Russian Amerika (ARC)

by Stoney Compton

  "We've discovered that most soldiers of the Czar hate their life. They're merely slaves in uniform. We need soldiers too, but ours share with everyone else, they're not a lower class to be used like animals. They're respected."

  "I find that difficult to believe," Nik said. "Will the people go into battle with them?"

  "I am not a person?"

  Grisha laughed as a look of consternation swept over Nik's face.

  "You're twisting my words. Of course you're a person! But you're part of a paramilitary group, aren't you? You don't look like a schoolgirl to me."

  "Once I was a teacher. My husband and I lived in Holy Cross where the Russian Army maintained a small garrison. One night three cossacks broke into our house, killed my husband, raped me"—her left hand touched the scar on her cheek—"and left me for dead."

  It pained him to look at her just then, so Grisha stared at the mountain.

  "Friends found me, hid me, nursed me back to health. I was introduced to others who were tired of being used by the Czar and living in constant fear. Through them I received training and began striking back. One of the most satisfying moments of my life was the morning I gelded those three bastards and left them tied in the forest to bleed to death."

  "You've had a hard life," Nik muttered.

  "Who hasn't? That's why we're here, to end the Czar's rule over our people and our homeland. We've been slaves to a man and a government none of us have ever seen, never will see. We've had enough, we're fighting back."

  "You're talking about armed revolution," Nik said. "You'll never get away with it, you're too few and they're too many."

  "I'm willing to fight," Grisha said. "And it's because they took my life from me, twice. Not quite as brutally as they took yours," he said, nodding at Wing, "but they took it just as completely.

  "While serving the Czar I, and the men under my command, took the lives of countless men. We never questioned, never asked 'why?' because we didn't care. Now I've killed one cossack and I'm more than willing to kill more. And I know why."

  Part of him stood shocked, aghast at his treason, but the rest of his being cheered as elation filled him.

  "Well, by comparison I've had it pretty good," Nik said. "But there's certainly no love lost between me and the army."

  "So you'll join us?" Wing asked.

  "Conditionally."

  "Good." She whistled, sounding just like a bird.

  Claude came panting up. "There's someone behind us."

  "How many?" Wing asked.

  "Three, four, I'm not sure. They're good, they don't break the skyline and they skirt clearings."

  "Who are they?" Nik asked.

  "One cossack for sure, and two or three others. The rest must be promyshlenniks."

  "Damn!" Grisha said.

  "They die just like anybody else," Wing snapped. "This is a perfect place to take them." She pointed. "Grisha, you take cover behind that fall of birch. Nik, over behind that large rock with the moss. Wait for my shot, then fire at whatever you see."

  They all hurried to their posts. Claude and Wing disappeared to the left. Grisha quietly opened the chamber of the rifle he'd carried from the construction site. Shiny cartridge cases reflected redly in the light.

  Algeria seemed a lifetime away. His service to the Czar was a subject carefully blocked from his day-to-day mind. The government had stripped him of two careers. He was ready to try a different tack.

  "No," he hissed softly through clenched teeth. "They can't do that to me anymore."

  He settled back and waited.

  Off to his left he could see Nik. The soldier appeared calm and deadly. Grisha wondered about the man and abruptly realized he wasn't paying attention.

  For long moments he stared first at one tree, watching for movement with his peripheral vision, before shifting his attention to another tree or rock. After ten minutes something flickered at the edge of the trees.

  A hundred meters to the left, and right on the trail, a man stepped out in the open. He stopped at the brush line, clearly visible. Red collar flashes identified him as a cossack.

  The cossack craned his head around, seeking a target. He shrugged and trudged up the slope to where the trail forked, as if hunting rabbits. He didn't waste a glance at Denali.

  Grisha forced his eyes back to where they had been when he first saw the flicker of movement. Nothing. He stared at the spot, waiting. The cossack irritated him, bouncing up and down at the far edge of his eye.

  He was always aware when someone stared at him; the skin on the side of his face, just in front of the ears, would tingle slightly. Suddenly the spot actually itched. A shadow moved at the other corner of his eye.

