Russian Amerika ra-1

by Stoney Compton

  “The skipper says anyone wants to volunteer to jump with the Colonel has his okay. Who’s goin’ besides me and him?” He snapped his rip cord onto the cable running the length of the cabin.

  All one hundred twenty men stood, hooked up, and began checking the gear of the men in front of them.

  Grisha felt a lump swell in his throat. He turned back to the sergeant major. “You honor me and my people, Sergeant Major. Thank you.”

  “Ain’t every day a troop runs acrost a straightleg colonel with balls, sir. We’re the ones proud to be jumping with you.”

  The red light over the ramp winked on. The sergeant major worked the controls and the ramp in the back of the plane yawned open. Grisha stepped forward and snapped his cord onto the cable at the front of the growing line.

  He grinned around at the serious young faces. “I got the most rank, so I get to go first.”

  They laughed and roared their approval.

  The green light snapped on with a buzz.

  “Go!” shouted the sergeant major.

  Grisha ran the few meters to the end of the ramp and threw himself into space. The parachute snapped open with a loud crack and the harness jerked him upward, the straps cinched tighter on his thighs. Relief rushed through him.

  The damn thing really opened.

  He had never liked the idea of parachutes.

  He looked around. Chutes blossomed above him in increasing numbers. Off to his right and left flew two of their companion aircraft. Men poured out the ends of both filling the air like giant dandelion seeds in a stiff breeze.

  Something snitted past his face and he looked down on a scene of chaos. A firefight raged at close quarters at the front of the tree line. Russian tanks fired at pockets of soldiers who weakly returned fire.

  Destroyed armor littered the meadow. From the woods around the battlefield small-arms fire winked up at the paratroopers.

  Grisha unlimbered his AR-15 and returned fire. The ground rushed up at him.

  83

  Rainbow Valley

  Sergeant Rudi Cermanivich rubbed blood out of his eyes and peered at the tank again. His body throbbed with pain and every time he swallowed he tasted blood.

  Where was the damned flier?

  If he hadn’t had to blink the blood from his eyes he would have nailed the bastard with the second shot. He wondered how long he had to live, if the horrific fall down the valley would claim his life later or sooner.

  Things had happened so quickly. As the road gave way under their tank it flipped, throwing him and Colonel Lazarev out of the hatch. Cermanivich had been tossed wide of the tank’s path of death and fell into the scant tree line.

  The first tree he hit slowed him but took off half his scalp in the process. The next time he hit the branches caught him and he fell grabbing, cursing, shrieking down through them, unable to defy gravity. The tree bordered a scree pile and he landed in it with crushing force that gave no mercy or pause.

  Down he tumbled in the loose, jagged rock, tearing and cutting his hands, feet, legs, ass, face, knees. He bounced into one of the large boulders scattered throughout this barbarous valley and slammed shoulderfirst into the loose rock. When he could move again he wiped away the blood streaming down his face.

  He saw one of the Velikoff rifles they carried in the tanks, not three meters from him. It looked completely unharmed.

  Moving created more anguish than he thought possible or reasonable. But he must see to his comrades, it was the tanker way. Using the rifle for a crutch, he slowly made his way over to the once proud command tank hull and peered inside.

  Corporal Ivanivich’s uniform held what was left, but most of him coated the steel walls. No sign of the colonel or Kalkoski, the gun server. Sergeant Cermanivich hobbled over to the turret and found no trace of his commander or subordinates.

  He surveyed the devastation around him, realized that most of the column lay before him and he was the sole survivor. Without hesitating or caring for his injuries, he started up the grim path left by the tank avalanche. After a hundred meters the pain became unbearable and he sat on a rock, promising himself he would just take a short respite. While he sat there trying to ignore the pain, he saw movement down by the river.

  Slowly he eased off the rock and positioned himself behind a slightly larger boulder. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes to clear the incessantly seeping blood from his vision. Focusing on the man, thank the saints it wasn’t a bear, he realized it was an enemy aviator.

