Russian Amerika ra-1

by Stoney Compton

  “—are you doing back there?” snapped a voice in Russian “I ordered you to blow the damned door to flinders!”

  “Sorry, sir,” Grisha answered in that language, “I was taking a piss.”

  “Who is this?”

  “They want us to shoot,” Grisha said.

  “Bitchin’.” Jackson fired into the edge of the light. Five Russian soldiers died before the others realized something was amiss. Jackson swung the weapon in an arc, scything down the dumbstruck troopers.

  The hatch on the cab burst open and Grisha sprayed the opening with a long burst. A scream curled up to an impossible octave and stopped. The door remained open. The machine gun ceased its thunder.

  “Come out,” Grisha called in Russian. “Or I’ll throw in a grenade.”

  “D-da!” a strained voice said from the opening. The corporal wasn’t wearing his parka, and the growing blossoms of blood soaked the chest of his field jacket. He tried to step toward them, but his legs buckled and he fell in a heap at their feet.

  Grisha rolled him over with his foot. Sightless eyes regarded eternity. Grisha pulled a grenade from his parka.

  Jackson frowned and held up his hand in admonition. Grisha twisted the grenade to show him the pin still intact, then he tossed it into the cab.

  Silence.

  “If there’s anyone alive in there, they got more balls than I do,” Jackson said fervently.

  Grisha peeked inside, machine pistol at the ready. A Cossack captain lay crumpled on the floor in front of the seat, dead. Grisha straightened up and smiled at Jackson.

  “Let’s get our people and get the hell out of here.”

  49

  West of Chena on the Russia-Canada Highway

  The half-track rumbled through the night as the glow in the sky dimmed behind them. The radio ordered Captain Romanov to report to base immediately. Five minutes later the order repeated.

  “Shut that damn thing off,” Jackson said drowsily.

  “Go to sleep,” Grisha replied as he steered the ’track carefully down the RustyCan. Between them on the bench seat Wing snored lightly, her head thrown back and her cheek resting on Jackson’s shoulder.

  “I want to know as much about their intentions as possible.” From the heavier snores at his side, Grisha knew he was talking to himself again. He had done a lot of that through this endless night.

  He glanced at the compass again to see if the road had yet swung due west. Their decision to make a dash for Tanana had been greatly weighted by a surprising statement from Jackson.

  “You get us there, I can get us out of Russian Amerika, if need be.”

  Wing argued that their objective was not escape but independence. Jackson pointed out that anyone who wished could stay in Tanana. So they tied down the wounded in the back, secured the heavy machine gun, and smashed through five kilometers of birch and spruce forest before angling over and finding the road itself.

  The two in the cab with Grisha supposedly served as guards in the event they came across Russian troops. After ten miles in the cab’s warm confines Wing and Jackson fell asleep. Grisha felt thankful for his three-hour nap in the redoubt.

  The subarctic night lay stiff and brittle on a land cloaked with snow meters deep. The northern lights capered unappreciated above them.

  As he drove he thought about Nik and wondered if his family would ever know how bravely he died. Not that it made any difference. He also wondered if the lump in his throat would ever go away.

  So many good people had died in such a short time that Grisha had trouble believing he would never see them again. Chandalar Roy had not come out of the redoubt. The loss of Slayer-of-Men would be felt throughout the Dená Nation. He wondered if Malagni still lived.

  The half-track bounced as it went into the ditch and Grisha groggily steered it back into the middle of the road. He had almost gone to sleep himself. He pulled his foot off the accelerator and glanced at the other two. They snored on.

  The track came to a stop and he put it in neutral, stepped out of the cab, and urinated on the ground. The hatch to the troop compartment popped open and Karin stuck her head out.

  “Is there time for me to do that, too?”

  “Of course. How’s Nathan?”

  “Still in the land of morphia.” She jumped down to the road. “Look the other way, please.”

  He grinned and looked up the road as she made water. The grin evaporated as lights bobbed toward them.