  He swiveled his eyes over and slowly let his head follow. Another movement. Grisha finally made out the shape of a man. The woodsman was huge, with arms the diameter of stovepipe, wearing a great, dark beard that stretched halfway down his chest.

  That's two. Beads of sweat rolled down his face. Where's the other one, two? He realized that the man on his far right was visible only to him. The others couldn't know about the promyshlennik because they couldn't see him.

  Slowly he centered his sights on the man's chest, directly between the shoulders, in the middle of the beard. His target knelt and stared at the cossack, rifle butt resting on the ground beside him. Although Grisha's shoulders itched, he ignored the cossack. The man in the trees was a much more important target.

  The promyshlennik suddenly gripped his rifle and rose to a crouch, peering at something.

  Grisha glanced back, wishing Wing would fire the first shot. The only thing in sight was the cossack. He looked back at the woodsman.

  He wasn't there.

  His training instantly took over. Heart hammering, he abruptly knotted down into a crouch.

  A blast from behind blew away a fist-sized chunk of the tree next to where his head had been. Grisha threw himself to the side as another blast tore into the space he'd just vacated. He rolled down the slight slope away from the attacker, but toward the cossack.

  The ridge top erupted in gunfire. The cossack staggered backward under the force of hits and fell to the ground. Grisha leaped up and ran toward cover.

  Expecting to be hit or killed at any moment, he grunted in surprise as he reached the relative protection of the forest. He hunched down, eyes flashing about, his breath shuddering in and out. He smelled sour, even to himself.

  The air stood still, cooler now than earlier. The temperature would drop tonight, he decided.

  He heard Claude call out, "Grisha! Where are you?"

  Slowly his eyes moved over every object in his sight. Nothing moved.

  Where did he go?

  "Grisha? You okay?" Nik called from nearby.

  "Stay down!" Grisha yelled. "There's another one over here."

  Movement to his right. Claude edged into the trees like a large cat. Nik eased up behind him.

  "Where?"

  "I don't know. But he damn near got me, twice."

  Wing suddenly slid up beside him. One of her hands steamed, covered in blood.

  "We already got three," she said, her eyes searching out ahead of them. "Maybe he moved over and we caught him?"

  "Big guy with a huge beard and biceps big as one of your thighs?"

  "No. We didn't get anyone like that," she said in a low voice.

  "There's one more and he's in there." Grisha nodded toward the thick forest at meadow edge. "He's very good. Well, good enough to make a fool of me," Grisha said and forced a chuckle.

  "You're not green in the bush. You're just out of practice." She looked around and slowly rose to her feet. "C'mon." She nudged him and moved forward.

  He glanced down at her hand. "You're hurt."

  "Not my blood. C'mon."

  Grisha put three meters between them so a near miss of one wouldn't hit someone else. They moved quietly ahead with Nik on one side and Claude off on the other. After a hundred meters all four stopped as if on command.
<
br />   The forest stood in front of them, full of brush, wind fallen limbs, and rocks. Wing moved close to Grisha again and spoke quietly. "Are you sure he came this direction?"

  "If he hadn't, one of you would have seen him," Grisha said.

  "Well, since we haven't come across him by now, he's probably escaped," she said with a sigh. "We need to move on before it gets any later, we have a long way to go."

  "I hope we got the bastard that killed Alex," Nik blurted.

  Wing regarded him coolly. "You didn't even know Alex. Why are you so eager to avenge his death?"

  "Because he was important to you." Nik angled away from them suddenly, pretending the brush forced his detour.

  Grisha hurried back to the windfall where he had taken cover. With his sheath knife he dug the mushroomed slug out of the damaged wood. As they came together on the trail he held it out in his hand for them to look at. Nobody commented.

  "Okay, Claude, you take point, I'll take flank," Wing said. "Nik, if you'll keep quiet, I want you back with me."

  They set off toward Denali.

