Russian Amerika ra-1

by Stoney Compton

  The party split evenly, half going into the woods on the west side of the road, half to the east. Heron and two others moved into a bunker built with heavy logs. A large U.S. .50 caliber machine gun squatted on a tripod, the muzzle projected through a two-meter-long firing port.

  “Sure would be nice to build a fire,” Wally Sticks said wistfully.

  “The Russians would agree with that,” Heron said.

  “Major,” Riley Jones said, “maybe we should take turns getting some rest.”

  “Good thinking. Both of you try to get some sleep, I’ll keep watch.” Heron peered through the firing port for a moment before wandering back out into the fading afternoon. He found a tree to lean against and let his mind roam.

  At first he had felt skeptical about the council’s choice of Grisha as leader of the Southern Defensive Force. But after hearing about his military experience, he was unable to name another who fit the job better. And he sure as hell didn’t want it.

  Late winter dusk crowded in around the trees and Heron surveyed the perimeter. As he peered off to his left, movement caught in the right corner of his eye. He whipped his head back in time to see a large figure stop in its rushing advance and aim a weapon at him.

  Heron threw himself to the ground as three slugs smashed into the tree behind him. He jerked his U.S.A.-issue machine gun up and put two long bursts into the attacker. The man spun with the impact of the bullets and dropped silently in the snow.

  As an afterthought, Heron tapped his radio once and said, “Wolf One.” How could the Russian have gotten past all the others? He moved quickly toward the command bunker. “Riley! Wally!” he shouted. “They’ve infiltrated!” He slipped coming around the end of the bunker and his feet went out from under him.

  Bullets whizzed over his head at normal chest height. Heron instinctively sprayed a long burst at the muzzle flashes from the far end of the dim bunker before he stopped sliding. Two men jerked and fell in perfect unison.

  The conviction they were his own people shot horror through him.

  My God, why did they shoot at me?

  He scrambled to his feet only to trip over something else. He peered down into the dead face of Wally Sticks. The feeling of horror grew exponentially as he realized the truth. All of his people were dead.

  He hurried over to the closest figure and jerked open the heavy, white parka. The man wore a Russian field uniform. His collar flash featured a stylized leaping wolf. The Czar’s elite, crack army ranger force was called the Wolf Pack.

  The Russians had sent wolves after wolves. And the Russian wolves were better at their jobs. Heron stared wildly about.

  The gunfire would bring others. Just to make sure he didn’t harm his own people, he tapped the send key on his radio three times, said, “Wolf One, I’m gonna blow it.” Then he reached down to the base of the log wall and grabbed the detonator hidden there.

  Through the firing port he saw a scatter of figures rushing toward him. All wore white parkas.

  He screamed, “Eat this, dog soldiers!” and violently twisted the rotary switch to the left.

  Nearly two hundred meters of the RustyCan highway erupted in a sheet of fire. The bridge over the Chena blew into flaming splinters. The blast flattened trees and tossed the Russian rangers like rag dolls. The shock wave blew the bunker wall inward—burying Heron under bludgeoning logs.

  He knew his chest was crushed and inkiness began to surround him. He wondered if he had died for nothing before the darkness rolled over him and he submitted.

  The blast rattled Chena. Rubble shifted and the flash from the southeast silhouetted the gaping walls. Leaning against the back wall of the command post, Wing felt shock and surprise. She sat her cup of tea down.

  “Already?” she muttered to herself.

  Grisha burst through the door and went to the radio being monitored by the War Council delegate from Nulato.

  “Did you hear anything before the blast, Eleanor?” Grisha asked.

  “Wolf One keyed his transmitter once, then about a half-minute later three more times—then it went off. That’s all, Grisha.”

  Grisha stared hard at the walls. “Heron had the bunker. No report from the scouts. No other warning of imminent action, just the blast,” he muttered.

  Wing moved over and stood at his side. “Do you want to send a couple scouts out?”

  “No. We’ve already lost too many people,” Grisha said. “But I want everyone at their battle stations, now.”

  “Yes, Colonel,” Wing said and turned to go.

  “Wing,” Grisha said.

  She turned back to face him, conscious of others in the chilly stone room watching them. New lines etched his face and anxiety filled his eyes.

  “Colonel?”

  “I want you to, please, be careful out there.” For a long moment he was the old Grisha again and his dark eyes gleamed with affection.

  “Of course,” she said slowly, her eyes locked on his. “You be careful, too.”

  “Right, let’s get our people ready.” He was the colonel again: remote, hard, and driven.

  Wing felt something move inside her and, with an almost audible click, she realized she was in love with Grisha. The thought frightened her—she didn’t want to condemn him to death.

  They haunted her, those men she had loved and lost. The Russians had killed every one of them. That was why the Russians had to be defeated before she could respond to Grisha the way she wished.

  She recognized what she saw in his eyes when he looked at her, but she couldn’t acknowledge it yet—it wasn’t safe.

  “Smolst,” she snapped, “let’s get ’em in their places.”