  “Company,” he barked. “Unlimber the machine gun.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said and clambered back into the half-track.

  Grisha jumped in the cab, turned off the headlights, and pushed Wing’s leg.

  “Wake up you two, we have visitors.”

  “Visitors?” Jackson said, rubbing his eyes.

  Wing sat up straight, eyes searching quietly ahead as if she had been wide awake the entire time.

  “They have to be Russians,” she said.

  “Why?” Grisha asked. “Couldn’t it be a relief column from Tanana?”

  “It’s only one half-track, not a column,” Wing said. “But it could still be our people.”

  “What’s the DSM frequency?” Jackson asked.

  “One-oh-four kilocycles,” Wing said.

  Jackson turned the dial on the radio. Static popped and crackled on a discernible carrier wave. He picked up the microphone.

  “Chena Two to approaching vehicle. Identify yourself or suffer the consequences.”

  Grisha put the half-track in gear and steered for the edge of the road. They all waited as the static grew in volume.

  “Maybe it is Russians,” Grisha muttered.

  “Chena Two, who’s in charge there?” The voice from the radio spoke English with a Yukon River accent.

  “Identify yourself,” Jackson snapped.

  The lights slowed and came to a halt. Grisha estimated the other vehicle to be about three hundred meters from them. He twisted around and opened the hatch behind his head.

  “Karin, you ready with the machine gun?”

  “Yes, but I’m freezing my butt off. Let’s shoot the bastards and get it over with.”

  “Not yet. I’ll tell you when to shoot.”

  “Okay,” she said resignedly.

  “What does ‘Tanana One’ mean to you, Chena Two?” the voice asked hesitantly.

  Wing grabbed the microphone out of Jackson’s hand.

  “It means Blue is in charge. Please put her on.”

  “Blue Bostonman?” Grisha said. “From the labor camp?”

  She nodded her head and grinned, bending the scar nearly double.

  “Wing!” a new voice issued from the speaker. “I would recognize your voice anywhere, even over a crappy Russian radio.”

  “Where are you going, Blue?”

  “To join you. Before I say anything more, blink your headlamps for the number of brothers Malagni has.”

  “All right.” Wing stared through the windshield at the distant lights.

  “Flash the headlights twice,” she said in a tight voice.

  Grisha complied.

  “I see you, Wing!” Blue said. “Meet you halfway.”

  Wing hung up the microphone. “Do it.”

  Grisha let the clutch out and the half-track moved forward slowly, clanking along in low gear. “You’re sure this is okay?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.

  “Didn’t that sound like Blue to you?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t see if anyone was holding a gun to her head or not.”

  “If somebody had been holding a gun to her head, she would have used the term ‘squaw candy’ when she spoke to me.”

  “Tell her we’re hungry,” Grisha said tersely. “Ask her if she has anything to eat.”

  “Jesus, but you’re paranoid,” Wing said with a growl. She picked up the microphone and repeated the question.

  “Sure, we got food.” Blue’s voice all but chirped over the radio. “We got caribou, moos
e jerky, and even some squaw candy. I remember how much you like squaw candy, Wing.”

  “Oh, no,” Wing said quietly. “She’s a prisoner. How are we going to get her out of there alive?”

  “We might not,” Jackson said, now fully awake. “Depends on what the Russians have in mind.”

  “They don’t know that we know they’re there,” Grisha said. “They expect us to be surprised.”

  “And defeated,” Wing said with a ghastly smile. Abruptly she pulled the hood of her parka up, fastened the front, pushed open the hatch, and crawled into the back of the half-track. “Pull up and stop beside them, Grisha,” she said over her shoulder. “Take out the driver. We’ll handle the show from that point.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Warrior women.” The hatch slammed behind her.

  Grisha glanced over at Jackson. The Californian stared steadily at the approaching lights.

  “Y’know,” Jackson said absently, “if I’d met someone like that at the right point in my life, I might have developed a thing for women.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear about it just now,” Grisha said. He picked up the microphone. “Hey, Blue. This is Grisha. Remember me?”