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  Framed

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  13

  On the Delta River Trail

  Bear Crepov slid Claw back into its sheath, put his rifle on safety, and eased out of the old wolf den. That had been too close. His heart still pounded nearly as much as it had when they came within a meter of where he lay.

  He had been prepared to go down fighting. Two close calls in the space of ten minutes. Perhaps he was getting too old to be hunting traitors and DSM mercenaries. These are well-trained people, he decided.

  He walked over to where the cossack lay frowning at the sky. Surprisingly, the rabble hadn't shot this fool as soon as they saw him. Three holes in the sergeant's chest testified to a quick death.

  Crepov searched the corpse, found identity papers, six wadded rubles, and some coins. One coin was French-Canadian. He shoved everything into his pockets. After pulling the bandoleer off the cossack, he slipped it over his shoulder and went off to find his other dead.

  Birds broke into song. Good, no more strangers around. Wolverine White grinned at the foliage with twin smiles. White's own knife still protruded from his throat.

  Bear felt a shiver run through him. This wiry English turncoat had been his best friend. They'd done it all together.

  He pulled the insulting knife out of the death wound, wiped it absently on his dirty cotton pants, and dropped it in his small pouch.

  "I'll gut every one of 'em for you, Wolverine!" he said with a lump in his throat. "I promise."

  He ambled back down the trail toward the construction site. For a moment he entertained the thought of seeking out the third casualty, but decided not to waste the time. Bukowski had just been a Pole anyway.

  "Well, I got one ear for the Czar," he said to the trail. The Indian at dawn. Too bad he couldn't get the scum to talk. In a way the Indian had outsmarted him.

  As soon as Bear had begun to skin him to loosen his tongue, the Indian had screamed defiantly in their face and thrown himself on the blade. "You have to admire a man like that," he muttered, lengthening his stride.

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  Framed

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  14

  Toklat on the Toklat River, September 1987

  In the six days it took them to reach the village Toklat on the Toklat River, Grisha gained weight. Nik tried incessantly to talk with Wing, which made Grisha resentful.

  On the second day she had finally stopped and all but shouted, "What don't you understand about 'shut up and be quiet'? We have no idea if we are being followed or not. We all have to maintain discipline, even you."

  Nik didn't open his mouth for the rest of the journey. Grisha felt embarrassed for him, as well as vindicated. Nik had been getting dangerously loud.

  The first snow of the season dusted lightly through the trees as they entered the village. A few barking dogs and two men, standing silent as sentinels, constituted their welcoming committee.

  "Wing, Claude, we're glad to see you," the older man said. "Who are your friends?"

  Quickly Wing introduced them to Chandalar Roy and Nathan Roubitaux. "Chan, here, is the grand old man of the movement," Wing said.

  Chan's long, white hair hung down his back, tied in a ponytail; wrinkles of many decades crisscrossed his face. Sharp, intelligent eyes closely assessed the new arrivals. A spare and slightly stooped man, he stood half a head shorter than anyone else present.

  Wing continued, "And Nathan is—"

  "Let them learn for themselves," Nathan said.

  Nathan's disturbing, piercing eyes glowed from his wide, pock-marked face. His dark, unruly hair stuck out in every direction. He stood half a head taller than Grisha, but probably weighed the same. The word sinewy came to mind as Grisha assessed him.

  "Sure." Wing shrugged. "Any word from Slayer?"

  "He is safe." Chandalar frowned. "Alex is—"

  "I know. I heard him die."

  "I mourn with you," Chan said.

  She nodded. "These two are for you to train," she said briskly. "Claude and I must leave in the morning."

  "To where?" Nik blurted. Grisha felt glad Nik asked the question; it spared him the impertinence.

  "I'll be back in a month at most. You're still a prisoner suspected of Czarist leanings, so I can't tell you more than that."

  "But what about—"

  "That's all I can tell you." She stalked away in the failing afternoon light.

  "She and Alex had been lovers for over a year," Chan said. "Come with me and we'll get you both settled."

