Russian Amerika ra-1

by Stoney Compton

  “If your shelter is gone, you die.”

  “Not all the shelter is open to the sky. This problem has not been ignored. You knew that. But still you didn’t tell me.”

  “I needed commitment.”

  “I gave you all that I had,” Grisha said tightly.

  “Not you. Cora. I mean, I knew you and I were friends, I knew you would understand once I explained it.”

  “Then why didn’t you explain it?”

  “Because if I told you, Cora would find out. I wasn’t sure she would understand. In the beginning I was going to do what Capt—what Valari wanted.”

  Grisha felt as if he’d been slapped. Before he could find suitable words, a helicopter racketed toward them.

  “Quick, pretend you’re dead!” Grisha said. “Lay down on the trail.”

  Nik sprawled on the ground, facedown. “What if they put a few rounds into me to make sure I’m dead?” he muttered.

  “They won’t chance it, they’re too big of a target and they don’t know my location.”

  The helicopter roared over them. Grisha watched it pull up, wheel around in a tight turn and start back toward them. He pulled back farther into the thicket and aimed his Kalashnikov at the pilot.

  The craft moved over them again, slower this time, but it didn’t stop. A face peered whitely through the heavy plastic window. The rotor wash created a sudden snow flurry that quickly escalated into a miniature whiteout. The engine bellowed to higher decibels and the machine vanished over the ridge.

  Grisha eased his weapon down to rest on his knees and sighed. “Okay, you aren’t dead anymore.” He brushed snow off him.

  Nik rolled over and stared at the ridge. “You don’t think they’ll be back?”

  “No. Not if they want to stop that promyshlennik bastard from bleeding to death.”

  “What did you do to him?” Nik asked, getting to his feet.

  Grisha stood. “Raked his face with this.” He moved his wrist quickly and abruptly a small knife gleamed in his hand.

  “How long have you had that?”

  “It’s been my talisman since the day we were rescued from the Cossacks.” Grisha stared at his friend. “Did you think I would tell on you?”

  “I don’t know, would you? Are you?”

  “No, I’m not going to tell them anything: you are.”

  “They’ll hate me,” Nik said slowly. “Cora will hate me. I was a Cossack.”

  “Just like she was a student nurse, in another life. You’re a weapon for the Dená Republik now.” Grisha began collecting his equipment. “You were actually a Cossack captain?”

  “Da.”

  “You aren’t old enough to be a captain!”

  They skied into the late morning, following their trail back toward Toklat.

  25

  Toklat, December 1987

  The pulsing beat of their engines reached far out in advance of the Russian gunships. In the village a hand-cranked siren shrilled into a wail for a full minute before the operator released the handle and fled into the forest.

  The first helicopter buzzed in at treetop level, machine guns firing indiscriminately. More than forty Kalashnikovs filled the air with bullets.

  Even from the ground they could see the effect of their fire; pieces of fuselage flew off, the engine sputtered as smoke leaked from it, one of the gunners collapsed, swaying in his safety harness. The gas tank abruptly ignited and the stricken machine exploded. The remaining door gunner screamed flaming to the ground.

  Before the second gunship reached the village, the first already lay burning on the forest floor. The second machine strafed a different section of the forest and ran into another wall of lead.

  The pilot must have been hit in the first few seconds. The second helicopter abruptly nosed over and crashed into the trees. The four surviving machines veered and circled back the way they had come.

  They hovered a kilometer away, waiting.

  A Yak fighter snarled over the village just ahead of its exploding ordinance. Three hundred square meters of forest blew into flying splinters and burning trees.

  The fighter etched a circle and returned with cannons clawing out, searching for targets. Again the air filled with bullets. But the Dená were used to the slower helicopters and very few, if any, rounds found the aircraft.

  The Yak didn’t return. The helicopters swiveled and thwapped away to the southeast. The forest waited; only the crackle of small fires broke the stillness.