  55

  Russia-Canada Highway, East of Chena Redoubt

  Colonel Konstine Kronov sat stolidly next to his driver as they inched along the snow-covered Russia-Canada Highway. The last time he had been in Alaska was as a junior officer back in the ’60s. His star had risen dramatically since then and he expected his troops to make short work of this rebellion.

  Two days ago the Czar had personally given him command of all Imperial forces in Russian Amerika until this revolt ended. The rebels would hang, Kronov decided, as an object lesson for Mother Russia’s other ethnic peoples. General rank waited at the end of this expedition, he felt sure.

  He tried not to think about how few troops he had under his command, and how quickly he and his staff of four had thrown together this bare-bones response. What little intelligence he had about the rebels pointed to a small force, inexpertly commanded, and poorly trained. His response counted heavily on that intelligence. More troops were en route, but vast distances were involved.

  “Captain Kashan to Colonel Kronov,” the radio crackled.

  Kronov picked up the microphone. “Report.”

  “Colonel, all of the Wolf Pack are dead. The road has been destroyed for nearly two hundred meters, including the bridge. There is no sign of the rebels.”

  “Thank you, Captain. We’ll just have to drive on the taiga and ford the creek. Kronov clear.”

  He frowned. The Wolf Pack must have been ineptly led. How could a mob of savages and Creoles eliminate the best Imperial Army troops in Alaska?

  Those people were usually predictable.

  The three tanks and two trucks in front of his command car detoured off the roadbed and crept between the shattered road surface and the dark stand of spruce and birch. The colonel stared at the wrecked road and wondered where the rebels had obtained the explosives. He’d forgotten how desolate Russian Amerika could be.

  The command car bumped along behind the trucks. Behind the car rumbled a half dozen armored personnel carriers and a half dozen tanks. Reducing what was left of Chena Redoubt would be child’s play with this much firepower.

  It had been but a few weeks since the Imperial Air Corps had blasted the redoubt. High Command told him that most of the rebels there had been annihilated. This should be an easy campaign.

  A heart-stopping blast sh
attered the truck directly in front of the car. A few screaming soldiers, bodies engulfed in flames, fell out of the back and thrashed on the ground.

  Kronov grabbed his microphone and screamed, “Deploy, deploy, get out of line immediately!”

  One tank turned and began grinding up over the rubble of the road. Suddenly an explosion went off under the lumbering giant, lifting it off the ground and blowing off one track—throwing the treads back into the trucks like shrapnel. Before the tank could fall completely to the ground ammunition stored inside exploded and the machine contorted like a living thing as it died.

  “Mines!” Kronov screamed at his white-faced driver. “They’ve mined the roadside. Don’t move this car another inch until our men have had a chance to clear the area.”

  The corporal pointed to the burning tank. “How did they mine something they already blew up?”

  “What do you mean?” Kronov said in a shrill voice.

  “Shouldn’t the explosion of the roadbed have set off any mines this close?”

  “Yes.”

  The tank behind them blew up. Ahead of them a streak of fire shot out of the forest and hit one of the two remaining advance tanks. Two men pulled themselves out of an escape hatch seconds before the inside of the tank exploded.

  Gunfire cut the two soldiers down.

  “It’s an ambush,” Kronov screamed into his microphone. “Take evasive action.” He switched radio channels. “Tetlin Command, this is Kronov. We need air support immediately.”

  “What’s your location, colonel?” the distant radio operator asked.

  “Where the fighters were shot down. I was told this area had been cleansed.” He broke off, suddenly conscious of the shrill panic in his voice.

  “I’m sorry, colonel,” the radio voice said, “but we have no operational aircraft close enough to support you at this time.”

  The last operational tank in front of him opened fire with its cannon and heavy machine gun. Two more streaks lanced out of the forest and hit the tank. The machine blew into bits, setting fire to the truck behind it.

  Kronov expected soldiers to leap out of the truck and take defensive action but nothing of the sort happened.

  He numbly dropped the microphone. “My God,” he said to the corporal.

  “They all must be dead.”

  The corporal abruptly put the car in reverse and backed close to the burning tank behind them before jamming the gearshift forward and stomping on the accelerator. The car slewed around in a tight arc and bounced back past burning tanks and the bodies of soldiers. Kronov beheld a scene from hell.

  Every tank was burning and all but two of the trucks were also in flames. The bodies of his soldiers lay scattered like toys after a child’s game. The corporal grimly drove over a number of bodies in his haste.

  None cried out.

  For the first time in his life, Colonel Konstine Kronov felt true fear. He had never considered how helpless one might feel when afraid. Unbelievably, the command car roared up onto the undamaged portion of the highway.

  Even here lay Russian bodies in attitudes of violent death.

  Where was the enemy?

  The car picked up speed as they passed the last bullet-riddled truck. The corporal jammed on the brakes and the car skidded sideways before stopping. A log barrier spanned the road, providing shelter for the heavily armed people behind it.

  Kronov let his breath go and wondered how long he had been holding it. The sight of his enemies temporarily gave him something close to relief. At least now he knew they were fighting humans and not wraiths.

  Someone shouted in perfect Russian, “Get out of the vehicle with your hands clasped to your head. Now!” The corporal kicked open his door, grabbed his head fiercely with both hands and stepped out of the car.

