Russian Amerika (ARC)

by Stoney Compton

  "I would like that, to have my store be safe. But they are dying out there."

  "Then we shall have to rescue them," the gray man said. "And you will guide us."

  "I am not a warrior. I am a merchant, a trapper, a hunter."

  "And now you're a guide. Your woman will be kept here just in case you had some alternate plan."

  "But, she needs to be with me." Grisha didn't need to strain to put real pleading into his words. "She needs to be safe."

  "Sasha?" Cora said sharply, fear emanating from her. Grisha wondered how much of it was acting.

  "They say you must stay," he said in her language. Learning the Tanana dialect of Athabascan had been the most difficult part of his training. "I will come back for you."

  Grisha turned to the bald man. "If she is harmed, I will kill you," he said flatly.

  "That would be fair," the man said. "But it won't be necessary. She'll be quite safe."

  The man lifted a steel helmet off the floor behind the table and strapped it carefully on his head. It bore the Imperial Army gold twin-headed eagle holding a sword in one talon and a wreath in the other, as well as the three stars of a colonel. "Dimitri, sound the alarm."

  The lieutenant rushed out the door. Moments later an amplified bugle blared and even through the stone walls Grisha could hear running feet.

  "Shall we go?" The colonel swept his hand toward the door.

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  31

  800 Meters Over the Tanana River

  The helicopter beat northward. That the Russians brought him with them gave him no surprise, but he hadn't anticipated flying. He nervously remembered the gunfire knocking down helicopters during the attack on Toklat.

  "You're worried," the colonel said.

  Grisha glanced at the man sitting next to him and nodded.

  "I would rather be walking."

  "We'll join the ground forces as soon as we ascertain there is indeed a battle under way. I don't want to send my motorized battalion into an ambush, do I?"

  "No. Of course not," Grisha said, rubbing sweaty hands on his trouser legs.

  "I thought all promyshlenniks relished a good fight, what's wrong with you?"

  "How can I fight from this?" Grisha thumped the metal wall with his knuckles. "I do my fighting on my feet." He slid the razor-edged knife from his sleeve. "With this."

  The colonel's eyes narrowed as he studied him.

  "What did you say your name was?"

  "Sasha. Sasha Dublinnik, free trader and expert hunter. What's yours?"

  The colonel gave him a frosty grin and looked away to study the ground beneath them. Grisha did the same. Anxiety swirled through him.

  He wasn't sure what they would encounter once they reached the battle site. A lot of people besides him had invested their lives in this complex operation. He would be the first to die if the Den subterfuge did not work. Cora and many of the Chena assault force would also die.

  "There's smoke ahead, Colonel," the pilot said over his shoulder.

  "Circle the area first."

  The gunship canted to the side as it turned. The left door gunner tightened his straps, slid open a Plexiglas hatch and, gripping his weapon, braced against the wall with one foot. Wind whipped in from the opening, displacing all warmth with withering cold. Their eyes followed the black column of smoke downward.

  A Russian half-track burned furiously in the center of a snowy meadow. A figure in mottled white and dark camouflage ran out of the trees and waved at the helicopter, motioning it to land in the open space next to the burning vehicle. The gunship continued to circle.

  Other figures in winter camouflage waved up at the craft, then went back to firing into the forest. Many men lay on the ground in various attitudes of death. Blood pimpled the snowy meadow.

  "Drop the radio," the colonel said.

  The right door gunner unhooked a parcel from the bulkhead. The pilot rapidly gained altitude in a tight spiral. The ground dropped away at such dizzying speed that Grisha nearly vomited.

  "We're at a thousand meters," the pilot shouted.

  "Send it down," the colonel said.

  The gunner pulled an O-ring clear of the bulky pack and snapped it over a hook welded inside the aircraft. As he threw the pack from the helicopter a cord attached to the ring trailed out. Parachutes blossomed, dropping quickly toward the burning vehicle.

  "Make sure our people get it!" the colonel shouted.