  In excited jubilance, the Dená emerged from their bunkers and shelters.

  “Where did you get all those Kalashnikovs?” Nik asked in awe. “The army had no hint you were so well armed.”

  “From allies who prefer not to advertise their aid,” Chan said, his eyes gleaming. “One of these days soon you’ll be serving in that branch of operations.”

  “Obtaining military aid?” he asked.

  “Apparently you find it difficult to comprehend what an incredible asset you are to this cause.” Chan pulled him away from the others and they slowly followed a path through a stand of birch. Their breath hung around them in the cold air as they talked.

  “I, I do know a great deal about weapon procurements, but nothing about shopping for them.”

  “Why are you here, Nikolai?” Chan said abruptly. “How can you turn your back on a St. Petersburg education, an army commission, and a politically influential family?”

  “I’m not turning my back on my education. I’m using it.” He threw his arms out for emphasis. “I have never agreed with my father politically. That’s why he got me a military scholarship—as punishment and challenge.” Nik glanced out through the gleaming birch. The white trees held back the subarctic afternoon darkness.

  “The academy was hell, but the mathematics, engineering, and electronics were worth the price of admission. For a short time I even worked with the command logic machine.”

  “The what?”

  “The command logic machine. It’s a calculating machine. It can solve great mathematical equations in a few tens of minutes.”

  “What do they use it for?”

  “Mostly mathematics. But it’s a wonder.”

  “I’m still wondering about your presence.”

  “At first I was scared to death. But I knew my mission wouldn’t go on forever and so I decided to do the best I could and help you turn Grisha into what you wanted and learn all your secrets at the same time.” Nik hesitated, his burning eyes stared intently into Chan’s face.

  “Then I realized that you have the beginning of something here that could change the face of the continent.” Enthusiasm bloomed in his voice.

  “And I wanted to be part of it.”

  “Why? You’re not an Indian.”

  “Do I have to be an Indian to be part of the Dená Republik?”

  “Of course not. But—”

  “Then my race doesn’t matter, only my attitude does.”

  “Go on.”

  “I know the definition of ‘republik,’ and I also know that Alaska will always be a Siberian colony as long as the Czar rules here.”

  Nik’s words echoed back at him and he realized how loud he had become. He abruptly lowered his voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.”

  “You’re saying you don’t like the way things are out there? Why should you care, or want to be part of this? You’re part of the aristocracy. Aren’t you descended from the great Baron Rezanov?”

  “Christ! What a cross to bear.” Nik spat in the snow. “Yes, Count Rezanov was my eight-times-removed ancestor, as well as his lovely, and much younger, Spanish bride. The love story that secured a continent! Until history decreed something different.”

  “So why are you here, with us, when you have so much back in St. Petersburg?”

  “Because it’s wrong to keep a people down where they can’t see the horizon,” he said with a slight tremor in his voice. “And it’s double-damned wrong when what’s keeping them down are animals who are not
hing more than pustules on the buttocks of decent humanity.”

  “My word,” Chan said with a smile. “You’re still a romantic.”

  “My only other choice was much worse. That’s why I’m here now.”

  “Why did it take Cossacks to get you to tell us the truth?”

  “I was trying to obtain something here that was never available in St. Nicholas or New Arkhangel. But when I saw those slinking dogs in uniform, I realized that what I wanted had to be earned, not given.”

  Nik peered at Chan in the gloom. “My only chance to live the way I wish is to help you do the same thing.”

  “Welcome home.” Chan patted the taller man’s back. “Have I ever got a job for you. But first we’ve got to get this village packed up and out of here before daylight.”

  “What? We’re going to evacuate everybody tonight?”

  “That fighter will be back in the morning with a lot more just like it. Toklat has served its purpose. We knew this day would come.”

  “So where are we going tonight?”

  “First to Minto. A council of war must be held in the next few days. Then we will go to many places. Some will go into Chena.”