  “Grisha?” Her voice sounded tentative. “The little skinny guy who blew the head off that pig of a Cossack sergeant?”

  Grisha smiled. Blue knew her warning had been interpreted.

  “Yeah,” he said with a chuckle, “I’ve even killed a couple more since then.”

  Only fifty meters separated the two half-tracks. The other half-track suddenly stopped. Grisha braked and took his machine out of gear; the fight would be here.

  “Jackson, get out on the running board. When I turn on my spotlight you shoot hell out of the driver.”

  “But, what about this Blue person, won’t she get hit?”

  “She knows what’s going to happen.” Grisha remembered the labor camp.

  “Besides, she’s a survivor.”

  “Okay, you’re the boss.” Jackson swung out of the cab, leaned across the hood, and took aim at the approaching half-track.

  Grisha rolled down the window and picked up the machine pistol in his left hand. Glacial air bit at his exposed skin. The other half-track lurched forward and closed on them in an obscenely short amount of time.

  “Put on your interior lights,” Blue said with an edge in her voice.

  “I asked you first,” Grisha said lightheartedly. He gripped the handle and swung the spotlight around to bear on the other cab. He thumbed on the light.

  50

  Wing turned from the hatch and saw Karin behind the machine gun mounted over the cab. Even though they moved at a snail’s pace, the subarctic air knifing over the cab cut like cold steel. It won’t be long, she thought.

  “They’re Russians!” she said clearly. “But they have some of our people.”

  “Who?” Karin demanded as she braced her foot against the wall and cocked the heavy weapon.

  “Blue Bostonman, the sister of Lynx.”

  “Damn them,” Karin said through clenched teeth.

  “Who’s able to fight down there?”

  “Jimmy Scanlon, Heron, and that Eskimo guy, Simon.”

  “Get ’em out here,” Wing said. “We need all the help we can get.”

  Karin disappeared and Wing studied the machine gun. Moments later, the men followed Karin back though the hatch. Everybody carried a weapon.

  “Here’s my idea,” she said, talking fast.

  Master Sergeant Lupasiac clutched his thirty years of service to the Czar in a grip of grim patriotic fervor. A bandage gleamed whitely, despite its crusted brownish-red edges, over the burly Georgian’s dark face. His trademark vein of irascibility lay bare to the elements like an open pit mine.

  “Keep them lulled,” he growled. “We’ll have this over in moments.”

  His prisoner seemed mesmerized either by the vehicle they crept toward or the knowledge she had only minutes left to live, condemned by her own friends. Just the same, he found it impossible to believe this addled cow could direct a battle as devastating as Tanana. The sergeant mentally dismissed her and growled over his shoulder to the corporal.

  “As soon as I stop, kick the ramp down and surround their vehicle. I want them alive if possible, but don’t take any chances.”

  “Yes, Wulff,” the corporal said. “As you say.”

  Master Sergeant Wulff Lupasiac ignored the familiarity. Corporal Titov had earned the right to call him by his Christian name many years ago. His mind dwelt on the eight troopers in the back of the half-track.

  Do we have enough men? Is there any way this cow of a woman can discover their numbers without alerting them?

  He felt confident of total surprise. His men would surround the enemy vehicle in moments. Then he’d have something to show Tetlin Redoubt for the loss of his command, besides this ignorant savage beside him.

  Unbidden, the overland fighting retreat from a destroyed and burning Tanana Redoubt kaleidoscoped through his memory. Pain, fear, hate, and hunger all fought to dominate his mind, but discipline hammered them down and allowed him to focus on revenge and duty. These vermin would pay dearly for their rebellion.

  But why hadn’t the Siberian fighter squadrons answered their call for help? The last he heard, all the Yak fighters in Alaska had been destroyed by the rebels. How could that be?

  The point man apprehended this Blue person. At first she claimed the tea she brewed was intended for the Russian crew of the half-track in which she sat. His men searched for fifteen minutes but found no trace of a crew.