  The gunship dropped, circling down around the course of the parachute cluster. Grisha forced himself to swallow his gorge before it could pass his lips. His throat burned, his ears ached and stung from the cold and constantly changing air pressure, he swallowed repeatedly to get his ears to pop.

  "The package is down, Colonel," the gunner said. "Our men have it."

  "Establish contact."

  The pilot spoke into his microphone.

  "We have contact."

  The colonel pulled out a headset and held one earphone to his head. "This is Colonel Yuganin. Who am I speaking with?"

  "Sergeant Malinski, Troika Guard," a tinny voice said. "We are surrounded."

  "Let me speak to your captain."

  "Captain Romanov is dead, colonel. All of the officers are dead except the major, and he's wounded. I am in command of fifteen effectives, sir."

  A bullet punched through the side of the cabin, whirred over their heads, and dented the overhead before falling at their feet.

  "Jesus!" the gunner said with a gasp, watching the spent bullet slide across the deck and fall out the door. "We're drawing fire."

  Colonel Yuganin raised one eyebrow at the ashen soldier. "What did you expect, flowers?" He spoke into the headset, "Where are your enemies concentrated, Sergeant?"

  "Between us and the road."

  "Hold your position. We'll be back within the hour, Sergeant. And in force."

  "Thank you, Colonel."

  "Find our column, Major."

  "Yes, Colonel," the pilot shouted.

  The gunship swiveled and sped south.

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  32

  Chena Redoubt

  Cora knew at least one of them would come for her. She hoped no more than two would arrive together. When the bar on her cell door rasped to the side, she maintained her calm.

  Like most of them, he towered over her, confident in his strength and size that he would prevail. Young and stupid. He stopped inside the door and sat his machine pistol on the small stool that comprised half the furniture in the concrete cell.

  She quickly stood in front of the wood-frame cot. The door slammed behind him and someone outside lowered the bar. Cora took a deep breath and ran her right hand down the back edge of her skirt.

  A quick grin flashed across the man's face and he relaxed slightly. She smiled too; he had predictably misconstrued her actions. The strip of silent-fastener hissed open under the pressure of her thumb and the skinning knife tipped out and fell into her palm.

  The guard pulled his shirt over his head. Just as the cloth cleared his face, she kicked him as hard as she could in the crotch. He sucked in air with a small moan and bent double.

  Cora slammed the knife down between the base of his skull and the knotted shoulders; the razor-sharp blade severed his spinal cord, killing him instantly. The body fell to the stone floor like a sack of potatoes.

  "Please don't hurt me!" she said in Athabascan as she ripped his shirt apart. She pulled him over with a loud grunt. She cried out as if struck.

  Quickly she searched the body, mimicking inarticulate sounds of pain every few seconds. Soon she had two clips for the weapon as well as a boot knife. She left two wadded rubles and a coin in the pockets.

  She dropped her plunder into a small bag sewn to the back of the man's belt and fastened the belt around her. She picked up the machine pistol and m
ade sure the safety was off, then rapped on the door with the muzzle.

  "What a rabbit you are, Zabotin!" a voice boomed through the door. The bar scraped upward. Cora clutched the automatic weapon in her right hand, wedging the butt between elbow and ribs. In her left hand, the blade of the skinning knife jutted out, sharp edge up.

  The door swung open. The man on the other side chuckled.

  "Boom, boom, and you're done. I like that. It leaves more for m—"

  She stepped forward, pushed the muzzle into his face and held the knife against his throat.

  "Just one word and you'll be done too," she hissed in perfect Russian.

  "Ah, God!" he breathed. His face went white and he swallowed, causing the skin on his throat to touch the knife blade. A whine of fear leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  "If you do as you're told, you'll live." She glanced up and down the corridor. "Now turn around."

  He turned obediently and stood, knees shaking, waiting for her next order.

  "Where's your weapon?"

  Keeping his hands high above his shoulders, he gingerly pointed down to his side. She glanced down to see the weapon hanging on a strap. She grinned quickly.