  Who was the enemy? he wondered. The Dená didn’t have an air force that he was aware of. And the air attack was nothing if not professional. U.S.A.? C.S.A.? Kalifornia?

  “They were good enough to wipe us out,” he muttered.

  An intense hatred for the downed flyer suffused his being and he laid the rifle on the rock in front of him. As quietly as possible he chambered a round and took aim.

  He decided to wait for the man to stop and rest, or else get much nearer. Between the seeping blood and the other injuries he had endured, he didn’t trust his ability to take the target on the wing, as it were. He chuckled silently.

  “As it were,” he whispered. An old friend used to say that so often that when he said anything, at least half the people listening would intone together: “As it were.” Harris had been an English deserter who wound up in the Czar’s tank corps. Harris died in Afghanistan a year ago, instantly, when he stepped on an antipersonnel mine.

  Sergeant Cermanivich shook his head angrily and immediately regretted the action. His head all but burst with the pain of a dozen hangovers smashed into one. He held himself very still as the wave of anguish washed over him and slowly receded.

  I cannot afford the luxury of reminiscence, he told himself fiercely. I would relinquish vigilance.

  The flyer, an officer, he suddenly realized with a smile, peered into the command tank hull before looking away and vomiting. Cermanivich grinned, happy to discover his enemy was weaker than himself.

  The pilot-officer walked to the turret and stared inside again without hesitation. Well, he didn’t lack guts, the sergeant decided. Then the flier leaned back against the turret and sank to his butt.

  Sergeant Cermanivich quickly steadied the rifle across the rock, took careful aim between the man’s eyes. He took a deep breath and held it, the muzzle didn’t waver a millimeter, and squeezed the trigger—just as the flier dropped his head over and down between his knees.

  Cermanivich, cursing the fates, the bolt action of the rifle, and goddamn pilots in general, chambered another round, took quick aim as fresh blood obscured his vision and fired. Hands remembering what brain had forgotten, he instantly chambered another round and fired. And missed again.

  His quarry went to ground. But the man must be unarmed else he would have returned fire, no? So the obvious solution was to wait for him to break cover and then nail him once and for all.

  Cermanivich eased his aching butt back up onto the larger rock, wiped blood from his eyes, and waited with his rifle across his lap.

  84

  Second Battle of Chena

  Like everyone in sight of the contest, Wing watched Malagni battle the huge Russian. Even before the quicksilver blade of the promyshlennik darted into Malagni’s chest, she knew she witnessed his last moments.

  Soldiers from both sides watched the titanic struggle, ignoring their enemies and shouted orders from those not in line of sight, totally mesmerized by two men fighting it out hand to hand on the battlefield with naught but steel between them.

  Then the first fatal blow, and Malagni jerked back and with all his remaining strength and might, swung his axe in a blurring arc and decapitated the Russian. Malagni toppled forward, dead.

  Wing exhaled, not remembering when she had first held her breath. The Dená and Russians surrounding the meadow edge where the giants had fought stared at the twitching, bleeding bodies for a long moment and as if on command, raised their heads and regarded the enemy.

  A Russian se
rgeant cut down three Dená soldiers and the spell shattered.

  Sergeant Major Tobias shrieked, “Charge!” and the Dená line hurtled into the Russians. Hand-to-hand combat raged. Wing considered picking off Russians, but none were far enough from her own people to shoot safely.

  The Russians began to fall back under the intense attack. But the combat had exacted an insurmountable toll on the Dená army and they faltered. Russian fire from the woods increased and more and more Dená fell.

  As Wing laced the woods with machine-gun fire she saw three Russians shooting into the air. She dropped behind the rim and gazed up at their targets—hundreds of parachutes filling the sky.

  Men still spilled out of three aircraft overhead. In the distance she could see three more planes winging away. The Russians were shooting them in the air.

  She jumped up and tried to make every shot count. She took out fifteen men before her clip ran dry. Frantically she searched for a full clip. There weren’t any.