  At no time had she offered any resistance to them, and even volunteered that she knew some of the rebels’ code words. This information condemned her mere hours later.

  “The leaders of each battle are called by the name of the battle,” she said with a vacuous grin, following it up with a little giggle. “The battle leader at Tanana was called ‘Tanana One,’ and the leader at Chena was called ‘Chena One,’ you see?”

  “How do you know this?” Wulff Lupasiac asked carefully.

  “The sergeant who was boss in this half-track told his men about it. I overheard him.”

  Could this gap-toothed cow be as stupid as she seemed? So many questions, so many answers to puzzle out, and he was so tired. But the person on the radio, a woman he thought, had identified her as the leader of the Tanana revolt.

  Nearly unimaginable.

  “You shall die for this,” he had told her. “But if you cooperate I promise you a quick, painless death.”

  Thus far she had cooperated completely. His blood boiled upon hearing one of the rebels boast of killing Cossacks. He would personally torture that one until death ended his penance.

  The only thing that bothered him now was that the rebel half-track had stopped moving. He peered into the dense night but could see no figures moving against the mottled forest background.

  “Titov, stand by,” he barked over his shoulder.

  “Yes, Wulff. We’re ready.”

  “Remember that you’re Cossacks.”

  He pulled up, nearly bumper to bumper with the other vehicle.

  “Tell them to open their interior lights so we may see them,” he said with a growl.

  “Put on your interior lights,” the woman said in a strange voice. Wulff glanced at her as she dropped the microphone and then rolled off the bench seat onto the floor of the cab. Alarm shot through him as all his instincts screamed.

  “What are you—”

  “I asked you first,” a voice said over the radio.

  “Titov!” he screamed. “Go!”

  Bright light flooded the cab. Bullets, shock, and darkness crowded it out.

  Wing held her breath as the half-track stopped. Light blossomed in the night. Bullets shattered the stillness. The loading ramp at the back of the half-track crunched down and dark figures poured across it.

  “Fire!” she screamed.

  Gun fire from three directions pou
red across the figures and into the opening. In moments nine bodies lay smashed and twitching, their blood leaking silently to freeze in the snow.

  “Cease fire!” Wing shouted. She walked over to the bodies.

  “Blue?”

  Something scraped in the cab. Five gun muzzles moved toward the sound, hunting dogs tracking quarry.

  “Wait!” a muffled voice cried. “It’s me.” The door abruptly flew open and a bloody body tumbled to the ground.

  “Okay,” The voice called out from the cab, louder and clearer now. “I’m coming out. Don’t shoot.”

  Blue clambered down out of the half-track and peered around owlishly. Blood covered her head and parka.

  “Blue, are you hurt?” Wing cried.

  “It ain’t my blood.” She glanced down at the body.

  Wing dropped her weapon, ran over, and embraced the older woman. “How wonderful to see you.”

  “Oh, that was such a close thing,” Blue said, hugging her in return.

  “Thank goodness for code words.”

  “There’s much I have to tell you,” Wing said. “Very little of it is good.”

  “And I have much to tell you,” Blue replied. “And most of it is good.”

  Jackson slapped Grisha on the back. “Good job, Captain. I’ll take Jimmy and a couple others and drive the other half-track. Signal if you need me.”

  “I’m glad you’re with us, Benny.”

  51

  Russia-Canada Highway, Near the Yukon River

  “…and we know Yak fighters scrambled out of Siberia and Tetlin, but they never got to Tanana.” Blue paused and stared at Grisha and Wing on the seat beside her. “Do either of you know why?”

  Grisha concentrated on his driving, but managed one word, “Haimish.”

  “Yeah,” Wing said absently. “His last act seems to have borne fruit.”

  “Hamish is dead?” Blue asked quietly. “What did he do to stop the fighters?”

  “I think he arranged for help from the U.S.A., maybe got us a squadron of fighters. He worked for the Yanks, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that, but I ain’t surprised. You sure he’s dead?”