt.

"I want to fight," Bear said. Grigorievich's visage hung in his mind like a cloud of mosquitoes. "There are Indians out there I have sworn to kill."

"You swear a great deal, woodsman. Why didn't you kill them when you had the chance?"

"I did kill one of them, a traitor to the Czar." Bear let his voice carry insult. "He was a Russian Army officer."

"Do you know his name?" Myslosovich seemed guarded.

"Captain Nikolai Rezanov, an Okhana Cossack."

"General Alexandr Rezanov's son? You killed him?"

"Yes. He joined the Dená. Because of him I will wear this for the rest of my life." Bear pointed to his scarred face. "The man who did this is still alive, and I must change that."

"You may join the infantry elements going in behind the tanks." The walrus eyes squinted to slits. "If you try to desert I'll have you shot."

"If I chose to desert and couldn't evade this band of street urchins, I deserve to be shot." Bear stepped out and slammed the door behind him. He retrieved his gear from the boot and went looking for the infantry.

75

Four Miles from Chena Redoubt

Wing paused in her inspection tour of the front line, puzzling over the whooshing sound.

Major Heinrich Smolst bellowed, "INCOMING!"

Everybody hit the ground as the first salvo smashed into the log fortification and the minefield.

Wing tried to run but the concussion of the exploding shells and detonating mines knocked her off her feet, pummeling her with invisible clubs. Bits of wood and rock whirred past her. She realized those splinters and stones could kill as easily as a bullet.

The six pieces of U.S. artillery fired at the same time, adding to the maelstrom of sound. One of them took a direct hit, wiping out the crew and throwing pieces of cannon into two others.

Wing hugged the ground, trying to make herself small, as the barrage continued. A peek at the rapidly disintegrating barricade over the highway told her their three weeks of hard work was for nothing. The exploding shells didn't seem as loud and she felt thankful.

A body crashed into her and she turned to see Major Smolst. His mouth moved but she couldn't hear his words.

"What?" she yelled.

Smolst frowned at her. "You must get out of here!" he shouted.

His words sounded distant, muffled.

Wing realized her eardrums had been damaged by the barrage. She yelled,

"I tried to run but I keep getting knocked down."

Abruptly the Russian shelling ceased. Although the world seemed packed with cotton, her ears hurt.

Smolst pulled her to her feet. "C'mon, if I don't get you back to safety, Grisha will have my ass."

Wing laughed. "Why, are you responsible for me?"

Smolst looked troubled. "Of course not."

"You really are responsible for me?" She felt dumbfounded. She had been in the Dená army for ten years. Who did Grisha think he was? She had rescued
him
from the Cossacks!

Smolst grabbed her arm. "Tanks. We have to fall back."

She stared through the cordite-rich smoke. A line of Zukhov battle tanks roared toward them at speed. Wing couldn't hear them.

"Yeah, let's go." They ran toward the second line of defense, a kilometer away. Many others ran with them.

A few heavily armed squads had dug in and aimed shoulder launchers and heavy machine guns toward the advancing machines. One of the launchers spat fire and Wing glanced back in time to see the lead tank explode.