  Grisha snuck a glance at Nik. At first the man's face was stony, impossible to read, then it softened. He smiled and shrugged. They followed the gray-haired Chan.

  Grisha felt Nathan staring at him. He brushed at a spot in front of his ear and turned to the tall, gaunt-featured man.

  "What are you looking for, friend?"

  Nathan gave him a frosty smile.

  "You're very aware, Grigoriy. I meant no disrespect."

  Chan opened the door of a cabin and motioned for them to enter. A cast-iron cook stove radiated heat, making Grisha aware he had been chilly for some time. Two oil lamps softly illuminated a pair of bunks built into the back wall, a small kitchen in one corner, and pegs and shelves in another. A sturdy wooden table and three chairs dominated the center of the room.

  "I've stayed in much worse inns," Nik said absently as his gaze moved over the room.

  "Four meters by four meters," Chan said. "Not exactly St. Petersburg but certainly adequate."

  Grisha dropped onto one of the chairs and let his gear fall to the floor. "It's almost as beautiful as my boat. But right now some food would look even better. I am so tired."

  Chan laughed. "No beating about the bush on your part. We have a meal waiting, come along."

  Grisha threw his backpack on the bottom bunk and followed. Nik trailed him out the door.

  "Thanks for giving me the top bunk."

  Grisha glanced over his shoulder at him. "You'd have to fold double to fit into the bottom one. Besides, top bunks are always too warm at night."

  "Well, I'm glad that our needs mesh," Nik said.

  Chan led them to a large building.

  "That's the biggest log structure I've ever seen," Grisha said.

  "There are larger ones, but not close to Toklat," Nathan said beside him.

  Large tables bisected the building. About twenty-five people stopped their noisy meal to look at them.

  "This is Grigoriy Grigorievich, a Kolosh from Southeast, and Nikolai Rezanov, a former soldier of the Czar."

  A few nods and a quick smile here and there made the best of it. Most of the men and a few of the women merely stared. Distrust emanated from the group and Grisha decided a meal wasn't worth sitting through this.

  He turned toward the door and bumped into Nathan. The tall man smiled d
own at him, put his hand on Grisha's shoulder and carefully turned him around again.

  "Come and break bread with me, killer of cossacks," he said loudly. Nathan's eyes found Nik. "You too. We have much to discuss."

  The mood in the room perceptively altered. Someone put a large wooden bowl of soup in front of Grisha. He thanked the server.

  "You're welcome," Cora said, smiling back.

  "How did you get here before us?" Nik asked.

  "I cheated. I went by river."

  "We needed the exercise anyway," Nik said, giving her a full smile.

  "It's good to see you again, comrade," Grisha said.

  "I'm glad to see both of you," Cora said. "We need all the help we can get." She moved away across the room.

  "Does she have someone like Wing did?" Nik asked.

  "Cora's very independent," Nathan said, "most Athabascan men don't like that."

  "Then most Athabascan men are fools, she's quite lovely."

  "While we agree with the second part, we'll take the first part under advisement." Chan leaned across the table toward Grisha. "Why is your name familiar to me?"

  "Did you ever serve in the czar's army, or the Troika Guard?"

  "No. But my two nephews did, one was killed in some wasted action in Algeria—" Chan's eyes rounded as his voice abruptly stopped. "My God," he whispered. "You're that Grigorievich?"

  "Da." Grisha pushed his empty bowl away. "Does that change anything between us?"

  "You were in the Russian Army?" Nathan frowned, his eyes flicked back and forth between Chan and Grisha.

  "You were a major and they cashiered you for disobeying orders," Chan said, staring at Grisha. "You had over ten years in uniform, yes?"

  "You have an excellent memory, Chan."

  "Moses, my surviving nephew, still talks about what you did."

  Grisha smiled. "I wasn't aware my men knew what happened. I would like to talk with Moses some time."

  "No time like the present." Chan left the table.

  Nik gestured at Grisha with his spoon. "You people welcome him like a brother, yet he was in the army for ten years and I was only in for two—"