  “Chena, on the road? There’s a huge garrison there.”

  “We know,” Chan said with a wide grin. “We know.”

  26

  Minto, December 1987

  Minto buzzed with excitement. Visitors from upriver and downriver crowded into the available guest space and spilled into the council chambers. The log building had been ordered built by the Imperial Army to serve as military quarters when needed.

  Villagers had completed the project, which gave them a sense of ownership. Grisha found the fact amusing but doubted the army would. On reaching Minto he realized Toklat had been a military operation.

  Minto swarmed with children, and the resident adults were not as enthusiastic about an impending Dená Republik as the people who had inhabited Toklat.

  “You people are just going to bring the Russians down hard on us!” a middle-aged man bitterly informed Grisha. “They got an army, a navy, and an air force. How you gonna stop that with your fancy words?”

  Grisha parroted Hamish’s answer. “Politically and economically.”

  “Shit!” the man responded. “Them Russians hit this place ’cause of you, you’re gonna be dead, one way or another!”

  After that, Grisha asked quiet questions of Haimish, Chan, and Wing. The village was typical of the entire region, roughly thirty percent of the population were sympathetic to the cause, about forty percent seemed to tolerate it, ten percent didn’t care one way or the other, and a vocal twenty percent adamantly opposed their goals.

  “What’s wrong with them?” Grisha had demanded of Chan. “Don’t they want their own country?”

  “They see themselves as realists who don’t want to lose what freedom and property they already possess. Many of them consider themselves Russian even though they would play hell convincing the citizens of St. Petersburg of that.”

  “But if they had any vision, they could see the possibilities—”

  “Did you?” Haimish snapped. “Face it, laddie, you were pushed into this by the Russian Amerika Company and the Okhana.”

  “So push them.”

  “Patience,” Chan said with an enigmatic smile. “The day is coming when they will all choose. But they will see it as something they want to do. We won’t have to push, the Czar will do it for us.”

  Grisha was beginning to appreciate how well the minds of Chan and Haimish meshed. Nathan arrived two days after the Toklat people reached Minto and spent long hours with Nik. The former Czarist soldier offered his memories to the Dená Republik, to mine for what usable ore they could discover.

  While Wing operated a cunning little tape recorder from California, Nik recounted his life from adolescence to present, with Nathan concentrating on him. Nathan asked questions that sometimes seemed pertinent, sometimes pointless. Nik answered them all.

  Grisha asked a few questions of his own about Nathan, and sometimes got evasions, sometimes pieces of answers. Chan allowed only that Nathan was a very perceptive man. Wing unwittingly revealed that Nathan had Russian, Dená, Yu’Pik, and Kolosh ancestors; she thought it common knowledge.

  Grisha tried to slip into his charter-boat camaraderie in an attempt to hear if anyone ever entertained a negative thought about Nathan. If they did, they wouldn’t talk about it. Few would even allude to the possibility of feeling negative about the man.

  Slayer-of-Men told Grisha that he would never go wrong by following Nathan’s orders. Finally he found one man, an old man who had weathered over sixty winters in Minto, who seemed open about the subject.

  “Nathan Roubitaux? He was a strange kid. You could be pissed as hell at him, then he’d show up and all you could do was like the little shit. I gotta admit, he’s done a lot for the People.”

  A faint apprehension slowly took shape in the back of Grisha’s mind. In the meantime, Nik struck gold.

  Gnady Ustinov wondered if he were wasting his time. For over a year he had been hearing stories about the Dená Separatist Movement fighting the wicked Russians in order to free the Athabascan People. At first he thought it was just a drunk’s bull crap.

  Then his good friend, Ambrose Ambrose had visited from Nabesna. They had only met a total of five times in the last twenty years but due to a heavy correspondence they were as close as brothers. Ambrose brought important news.

  “My cousin in Tetlin Redoubt says there’s going to be a war and many of our People will be killed.” His eyes had grown large with earnestness and Gnady believed him.

