Russian Amerika ra-1

by Stoney Compton

  She feinted to the side and put five rounds through the guard’s chest, knocking him into one of the radio operators.

  “What the hell is going on here? What are you doing?” the other radioman shouted. The other five Indians and Stoddard crowded into the room.

  “Freeze right where you are,” she said. “Put your hands on your head.”

  “Yes. Whatever you say. Please don’t shoot.”

  The other radioman lay under the guard’s bleeding body, his eyes wide.

  “May I get up?”

  With a quick thrust of her foot she shoved the body off the man.

  “Yes. But very slowly. Don’t forget I am a nervous woman with an automatic weapon.”

  “Yes!” The man got to his feet, sat his chair upright, and slowly sank onto the seat with his hands over his head.

  Cora looked back at her people crowding around.

  “Heron, you stay with me. The rest of you take up positions out in the corridor, I don’t want to get trapped in here.”

  The radio crackled and a voice squawked from a headset on the floor.

  “Put that on a speaker so we all can hear it,” she told the man covered with secondhand blood.

  “Yes.” He turned to the console and pulled a switch.

  “This is Imperial Eagle One. Do you copy me, Chena Redoubt? Over.”

  “Answer him.” She jerked the weapon toward the bloodied man because he sat closest to her. “You close your eyes and put your head down on your hands,” she told the other one.

  “We copy, Imperial Eagle One, over.”

  “Imperial Eagle Leader failed to get a response from you, so we thought he might be blocked.”

  “We did hear a transmission, but it came in all broken up. Over.”

  “This is Imperial Eagle Leader, can you hear me now, Chena Redoubt?”

  “Loud and clear, Colonel.”

  Cora smiled and nodded approvingly. The radioman gave her a tight smile.

  “Contact Tetlin Aerodrome immediately. I want close combat support within the hour. Gunships and at least two Yak fighters. Read that back, over.”

  The radioman repeated the transmission back to him letter perfect. As he finished speaking, his eyes flashed up and then back to the console.

  In that glance Cora saw her control questioned, threatened, perhaps challenged. She shook the weapon hard enough to make the strap slap against blued steel. The man’s eyes turned submissive.

  She pointed to the speaker and gave him a wide grin and a thumbs up. Heron pointed his gun at him.

  “We’ll send the message immediately, Colonel.”

  “I’m going to join the ground force. I’ll be out of contact for a few minutes, over and clear.”

  “Acknowledged and out.” The man regarded her with an expression of doubt. “There are other bases monitoring these signals.”

  “Don’t count on it, tovirich. You’ll tell him exactly what I say, nothing else, eh?”

  “What happens when they come back, other than me getting shot for treason, I mean?”

  “History is changing today. Do as you’re told and you might live to tell your grandchildren about it.” She handed him a scrap of paper. “Switch to this frequency.”

  The knob clicked as it turned. He waited for more instructions. Cora glanced over at the other radioman.

  His head was still resting quietly on his hands. No—just one hand lay between head and console.

  “You back there!” she snapped. “Get your other hand up where I can see it.”

  His head moved and his eyes gleamed like those of a cornered animal. His hand jerked up with a pistol in it.

  He fired.

  33

  Outside the Walls of Chena Redoubt

  Static issued from the radio speaker while the assault team waited, shifting from foot to foot and scratching imaginary itches. A light click sounded and the hum of a carrier wave took over.

  “Somebody just switched to our frequency,” James, the radioman, said. He didn’t look up from the dials, knobs, and read-outs in front of him. The small shelter grew quiet as all six occupants stilled and unconsciously held their breath.

  The radio hissed impotently.

  “Maybe they’ve captured her and she told them the frequency,” Paul whispered, “and they’re trying to hear us.”

  “Quiet!” Nathan whispered back.

  The speaker clicked and a strained voice carried easily to all of them.

  “Cora is… she says to come now, quickly.” Another click and silence filled the carrier wave.

  All eyes centered on Nathan. He ignored them and began rubbing his temples. After thirty long seconds he put his hands in his lap and stared at James.

  “I’m pretty sure that was Heron. Signal Assault Force Two. Tell them it’s a go.”

  James keyed the mike twice and spoke clearly.

  “Chena Two, this is Chena One. Go. I repeat. Go.”

  Throughout the town of Chena separate squads of the Dená Army went into action. The main gate of Chena Redoubt lost its guards within seconds of the radio message. Weapons appeared and men and women poured into the compound to spread across the parade ground.

  As hoped, the majority of the personnel was at this moment going north at speed on a rescue mission. Only a skeleton force remained to garrison the redoubt. Nearly forty fighters streamed silently toward the offices, garages, barracks, and other support buildings when the sergeant of the guard stepped out of his office to make his rounds.

  The noise of his weapon burst the bubble of silence. He killed one man and wounded two others before going down under immediate concentrated fire. Gunfire, screams, curses, and explosions filled the stone enclosure.

  34

  On the Russian-Canada Highway, Near the Tanana River

  The half-track roared down the snowy road at an impressive forty kilometers per hour. Grisha, watching ahead carefully, bounced on the front seat between the driver and Colonel Yuganin. Behind them five trucks, carrying twenty troopers each, and a sixth truck loaded with reserve ammunition and weapons gamely kept pace. Three tanks followed at top speed, barely keeping up.

