Russian Amerika ra-1

by Stoney Compton

  “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.

  Three of the U.S. field pieces opened up on the Russians. dropping shells on the road and into the APCs supporting the tanks. A Russian tank exploded from a direct hit.

  A bullet hit Smolst in his upper left arm, blowing blood, meat, and cloth away in a miniature cloud. Crying out, he spun and fell. Wing stopped and reached down to help him up. Something snapped past her ear.

  “Major Smolst, come on!” She tugged his good arm and he bared his teeth in pain but staggered to his feet.

  She looked up and saw men in camouflage attacking from the left flank. They had her people caught in a cross fire. She jerked Smolst down into a firing pit where one of three men still moved.

  “Where’d they come from?�
� the trooper asked. She recognized Leroy, one of Blue’s cousins from Nulato.

  “Are you hit?”

  “Not yet. Help me load this thing.”

  Smolst tore at his bloody sleeve. “Shit, shit, shit!” He pulled a belt off one of the dead troopers and cinched it around his bicep.

  Leroy and Wing struggled with the heavy ammunition belt until it clicked into the feed slot. He snapped the bolt back once, took aim at the figures advancing from the tree line, and commenced firing short bursts.

  Wing saw two attackers go down. She pulled a rocket launcher from beneath one of the dead men. The tanks were now five abreast and approaching the far side of the Chena. She waited, wondering if all the mines had been detonated by the barrage.

  As if in answer, the right track blew off the middle tank. The other four continued down the bank. Another artillery round exploded between the tanks, throwing mud and moss over everything.

  They don’t have any idea how deep the Chena is along here, she decided. Guess they’re about to find out.

  Two of the tanks stopped and the other two rumbled into the river and completely submerged. They didn’t come out. Wing took careful aim and fired the antitank rocket. One of the remaining tanks gushed fire and the crew boiled out of the turret hatch as the machine began to burn.

  Something knocked the rocket launcher out of her hands and she realized the enemy flankers hadn’t gone to ground. Leroy fired again and two more men dropped.

  “Are we the only people left alive out here?” she yelled. The ground heaved and pieces of tundra and permafrost rained down on them. The tanks made deadly forward fire bases despite their inability to cross the river.

  The Russian ground troops enfiladed the U.S. artillery positions and killed two crews. The last 105mm swiveled and put three rounds into the woods where the Russians had taken cover. One of the remaining Russian tanks zeroed in on the cannon and hit it with its second shot.

  Wing searched the firing pit and found two more rockets. She tried to load and discovered the launcher had been smashed by a bullet.

  “Damn!” She grabbed one of the heavy automatic weapons, leaned it on the edge of the firing pit. Wing squeezed the trigger and the stock slammed against her shoulder like a string of hard punches. Her teeth clenched as she concentrated on putting the rounds where she wanted them.

  She hit four of the camouflaged attackers and the rest took cover.

  “How many are there, Leroy?” When he didn’t answer, she glanced over to find him on his back with a surprised expression across his face, eyes turned up as if trying to see the bullet hole in his forehead.

  Smolst pushed himself up and pulled Leroy’s weapon from his dead hands.

  “Help me get this on the edge of the hole,” he said, breathing heavily.

  She grabbed the tripod and lifted it to the rim as Smolst crawled up behind the weapon. He fired a long burst.

  The ground lurched again and debris bounced around the firing pit. Smolst and his weapon fell heavily on top of a dead trooper. The major lay there, panting, and Wing realized he was going into shock.

  A lassitude washed over her like a warm tide as she realized they would die alone out here. Her determination to take as many as possible of the Czar’s fools with her didn’t diminish—she just stopped being careful.

  Bullets spattered around their position and she knew one or more flankers were trying to pin her down while others advanced. She popped up and squeezed the trigger while moving the muzzle from side to side. Three more men went down before the others, so many others, dropped from sight.

  Gunfire chattered from her right and left and she spared quick peeks to see that some of her people were still in the fight. She and Smolst wouldn’t die alone. A round whined past her head and she involuntarily ducked as others followed.

  Wing slammed in a fresh banana clip and popped up again, spraying the advancing enemy while cursing them in Athabascan.

  76

  Chena Redoubt

  As he lay on his cot trying to rest, Malagni heard the thunder of artillery. He was halfway out his door when Sergeant Major Tobias trotted up.

  “The Russians are blowing the fortifications to pieces, Colonel. Colonel Demoski’s people will never hold them.”

  “So much for Plan A!” Malagni hurried down the hall, calculating madly.

  “Saddle up the reserve force. No sense in waiting for them to hit us here.”

  “Very good, Colonel.” Tobias ran down the hall.