  "Which hand do you write with?"

  "I don't know how to write, or read."

  "Okay," she said with a sigh. "Which hand do you wipe your butt with?"

  He wiggled his right hand.

  "With your other hand, reach down, unhook your weapon, and hand it back to me, very slowly."

  "Yes." He moved with exaggerated caution while following the orders.

  She expertly thumbed the release and caught the clip in her hand. "Very good. Now hold the weapon in front of you and open the firing chamber."

  He put the machine pistol at present-arms and automatically snapped open the block. A round spun through the air and hit the floor.

  "Who is in charge of this prison?"

  "The colonel."

  "Yes. I mean who is in charge of this place today, right now?"

  "Ensign Kopectny, but he would be in his office."

  "Dolt! Who do you report to if something goes wrong?"

  When he hesitated, she jammed the muzzle into his right kidney. He jerked away with a small cry of pain.

  "It's up to you," she said in a sharp whisper. "Die here, or do what you're told and have a new chance at life."

  He held his weapon in the air and turned his head to speak. "Sergeant Brezhnev."

  "Are the records of recent arrests where he is?"

  "Yes."

  "Can we get there without passing any other guards?"

  "Yes."

  "Do it."

  They advanced down a long corridor and entered an office where Cora noticed a rack of automatic weapons with a locked chain running through the trigger guards. The sergeant behind the desk continued to scratch slow, labored words into a ledger for a moment without looking up.

  "Speak and get out. What do you want?"

  "The cell numbers of all prisoners arrested in the past four days," Cora said.

  His head snapped up and his practiced frown changed to wide-eyed astonishment.

  "Clasp your hands behind your neck," she ordered.

  He did as he was told. "Who are you? What do you want?"

  "Cell numbers for every Indian and Creole you've put in here in the past week."

  "What for? You don't expect to get them out of the compound, do you?"

  "Consider this; I am a very desperate woman, and if you do not do as I say, I will kill you."

  He looked at the guard. "Where's Zabotin?"

  "She killed him," the guard said tightly.

  "And you surrendered."

  "Or I would have killed him, also," Cora said. "Now I'll give you the same choice. I offer you a new life if you'll join us, amnesty if you cooperate, or death if you slow me up another minute." The knuckle on her trigger-finger whitened and resignation washed over his face.

  "I need to turn the page on the ledger," he said, nodding at the book in front of him.

  "Do it."

  He quickly dropped his hand. Instead of landing on the desk, it fell behind the desk—out of sight. Cora shot him through the head with a single bullet.

  The sergeant rocked back violently in the heavy chair and then fell forward onto the book.

  "Get it before he bleeds all over it," she snapped at the guard. He snatched it from under the sergeant's ruined head.

  "Hold it up so I can see it."

  The names meant nothing to her. The cell numbers were evident and the dates beside them ranged over the past ten days.

  "Can you read numbers?"

  "Yes."

  "I want you to take me to the last five cells listed. Right now."

  They moved silently down the corridor past three doors before stopping at the fourth. The guard opened the door and she saw Wohosni lying on the rude cot, his face crusted with dried blood.

  "Damn," she said fiercely and prodded the guard with the weapon. "Get in there."

  "Cora?" Wohosni said in a weak voice.

  "Yes. It's time. Can you move?"

  "Water, I need water," he said with a gasp. "Then I think I can do it."

  "Where's water?" she asked the Russian. He gestured toward the door with his thumb and she gestured with her gun.

  She followed him to an alcove in the passageway. He filled a bucket and led her back to her friend. Wohosni had sat up. He grabbed the water and drank deeply.

  When he finished, he cleaned his face and eyes.

  "Who did that to you?" she asked.

  "Two guards on night shift got bored and beat me up for the sport of it," he said tiredly. "Even though I thought this might happen when I was arrested, I'm real happy to see you." Wohosni stood. "Okay, I'm ready to go now."