  “Tell your officer that we will kill him if he does not get out of the vehicle.”

  The corporal bent down and peered in at Kronov. “Colonel—”

  “I hear them, you idiot.” He opened his door and stood full length before putting his hands on his head as insolently as possible. “I am Colonel Konstine Kronov of the Imperial Russian Army. Who are you and by what authority do you stop me from my duty?”

  “You’ve got more balls than brains, Konstine,” a man said in Russian.

  “But then, that’s what the Czar likes in his cannon fodder.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Basil, and not all that long ago, I was a slave of the Czar’s. Now I’m sergeant in the Dená Republik Army and under that authority I make you my prisoner.”

  “Why do you not kill me as you have my troops?”

  Basil gave him a gap-toothed smile. “You’ll see.”

  56

  Chena Redoubt, March 1988

  “What happened to Heron and the rest of Wolf Team?” Grisha asked.

  “The Russians sent in their own wolves,” Basil said in his deep voice.

  “By the time any of us knew of their presence, they had already killed a third of our people. Irena was the first to see them and pass the word to the rest of us.”

  “Why did you blow the road before anything was on it?”

  “Heron did that. He must have thought we were all dead. The blast killed or maimed all the Russian Wolves.”

  “There were some left alive?”

  “Some,” Basil said with a slow grin. “But they didn’t last long. As soon as we finished them off, we mined the roadsides and went back to our machine guns and antitank guns.”

  “You did well to bring in the colonel and the corporal. What’s your rank, Basil?”

  “Sergeant, why?”

  “As of now you’re a lieutenant and in charge of an infantry platoon.”

  “I’m not sure I want that, Grisha.”

  “It’s Colonel Grisha and we need everyone working at the highest level they can achieve. When the rest of your team shows the initiative you did, I’ll turn them into officers, too. We need them.”

  “Irena showed more initiative than I did, Colonel.”

  “That’s why I’ve already made her a major and put her in command of Wolf Team.”

  “Oh. Okay, I’ll take the platoon.”

  “You’re getting some new people who haven’t seen action. Teach them how to stay alive.”

  “Yes, sir.” Basil grinned and left the room. The man sitting at the radio in the corner carefully kept his eyes on the gauges.

  The door shut behind his old companion from slave days and Grisha sighed. Ever since the council pushed this command on him, he had expected his army to discover that he was only acting like a field officer, that too much time had passed since he last knew military life and battle. He felt what little he did know about cold-weather operations he had received from his conditioning with Nik, Malagni, and Haimish.

  He felt the years as a charter captain had negated his long service to the Czar. Yet training completed over twenty-five years ago suddenly manifested when needed and helped him make desperate decisions.

  The memory of his friends strengthened his determination to go on and finish this thing correctly. The Dená had saved him from certain death and he had vowed to help them any way he could. But he hadn’t expected this.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Enter.”

  Wing stopped just inside the door. “Colonel, there’s a contingent of forty recruits from upriver villages. It would be a good thing if you welcomed them personally.”

  “Forty,” Grisha said. “We need so many more than that, but I had given up hope of getting more village people.”

  “Many of them thought the Russians would kill us all as soon as we attacked. The fact that we’ve held the highway from Bridge to Chena has made an impression. Now they know the Russians can be beaten.”

  “I wish I knew that,” Grisha said as he moved around the desk toward her. “C’mon, let me at these people.”

  Wing led him over to a group eating from bowls. When they saw Wing they stopp
ed eating and quietly watched her and Grisha.

  “It’s customary to show respect for the colonel by standing when he enters your area,” Wing said in a low voice.

  Everybody immediately began to rise.

  “Thank you,” Grisha said quickly. “I am honored. Please sit, you’ve all come a long way and I know you’re tired.”

  They eased back down. One man remained standing. Grisha glanced over at him and had to force himself not to let his jaw hang open in astonishment. Slayer-of-Men stood there!

  “How. You can’t be standing there—I saw you die.”

  “You are Grisha, the boat captain?” the man asked.

  Grisha felt relief. This wasn’t Slayer-of-Men. The voice was different, higher than the steel bass of the dead warrior. “Yes, I’m Grisha. How are you related to my friend Slayer-of-Men?”

  “I am Nikoli. Slayer-of-Men was my older brother, as is Malagni. They spoke highly of you and your dedication to the Dená Republik.” Grisha was positive this is exactly how Slayer-of-Men sounded in his youth.

  The words sank in. “Malagni is still alive?”

  “Yes. He is healing. He said to tell you that he would be back soon.”

  “Thank you for the news. I thought both your brothers died that night.”

  “You’re welcome.” Nikoli nodded politely and sat down with the rest of the group.

  For a moment Grisha felt as if he had regained a measure of his two dead friends in this person. Then he firmly suppressed the feeling. Nik wa—Nikoli was a whole new unknown and to give him that sort of measure to stand against wasn’t fair. “Do you mind if I call you ‘Nik’?”

  The youth smiled. “That’s okay. Everybody else does anyway.”

  They all smiled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wing sniff and look off to the side.

  “I thank you all for coming to help. So far we have more than held our own against the Czar. The price has been high.”