But Chief Andrew was right: if his troops failed, Grisha would be blamed.
Which makes perfect sense to me.
He knew he would probably never see Akku or any other part of southeast Alaska again.
"Very well. Where do I serve?" Grisha tried to overcome the feeling of hollow unreality inside him.
"Colonel Grigorievich, you will be in charge of the Southern Defensive Force," Anna said crisply. "You are ordered to protect the highway between Chena and Tanana while retaking Chena for the Den Republik."
"How many people are in my army?"
"A little over eight hundred, so far," Wing said. "Our scouts say the Russians haven't reinforced Chena yet. They're too busy building up Tetlin. They must think we're going to attack."
"What about the political angle?" Grisha asked. "Didn't the Californians offer some help, and Haimish's people?"
"The U.S. has a squadron of fighters on the ground in Galena but it's still uncertain if they are going to stay," Wing said. "The Californians are supposed to have an answer for us today."
"And," Nathan murmured, "here comes Mr. Jackson now."
Benny Jackson walked over to their table.
"Who's in charge here?"
"I'm the acting president," Nathan said, "if that's what you mean."
"Yeah, that's what I mean. Would you step over here, please?"
"Benny," Wing said firmly, "whatever concerns him as president also concerns us as the council."
"I got someone who wants to talk to the person in charge, okay?" He rolled his eyes at the ceiling and turned away. "C'mon, Mr. President."
Nathan followed him across the room, futilely running a hand through his unruly hair. Grisha got up and ambled after them. Jimmy Scanlon wore a headset with large cups over his ears behind a radio transmitter like the one back in Chena. A microphone on a stand stood in front of the other equipment.
"Where'd you get that?" Grisha asked.
"We left a cache here on our way to Chena," Jackson said, picking up a microphone. "Okay, Nathan, Mr. President, the person you're going to speak to is an undersecretary in the State Department."
"Of what must I convince him?"
"You must assure her that if the Republic of California grants your government diplomatic recognition you will grant us 'most favored nation' status in return."
"What does that mean?" Grisha asked.
"I thought Nathan was in charge here," Jackson snapped.
"So what does it mean?" Nathan asked, his raptor's gaze pinning Benny.
"It means the Den Republik would grant the Republic of California first rights in trade agreements, political and military alliances, and extractive minerals exploration."
"So if the United States wanted to form an alliance with us, they'd have to wait in line behind you guys?" Grisha asked.
"Not necessarily, but you can't promise two countries the same things, you know."
"But we can have 'most favored nation' status with more than one country at a time?" Nathan pressed.
"Yes."
"Okay, we'll do it," Nathan said.
Jackson stepped up to the microphone and nodded to Jimmy Scanlon who twisted one dial. A speaker hummed into life.
"Benny Jackson, here. Are you there, Ms. Undersecretary, can you hear us?"
A pleasing contralto voice said, "I hear you fine, Mr. Jackson." She hesitated for a moment. "My heart goes out to you in your time of sorrow. Alf Rosario will be missed by us all."
Until now Grisha hadn't believed that Benny Jackson could ever be at a loss for words. The man straightened his posture, stared at the microphone, and licked his lips.
"Ah, thank you, Ms. Campbell. I genuinely appreciate that. I didn't know you were aware of his death." He nodded and stepped back, motioning Nathan to move closer.
"I am Sarah Campbell, Undersecretary of State for the Republic of California," she said crisply. "Whom am I addressing, please?"
"I am Nathan Roubitaux, President of the Den Republik. I am honored to meet you, Madame Undersecretary."
"You'll forgive me if I skip the usual diplomatic puffery," she said. "Time is of the essence for you and I'll get directly to the point."
"I do appreciate that. Please continue."
"My government has authorized me to grant the Den Republik full diplomatic recognition in return for most favored nation status and an exclusive extractive minerals treaty."
"Exclusive extractive minerals treaty?" Nathan echoed. "We're new to this sort of thing. Please explain."
"It's quite simple really. The Den Republik would allow the Republic of California, but no other foreign nationals, access to your mineral or petroleum deposits."
"What if we didn't wish to allow anybody access to our deposits?"
"That is your prerogative. Our stipulation is that if and when you decide to seek expertise and, or, financial aid to utilize the minerals in your country, you come to us." She sounded cheery, with a smile in her voice. "Our cooperation would be very competitive, compared to the other nations of North America, I assure you."
"I will have to speak with the council about this. We already agreed on most favored nation status, but a minerals treaty has not been discussed at all."
Grisha wondered how someone as young-sounding as Ms. Campbell had risen to such high position in the California Republic.
"We have notified St. Petersburg that we are extending recognition to your government. I'm told we follow the First People's Nation and the United States in that regard, and in that order. The Russians continue to rattle their sabers.
"They contend this is an internal matter and we are violating their sovereignty. Our Defense High Command recommends that we station a squadron of Eureka fighters in your country as well as two mobile radar battalions and three antiaircraft companies."
"Where do you propose siting these elements?" Nathan asked in a soft voice.