  They moved out into the corridor, Wohosni gripped the knife. They stopped at the next cell and the guard opened the door as quietly as he could. Anthony Cabinboy lay on the floor, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  They looked at him for a moment and Cora pushed the muzzle of her weapon into the guard's side.

  "Are they all dead?"

  "N-no! Only this one. The sergeant killed him this morning."

  "So that's why he tried—"

  "Yes."

  "What?" Wohosni asked.

  "The sergeant didn't cooperate with me a few minutes ago, so I shot him."

  "Ha." Wohosni's laugh lacked humor. "He didn't know you like the rest of us do."

  "You never beat the prisoners?" she asked the guard lightly.

  "Only if I must."

  "In order to rape them, you mean?"

  "Please. You said if I helped, you would let me live."

  "Take us to the next cell."

  A man with long hair tied back and sporting a moustache looked up from where he sat on the bunk. He wore beautifully made moose-hide clothing, and obviously hadn't been born in Russian Amerika.

  "Who are you?" Cora asked. "Have we ever met before?"

  "I'm Waterman Stoddard, from Eagle."

  "I didn't realize we had elements that far east," Cora said. "What kind of an accent is that?"

  Stoddard stood and smiled. "I was born in Virginia, Confederate States of America, but I've lived near Eagle for nearly seven years now."

  "Why are you in here?"

  "I did what that damn yankee McCloud told me to do, get arrested. So I picked a fight with two Russian ensigns and whipped both of 'em. That did it."

  "So you're on our side?" Cora asked.

  "Yes ma'am. I'm actually on Gnady Ustinov's staff and a captain in the Den Army."

  "Oh. Thank you for being here when we needed you, Captain Stoddard. We're going to get you a weapon as soon as we can." She looked at the guard. "There's supposed to be three more Indians in here, where are they?"

  "I'll show you."

  Heron unfolded his gangly body from the cot when the door swung open. Other than a bruise high on one cheek, he appeared to be fine. "It's about
time. I was beginning to think it wasn't going to work. Where's the weapons?"

  "After we get the last two," Cora said.

  "Two?" His eyes moved over the group and back to her. "Don't you mean three?"

  "Anthony is dead," she said softly.

  His jaw clamped shut and his face muscles worked. "Who did it?" he said through clenched teeth.

  "The sergeant. I killed him."

  He nodded once and then looked at the guard.

  "What about him?"

  "I have offered him a new life if he cooperates with us. And I plan to keep my word."

  "You're the strike team leader," Heron said flatly.

  "Right." She frowned at the guard. "What's your name?"

  "I-Ivan Yuvonovich, Private, Imperial Army, five, sev—"

  "Spare me the numbers, Ivan. Just take us to the last two prisoners."

  "Yes, Cora Leader." He moved out into the corridor, no longer hesitant. In moments he had the last two doors open. Claude and a small man named Ray emerged from the cells.

  "Very good," Cora said. "Now let's see if I can remember my way back to the weapons." She easily led them to the office where the sergeant's corpse lay over the desk.

  "Where's the key to that lock?" she asked Ivan.

  "Ensign Kopectny has it. Do you wish me to lead you to Ensign Kopectny?"

  "No." She picked up the heavy bayonet the sergeant had used as a paper weight, jammed it through the hasp of the lock, and jerked it down sharply. The lock fell apart.

  "I'm glad it was a Russian lock," she muttered. "Get weapons, make sure you have ammunition."

  Ivan stared at her and licked his lips.

  "What do you wish now, Cora Leader?"

  "Lead us to the radio room."

  "We have to pass other guards to get to the radio room," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I do not wish to die. If they see me with my hands in the air, they'll kill me to get you."

  "How many and where are they?"

  "One, a turnkey like me, is three corridors away down there." He thumbed to his right. "Farther down the same corridor is the guard to the operations area. Sometimes he's out in the corridor and sometimes he's in the tunnel."

  "What tunnel?"

  "Operations is surrounded by two-meter-thick walls." He shrugged apologetically. "It's like being inside a rock."