  Engine noise threatened his hearing. Diesel fumes would have asphyxiated them had the cab sealed properly. Cold air streamed over their feet, producing borderline frostbite. Their bodies shook with the jarring violence of the ride.

  The RustyCan wound between ridges in this part of Russian Amerika, and just ahead of them, the ridges came together. The half-track roared into a cut started centuries ago by the Tanana River and widened by Russian engineers forty years before during the World War. Off to the left lay the silent, frozen river and ahead on the right tilted the fifteen-meter rock known to the Dená as the Sentinel.

  “I am going to burst if I don’t piss!” Grisha shouted to the colonel.

  “So burst.”

  They traveled another hundred meters before the officer shouted at the driver.

  “Stop as soon as you can. The men will need to limber up before we get to the battle zone.”

  The driver obediently downshifted and flicked on his signal lamps. Moments later they stopped and the engine idled down to a mere growl. The colonel slid out and walked back to confer with his officers.

  Grisha glanced over at the driver. The man urinated at the side of his half-track, stretched, and broke wind at the same time. At the far end of the column, tankers crawled out of their armored behemoths to join their comrades and relieve themselves in the snow.

  Grisha wandered over to the river and looked down the ice-crusted bank.

  A dozen weapons pointed at him before whispered word passed as to his identity. He grinned and stepped off the bank, slid down to join the string of pitifully few men and women who comprised this portion of the Dená Army. As soon as he stopped, others quickly moved up and took position.

  Far down the twisting bank he could see figures hurrying toward the ambush site. Grisha thought there would be more people than the twenty he coun
ted.

  “Dublinnik!” the colonel’s voice shouted. “Sasha Dublinnik! Where are you?”

  A woman he had seen at Minto gave him a bolt-action rifle and a box of rounds. He quickly opened the chamber and peered down the barrel before loading. In a moment he was back to the edge of the bank.

  He poked his head up slowly and carefully slid the weapon onto the icy ledge. He sensed movement next to him and Malagni whispered, “You get the first shot.”

  Grisha nodded and took careful aim at the colonel. There weren’t enough of them at the edge of the bank to kill all the Russians. At least, he decided, they wouldn’t have the colonel to contend with. ºColonel Yuganin twisted his head about, searching for Grisha, composure and control slipping.

  “Sasha Dublinnik!” he shouted again. “Where are you?” His eyes ran along the snowy bank and suddenly locked on Grisha’s face. His mouth dropped open in disbelief before he recovered and turned to scream at his men.

  Grisha squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit Yuganin in the right side of the temple and blew the left half of his head into a pink splatter. The shot sparked a slaughter.

  Murderous fire erupted from the riverbank as well as the ridge on the other side of the road-whipping the column in a crossfire. The sudden barrage startled Grisha into immobility for a long moment. Cossacks and soldiers went down like wheat under a lead scythe.

  The Russians didn’t get off a shot. Bodies littered the road, staining the snow red with blood. A whistle cut through the firing and the shooting abruptly stopped.

  Two men sprinted out of the brush and darted up to the still-idling vehicles. The middle tank spun around on one tread and began to negotiate its way around the end machine. Another figure dashed out of the trees and scrambled up onto the clanking, lurching weapon. Grisha recognized Wing and an icy hand clutched at his heart.

  She screamed something down into the tank. It stopped. She moved back and a pair of hands showed over the hatch rim. In moments the driver stepped out onto the turret, tears streaming down his youthful face.

  Another whistle broke across the murmuring convoy and two waves of humanity converged on the tanker and his dead column. Grisha walked over to the colonel who lay face down in the snow and rolled him over with his foot. Even in death what was left of Yuganin’s face radiated arrogance.

  Malagni walked up and slapped Grisha on the back. “Perfect. You couldn’t have timed it any better.”

  “Any word from Cora? They locked her up.”

  “The attack on Chena is already underway, so she must have come through just fine.”

  Wing trotted up, a beatific smile curling her scar almost double.

  “We did it! We really did it.” She abruptly hugged both men at once.

  “Now we have to get back to Chena and prepare for the counterattack.”

  “When do we get to stop fighting?” Grisha asked.

  “When the Russians surrender,” Malagni said, striding away down the column.

  “I don’t think he could live without war,” Wing murmured.

  “When I saw you leap onto that tank my heart nearly stopped.” He stared at her strong, proud profile, knowing that if he ever trusted his heart to a woman again it would be her.

  “Yeah.” She turned to face him. “I felt pretty good when I saw you get out of that truck. You’re important to me, Grigoriy Grigorievich, don’t forget that. But there’s this thing called war that we gotta get through first.”

  “Where’s Nik?”

  She glanced at Malagni’s retreating back. “He’s with Nathan at Chena Redoubt.”

  “Oh.”

  “We haven’t heard a word from them since they began the attack.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  She finally looked up at him. “About an hour.”

  “What about the Russians of the Troika Guard I saw, are we going to finish them off?”

  She smiled.

  “The only Troika Guards alive at the battle zone had come over to our side. The battle you saw from the helicopter was a charade. But their commander wants to meet you as soon as possible.”

  “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 t
he 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.