  Malagni stopped in his office, grabbed a machine pistol, and put spare clips in his dungaree pockets. He looped a cord around his axe and tied it to his belt to keep it from flopping if he had to run.

  Somewhere in this army his little brother, Nik, was preparing for this battle. Malagni had already lost one brother to the damned Russians and the spirits indicated the Russians would get him, too. He fervently hoped Nik would make it through.

  Malagni felt the presence of Slayer-of-Men. “I’ll avenge their treachery, brother!” he said to the room. “It’s a good day to die.”

  He looked at his U.S.-supplied helmet and grinned. Let the rest of the Dená Army use them, he wasn’t a soldier anyway—he was a warrior! He hurried out into the courtyard.

  The artillery barrage overwhelmed all other sound. Wing must be going through hell. His reserve consisted of three tanks, five armored cars, and three hundred men.

  We are outnumbered so bad I won’t even try to figure it out.

  A wave of elation swept over him. “Are you ready to fight?” he screamed at them.

  “Yes!” they roared back.

  “Then let’s kill Russians!” Malagni jumped into the command car. Sergeant Major Tobias grinned from behind the wheel.

  “I thought you were a pencil pusher, Tobias.”

  “I earned my stripes in the field, Colonel. I wouldn’t miss this donnybrook for love nor money.”

  Malagni gave him a wide grin. “Then carry on, Sergeant Major, carry on.” He threw back his head and screamed his war cry.

  They tore through the gate with the entire garrison following.

  77

  The Russian Front Line, in the 2nd Battle of Chena

  Bear Crepov cradled his Kalashnikov and trotted behind the ranger unit along the bank of the Chena. The Siberian Tigers had thrown a “hurry-up” bridge across the water a half kilometer upstream from the highway. These troopers seemed to know what they were doing. Not a Cossack among them.

  They arrived at the bridge and a guard waved them across the three-tree bridge. No chatter vied with the brutal cacophony of the artillery.

  Across the river without incident and into the trees, the rangers kept up the pace and Bear began to feel his years and habits weighing on him. He gritted his teeth and maintained speed.

  He wasn’t going to let these kids show him up.

  The barrage ceased. The silence felt unnatural. The ranger captain pumped his right arm twice and they increased speed.

  Bear’s breath came in hard gasps now. He couldn’t do this much longer. Small-arms fire broke out ahead of them.

  Bullets whined past, thwacked into trees. One punched into the man ahead of Bear. The ranger whuffed and fell to his knees.

  Bear stopped beside him, not to help or out of concern, but because it gave him an excuse to rest for a moment.

  The soldier turned his camouflage-painted face to Bear, tried to speak. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell on his face. More bullets ricocheted through the forest and Bear sat down next to the soldier and leaned against a tree.

  What I’d give for a shot of vodka, he thought.

  The firefight heated up. Bear waited until his breathing returned to normal; then pushed himself to his feet.

  Hope they saved some Indians for me.

  He trotted toward the sound of battle.

  78

  117th Fighter Squadron Over Russian Amerika

  Major Ben Hurley scanned the horizon, craning his neck up he searche
d the sky all around his P-61 Eureka fighter, Jenny Love. Nothing. Flying support for the paratroop transports had been a milk run.

  He read his gauges and dials. According to his computations the Republic of California aircraft had just crossed the border between British Canada and Russian Amerika. He radioed the lead transport.

  “Flight Delta, this is Foxtrot One. We have seen no enemy aircraft. Flight Foxtrot will now go to Plan B.”

  “Roger that, Foxtrot One. Thanks for the company and good hunting.”

  “Thanks, hope your delivery goes well.”

  The fifteen fighters peeled off and flew directly west.

  “Okay, guys,” Hurley said, “stay awake, the highway should be about a hundred and fifty miles ahead of us.”

  The flight dropped until they were a thousand feet above the terrain and bored onward, their propellers radiant in the Alaskan sunshine.

  Tank Kommander Colonel Boris Lazarev breathed a sigh of relief when he received the radio communication from General Myslosovich. Immediately he told his driver to go to full speed. He knew the other tanks and armored personnel carriers behind him would keep up. He once had broken a captain to the ranks for not maintaining pace, after that it had never again been a problem.

  Being the lead tank gave him the advantage of not eating any of the dust they threw up in stultifying clouds. They traveled in battle formation, each tank staying within thirty meters of the machine in front of it. Colonel Lazarev glanced at the column behind him as it wound up the series of switchbacks to reach Baranov Pass, the only road pass in the Alaska Range.

  Every tank commander stood in his hatch, goggles and helmets facing forward. His command had arrived in Russian Amerika less than forty-eight hours previously. This was quite different than patrolling the China/Russia border. For one thing, the scenery from absolutely striking.