  Smolst had passed out. Wing pulled his hand off the handle on the heavy machine gun, checked the belt feed, and started scything down Russians. A man shouted and they brought their firepower to bear on Wing. Bullets whined past her, made angry buzzes past her ears, smashed against the inadequate earthwork around the firing pit, dirt and small stones sprayed over her.

  She dropped to the bottom of the pit. Knew they would be on top of her in moments. This was it.

  “God, am I thirsty!” she screamed.

  Even with her damaged ears, she detected the increase in weaponry. The bullets ceased seeking her out. Curious, she stuck her head up for a look.

  The Russians retreated toward the river. Paratroopers hit and rolled, cut shroud lines, and fired at the Russians. The woods boiled with friendly soldiers.

  One man limped among them using a rifle for a crutch, directing, shouting orders, and firing at the Russians with a pistol. The man stumbled and fell and two soldiers who had been waiting for his injury to take over produced a litter and rolled him onto it. They carried him back toward Chena Redoubt from where a number of auxiliary vehicles emerged and roared toward the battle zone.

  The last unscathed Russian tank reversed up the far bank—onto an antitank mine. The explosion ripped open the bottom and set off ammunition inside. It went up like fireworks on the Czar’s birthday.

  Two soldiers in khaki jumped into her firing pit. The charging grizzlyinsignia of the Republic of California Army adorned their left shoulders.

  “You okay, buddy?” one asked. He stopped and took a harder look.

  “Sorry, ma’am, didn’t expect to find a woman out here.”

  “Water,” she pleaded.

  He gave her a plastic canteen and she gulped down a third of it.

  “I’m Major Wing Demoski, D.R.A., who is your leader?”

  “Some Dená colonel, what’s his name, Ernie?”

  The other soldier thought for a moment. “Griz-something, I think. I don’t know, they never introduce me to the senior officers anymore.”

  “Hell of a guy, though,” the first one said.

  But Wing was already running toward the distant litter as tears threatened her vision.

  85

  Rainbow Valley

  Yamato, drenched with sweat, stopped his drive for the canyon wall and carefully rolled over onto his back behind a large rock. Muffling the sound with his fingers and thumb, he unzipped his flight suit all the way to his navel. Never, he decided, had he been hotter than this, ever.

  He briefly closed his eyes and willed his heartbeat to slow closer to normal. Being in superb physical condition, his heart rate dropped to normal after two and a half minutes. He edged up and peeked over the rock.

  Not fifty feet away a man sat on a rock with a rifle across his lap, staring fixedly at the tank turret where he had almost nailed himself a lieutenant. Fifty feet was at the edge of accurate range for a .45. Jerry wondered if he could hit the man before he could return fire with the rifle.

  At fifty feet the rifle wouldn’t miss, not that one anyway. He eased back down and rested, weighing his options. The guy looked like crap, all beat up and bloody.

  Hell, if I just take a nap, he thought , when I wake up the guy would probably be dead.

  It was the “probably” that kicked doubt loose in his mind. He couldn’t afford to take the chance, not if he wanted to try and win Andrea back. The vision of his ex-fiancé’s naked body undulated through his mind for a moment before resentment kicked in and he refocused on his current situation.

  His shoulder ached and he realized this was an excellent opportunity to void his bladder. Easing over onto his uninjured side, he unzipped and quietly pissed into a windblown depression under a rock. He groaned with pleasure, figuring the constant breeze would whip the sound away from the stonelike sentinel.

  They hadn’t covered this situation in flight school or survival school. If the guy was charging from a hundred meters away, or attacking him with a knife at close quarters, Jerry would know what action to take. But when your opponent is at the extreme range of your only weapon and possesses a weapon of superior range, what the hell do you do?

  Woodcraft didn’t work here, so he had to think with the military part of his brain. Was it possible to get another fifteen feet closer to him? He knew at thirty-five feet he could hit his target.

  The soldier looked next to death. But was he? What had he ever heard about Russians?