"Strategically. On your borders with Russian Amerika. This is something your ambassador's military advisor and our High Command could discuss upon your party's arrival."
"We would be grateful if your air force could provide transportation for our ambassador and his staff. At the present time we have no transport aircraft capable of making the trip."
"It will be our pleasure, Mr. President. How many people will be in the ambassador's party?"
"Four. How soon could the transport arrive?"
"Tomorrow. Is Tanana aerodrome operational?"
"Yes. We'll send answers to your questions with Ambassador Adams and his party."
"Very well. We look forward to his arrival. Good day, Mr. President."
"Good day, Madame Undersecretary."
The speaker issued static and Scanlon switched off the machine. The room suddenly seemed smaller.
Nathan walked over to the table where the council members sat.
"We need to talk in private."
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53
Tanana on the Yukon, February 1988
"Claude and his party will go south to negotiate military aid," Nathan said. "In the meantime we have to push the Czar's army out of as much of the Den Republik as possible. If a truce is finally declared the battle lines will probably turn into borders."
"Any idea how many are moving toward us from St. Nicholas, or how many are already at St. Anthony?" Grisha asked.
Nathan hesitated, his eyes calculating. "Over two thousand troops are moving north from St. Nicholas, and they have armor. We estimate by the time they merge with the troops at St. Anthony they will be able to field over six thousand. We don't know how many they have at Tetlin or how many are being shipped from Russia."
Grisha felt light-headed. It sounded like he wouldn't be a colonel for long. "Claude better talk fast down there, I don't know how much time I can buy against those odds. Who do I have to help me with all this?"
"I'd like to be on your staff," Wing said.
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"Captain Smolst and Heron have asked to serve with you, also," Nathan said.
Grisha glanced over at Wing. "As a subordinate?"
"We told you; you're in command." Her level gaze held more messages than he could decipher. "As a subordinate and where needed. I want to do what I can."
"Okay, you're now a lieutenant colonel and my chief of staff. Inform Captain Smolst that he is a major and responsible for the defense of Chena as head of Bear Team. Heron will lead our offensive elements, Wolf Team, also south from Chena and also as a major.
"We need to assemble our people, get them provisioned, and start for Chena as soon as possible. Do what you have to, but do it now."
"Yes, sir," she said quietly and quickly left the room.
"Who is the general I report to?" Grisha asked.
"Slayer-of-Men was our only general," Nathan said, "now it's just the council."
"I'm running my own war?"
"You have complete charge of the Southern Defensive Force. Paul Eluska is commanding the Northern Defensive Force."
Grisha pictured Paul as he first saw him in the rescue party on the Tanana River; compact, intelligent, and quiet but deadly alert. "Me and Paul are running the army," he said with a chuckle. "Things must be pretty bad."
"We have the utmost faith in both of you," Anna said, her handsome face earnest. "You're leading our sons and daughters."
The only Russians still at Chena Redoubt lay buried in the rubble. Those still breathing had pulled back to St. Anthony. When the Den column moved into town, the people of Chena fled into the forest. No amount of shouting and assertions made the slightest difference; they would not return. The walls of the redoubt still stood where they met the highway.
Inside the gate was another matter. The huge administration and prison complex had become a mound of debris camouflaged by ice and snow. Wing and Grisha stared at it quietly, knowing the bodies of their friends and comrades still lay entombed inside.
"Colonel," Major Sherry said. "There's an equipment building that's mostly undamaged. Shall we put the command post in there?"
"Do we have all of our troops quartered, Heron?"
"Yes, Gri— uh, Colonel. They're all over town."
"Okay. Go ahead and make it the command post, and set the rest up as a hospital."
"Very good, sir." Heron turned and spoke to a corporal who instantly disappeared into the organized confusion.
"Wing, Heron, Heinrich, let's go look at the road." Grisha motioned and two of the four guards in their party hurried off to find transport.
Two trucks loaded with heavily armed troopers accompanied them down the highway. Once out of sight of Chena, all evidence of war faded from the boreal forest. The dark spruce and naked birch lay thick on either side of the road with a protective blanket of snow wrapped securely around the base of each trunk.
In their 160 kilometer retreat to St. Anthony, the Russian Army had left nothing behind. Grisha knew they would appear down the road within days, perhaps hours. For a few miles the road twisted and turned, following the contours of Chena Creek. After it crossed the creek, the road unwound and lay straight for nearly seventeen kilometers.
"This is where we'll hit them," Grisha said quietly. "I want scouts at least twenty kilometers down the road—we have to know when they're coming. I want everybody else out here to get the welcome ready. We've got a lot to do."
"Yes, Colonel. Right away." Heron turned to an orderly and snapped out commands. One of the trucks drove away toward Chena.
Grisha took a deep breath and held it a moment before making a cloud in the cold air. "This is as good a place to die as any."
Wing marveled at the energy Grisha exhibited. The man was everywhere, directing the cutting of firing lines, showing where to plant explosives and mines—no detail was too small, no concept too big for him. He threw himself at his work.