  “Who will kill them?”

  “The Czar’s army, and Cossacks, and promyshlenniks.”

  “Why?”

  “The DSM has been killing many Russians and the Czar told the Imperial Army to put a stop to it.”

  “I have heard the DSM is everywhere, how can the soldiers get them all?”

  Ambrose grinned. “They can’t, and that’s a good thing.”

  “Why, my friend?”

  “Because I am in the DSM, and I think you should be, too.”

  “And who would see to my store?” Gnady poked a thumb toward the structure he had built with his own hands before stocking it with a modest supply of goods he knew everybody needed or wanted. After five years he was making a good living, and he owned the land on which his store sat.

  “What about Tatania?”

  “My wife would rather talk than sell goods, I would be destitute within a week.”

  Ambrose laughed. Gnady smiled with him until Tatania smacked the back of his head.

  “I can run our store just as good as you can, maybe better—people don’t walk away from my bargains feeling cheated!”

  The very next week brought news of this great council along with more rumors of war. So he came to find out what would happen if there was a war, and what would happen afterward. If the Dená drove the Russians out of Alaska, would the deed to his property still be valid?

  Who would make what sort of decrees? The Czar had always been comfortably remote even if his Cossacks and promyshlennik tax collectors had not. But the system had been in place for over a century and a half, it was a known thing.

  Which Dená would rule the new government? Some half-Eskimo from Russian Mission or Holy Cross, way down at the mouth of the Yukon? This required his personal attention.

  In the end, he and four others from their area brought two dog sleds down the frozen Yukon to Minto. He learned that news of the impending council of war had gone out to the frozen reaches of the Dená Republik by dog sled, skier, and in two ironic instances, via Russian mail plane. Over the following week delegates and freedom fighters began arriving.

  Gnady talked with many people and learned of the recent success at Toklat. Many he spoke with didn’t seem concerned about the Russian Army. There were many others who thought the DSM were a band of brigands and outlaws who in no way represented the a
verage Dená.

  Three weeks after the fight at Toklat, the War Council convened.

  “I will act as chairman until this assembly elects one,” Chandalar Roy announced. “And that will be our first order of business, so be thinking about who you’d like to nominate. Every man and woman in this room who has reached the age of fifteen, as well as those standing outside, have a vote.”

  Gnady listened closely, watching for word traps or ambiguity.

  “We’ll vote on everything,” Chandalar said, “including who gets to make the hard decisions about where and how we’ll fight the Czar. I suggest we use the rules in this little book to run our meeting, they make sense for this many people.”

  He covered the main points in Robert’s Rules of Order and then grinned as shuffling feet and whispered conversations in the room began to drown him out.

  “Okay! Nominations are open.”

  Chandalar was unanimously elected First Speaker. Gnady voted for him because there wasn’t anyone else in the room he trusted that much, even though he’d never met the man before this night.

  “Each representative will speak for one thousand people. In some cases that will be two or three villages, in others probably up to ten,” Chan told them.

  “So every delegate needs a voter herd?” somebody asked. They all found that funny.

  “Within your area—” Chandalar pointed to a map with villages outlined

  “nominate two candidates, people you trust, people you know will do a good job for you as well as themselves. Then the people from the same area will secretly vote for one of the candidates. Whoever wins will be your delegate to the War Council.”

  Gnady joined the throng at the map. His area included Circle and Eagle as well as his own village, Old Crow.

  “There are signs with the names of the villages on them all around the room,” Chandalar shouted over the din. “Go to the sign that has your village’s name on it. If you can’t read, ask somebody who can, we’re all in this together.”

  Gnady knew eleven of the twelve people under the “Circle-Eagle-Old Crow” sign. A long-haired, mustached man with somewhere between forty and thirty years, wearing well-made moose-hide clothing leaned against the wall under the sign. His face proclaimed him to be angry.