  Alcoholic peasants with a penchant for exhibitionist self-pity. But he realized he was basing his opinion on Elena, an old girlfriend from the Ukraine, and was probably mentally slandering a lot of fine Russians. His friend John had married her.

  He couldn’t worry about John, he had to look out for himself. What had they said in the briefing? He hadn’t been paying attention to the usually boring preflight facts. Once they identified the mission and gave the pilots the weather forecast, Jerry usually allowed his attention to wander because most of the rest of it was for flight commanders and superior officers. First lieutenants performed as ordered.

  He knew he had heard it, could he remember what he heard?

  Oh, yeah. They said “seasoned combat troops.”

  So was this guy sufficiently handicapped that he wouldn’t hear a clunky pilot squirming up behind him? Options being limited, he was going to find out the hard way. He felt rested and hungry, time for dinner.

  He rolled onto his knees and elbows and began squirming toward the soldier.

  86

  Second Battle of Chena

  Grisha’s leg radiated agony throughout his body. When it snapped during landing, shock and adrenaline walled off the pain. But now that they insisted on bouncing him around on a litter his adrenaline had ebbed and the shock didn’t dissipate anything.

  “Ouch, dammit! Can you people slow down?”

  “Sorry, Colonel,” the one in back puffed. “But there’s lots more people need picked up back there.”

  Immediately chagrined, Grisha said, “I’m sorry, soldier. Halt, both of you!”

  They stopped and stared at him.

  “There’s an ambulance coming, or what serves for one. I’m away from the fighting. Leave me here. Go take care of someone who really needs help.”

  They sat the litter down and gently lifted him onto the moss and flowers. Both men stood and saluted. “We’ll follow you anywhere, Colonel,” the corporal said. They raced away toward the carnage where a few bursts still stuttered.

  Grisha lifted his binoculars and viewed the Russian line on the far side of the Chena. Smoke poured from shattered tanks. Russian soldiers ran toward the rear, only a few pockets here and there retreated in an orderly fashion. For the moment, the Dená Republik Army held the field.

  He wondered how much time the Russians would need to regroup before hitting them again, and how long they had before the full column arrived. Could they stop that much armor? Even the lowest private could see they had already given their all.

  Four P-61s roared over the
battlefield followed by three more, flying wingtip to wingtip. The Dená and R.O.C. soldiers cheered. The Russian retreat picked up speed. Grisha felt the tide of battle shift to their side despite the imminent threat of more Russian armor. Owning the sky made a hell of a difference.

  He heard the ambulance close behind him. Somebody ran toward him from the battle zone. Grisha peered through the binoculars again.

  At that point the figure threw off her helmet and the deep black hair fanned out in her wake.

  “Wing!”

  Something in his chest released and tears of joy ran down his cheeks. He had been so careful not to think about her, not to worry, not to dwell. And the whole time he’d kept her locked carefully in his heart, knowing he really didn’t want to live without her.

  The ambulance skidded to a stop next to him and two U.S. Army medics jumped out. “Where ya hit, Mac?”

  Grisha spared them a glance. “Left leg broke when I hit the ground.” He turned his attention back to Wing.

  They slit his pants leg open. One made a small sound in his throat.

  “Simple fracture, but this is still gonna hurt a bit.”

  Wing waved urgently, wanting to be seen. He waved in response and she slowed to a trot. His eyes searched her as she approached, looking for harm, fearing damage.

  Sweat ran through the streaked gunpowder on her face. One of the epaulets on her field jacket flapped, cut by a bullet. Dirt and moss matted her hair.

  Grisha had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.

  She panted as she came up to him, stopped, and saluted.

  “Good… to… see you, Colonel.” She smiled, the scar on her cheek wishboned together. “Christ, I’ve missed you, Grisha.”

  The medics pulled back and watched in astonishment.

  He spread his arms and she knelt and hugged him close.

  “Hell, Sarge,” one of the medics said. “Maybe we’re in the wrong outfit.”