A good thing he is doing it this way, she thought. Grisha had been right: there had been rumblings from more than a few about a Kolosh-Russian being chosen to lead them. Wasn't there some worthy Athabascans in the army who could do the job just as well?
"No," Nathan had said when she first asked him that very question. "The man went from private to major in the Troika Guard. Judging from what I've heard about Bou Saada, he's probably the best tactician in the Den Army. Furthermore, Grisha isn't related to anyone here. We're all Den to him, he doesn't have prejudices about upriver Indians or downriver Indians. The only clans he cares about are still in Russian Amerika."
And he's doing fine, she thought. He had been there a hundred percent from the very beginning, but then he had nowhere else to go. Her thoughts about him started down an old familiar path and she focused her attention elsewhere to force a detour.
The Russia–Canada Highway had been built up on tons of crushed rock along this stretch of spruce bogs. In the summer the mosquitoes numbered in the billions and even animals avoided the area. But to the British and Russian engineers building a wartime emergency road, the flat, frozen ground looked wonderful and the entire section had been completed in the dead of winter.
An alien insect tone broke her reverie. She listened for a heartbeat and then screamed, "Aircraft! Take cover!"
The two-hundred-person work party scrambled into the woods. Weapons clacked and echoed through the forest as they cleared for action. The two trucks quickly backed into the largest spruce thicket available; hastily cut branches were tossed on top of them.
Grisha's voice sounded unnaturally loud. "If you think you can hit them, do it!"
The roar of fighters grew louder and suddenly a Yak fighter roared past, less than one hundred meters above the road, its huge propeller a metallic blur. Two more fighters roared past in formation at the same altitude. The forest erupted with gunfire. Sparks and bits of flying metal surrounded the planes, metallic mosquitoes biting at hawks.
The lead aircraft suddenly trailed smoke, pulled up sharply, and went into a wide turn. The right wingman abruptly nosed down and crashed into the forest. The plane exploded on impact.
Cheers broke out as the left wingman sheered off to the west, trailing smoke and fire. Moments after they lost sight of it a distant explosion boomed back at them. As even more cheers broke out, the first aircraft circled the area at high altitude. The wounded plane painted a dark smear of smoke across the sky.
"He's getting our position," someone shouted.
"Wolf Team, go to your positions. The rest of you people get all your equipment and fall back to Chena," Grisha shouted over the rising babble.
The fighter buzzed away to the east, trailing smoke. As soon as the air cleared, people ran onto the road and surrounded the trucks. Grisha was already there, directing events. "We can get twenty-five people in each truck. That leaves about a hundred and fifty of us to start walking. Radio back and get more trucks out here."
He detailed the rearguard, handpicked those who were to ride, and had the trucks racing away within the space of ten minutes. With both trucks gone, Wing edged out from behind a tree.
"What do want me to do, Grisha?"
He stared at her in perplexity. "Didn't I tell you to get on a truck?"
"No, Colonel. You did not."
"I meant to." He looked at everything but her. "Well, move out with the forward group there, take command. Send Heron back to me." He turned and walked away from her.
Wing wasn't sure what she felt, but she didn't want to be separated from him. "Grisha, wait a minute, I—"
He whirled and pointed his finger at her, a scowl twisting his face. "It's Colonel Grigorievich, Lieutenant Colonel Demoski, and I gave you an order—now obey it!"
He couldn't have stunned her any more if he'd slapped her. She jerked to a stop and came to attention. "Yes, sir, Colonel Grigorievich!" She scowled back at him, saluted like a Russian private, and started after the forward group at a run. When she passed Heron, she snapped, "Colonel Grigorievich wants to see you soonest, Major Sherry."
Grisha star
ed after her, feeling a biting relief. He'd made her chief of staff in hopes of keeping her away from the fighting. But in this war that was impossible on one hand and on the other she'd be angry if she found out.
Wing went everywhere with him. The more tasks he piled on her the more efficient she became; he couldn't slow her down enough to justify leaving her in camp. He couldn't tell her that he feared for her very life.
He felt he carried death for the people around him, especially those he loved. All one had to do was look at the list of friends he had lost in one way or another. And now they had put him in command of twelve hundred innocents, many of whom would die soon.
Heron jogged up. "Reporting as ordered, Colonel."
"I know Wolf Team has a big job. We've talked at length about this—you know what I want to have happen here."
"No problem, Grisha," Heron said with a smile. "It'll be an honor to hit them first."
"Don't just hit them, Heron. Maim them! Then get out, we need you." Grisha turned and trudged after his army. Two heavily armed, burly young men followed him, maintaining great vigilance.
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54
Russia–Canada Highway East of Chena Redoubt
Heron called Wolf Team together. The five dozen men and women gathered around so the major wouldn't have to raise his voice.
"They're coming, and we're going to kill them." Grim smiles creased their faces. "People with radios, don't forget the code; tell us which squad, and one tap for sight contact, two taps you're pulling back, and three taps will tell us you're going to fire on the enemy. Be sure you state your sector so we know where they're at." He pressed once on the small radio in his hand and a tone issued from the other twelve. "Okay, you all know what you're supposed to do, so let's get at it."
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.
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