Russian Amerika (ARC)

by Stoney Compton

  Forty hands shot into the air.

  "—and I'll only take eight," Grisha said with a smile.

  They laughed and all hands stayed in the air.

  "I knew this wouldn't be easy," he muttered to Wing.

  "You did fine, Colonel," she said. "I'll take it from here."

  "Thank you, Colonel." He turned, left the dining hall and walked briskly toward his office, his emotions churning.

  "Colonel Grigorievich!" a voice shouted harshly. "I demand my rights as an officer and a gentleman."

  Grisha veered over to where Colonel Kronov stood chained to the wall. The Russian had enough chain to lie on the cot if he wished but he stood with the extra lengths puddled over his boots. A number of Den stood at a distance watching him as if he were a rare beast.

  "You're a prisoner of war," Grisha said. "We've shown you more humanity than we would have received at your hands."

  "Only because you plan to use me for some sort of propaganda," Kronov spat. "This is not how an officer of the Imperial Russian Army should be treated."

  "Okay," Grisha said tiredly. "I'll tell you what. As soon as we're done using you for propaganda, I promise we'll shoot you."

  The growing crowd laughed. Pure hatred shone in Kronov's eyes. "You'd better shoot me. I'll kill you if you don't."

  "They're sending a helicopter for you as soon as it's dark. You better rest while you can." Grisha turned back toward his office.

  "You're a dead man, peasant. I'll make sure of that."

  "Get in line." Grisha shut the door behind him.

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  57

  Chena Redoubt

  The helicopter circled once while the ground crew switched on lights at each corner of the square landing pad. The machine dropped quickly through the dark sky to hunch in the light like a live thing wary of circumstances. The rotors continued revolving as soldiers hustled Kronov out of his cell and lifted him into the aircraft.

  Moments later they flew through an impossibly dark night. Kronov glanced down at his manacled hands and became aware that someone sat beside him. He looked up into gray eyes over an aquiline nose and perfectly trimmed moustache.

  "Sorry I can't take those off for you, Colonel. But we've decided you're a very dangerous man." The man's voice held familiarity.

  "This is outrageous," Kronov said. "I demand—"

  "Allow me to introduce myself. Major James Douglas, United States Army Reserve. Actually I'm a journalist and just do this soldier-boy bit one weekend a month, until Mario decided he needed my talents."

  " 'Mario?' " Kronov said.

  "President Cuomo. Think of him as an elected Czar."

  "What do you intend to do with me?"

  "Well, friend, I'm going to put you on the CBS radio network and ask how you came to be in the Den Republik wrapped in chains when just a few days ago the Czar himself decorated you in St. Petersburg."

  "This is Russian Amerika! There is no Den Republik. I refuse to allow such a thing. I would rather die."

  "That is the question, isn't it?" Douglas said. "Would you rather stay here in the Den Republik—and it is a republic 'cause Mario told me so—or come down to the U.S. with me and cooperate enough to get furloughed back to the Czar?"

  "This is possible?" Kronov said quickly in a low voice. "To be sent back to Russia, alive?"

  "Of course." Douglas stroked his moustache. "We're not barbarians, y'know."

  "If I went back to Russia alive, the Czar would have me shot."

  "Your decision, of course. There are other alternatives available, and you can live quite handsomely in some of them."

  Kronov thought furiously. He hadn't expected anything like this. Even if he escaped being used for propaganda, he couldn't go back to Russia. The Czar would have him executed for losing his elite command. The fact they shared a great-grandfather wouldn't make the slightest difference.

  "Has the United States recognized this Den Republik diplomatically?"

  "This morning," Douglas said crisply. "There's been an incredible amount of military posturing on all borders, here and in Europe."

  "Who else has joined you in this madness?" Kronov felt faint.

  "Austria-Hungary, the Republic of California, and the First People's Nation so far. British Canada, New Spain, and our Confederate cousins seem to be siding with your Czar, but then they're like that."

  "This means war."

  "That, Colonel, remains to be seen."

  "The Czar has no choice. If he doesn't put an immediate stop to this Den nonsense other regions will attempt to break away from the Russian empire. All would be chaos."

  Major Douglas gave him another wry smile. "Welcome to the twentieth century, colonel. Colonialism is dead."

  "Tell that to Britain, Spain, and France!" Kronov spat.

  "Besides," Douglas' demeanor became icy, "where would the Czar find allies if a war started tomorrow? He's already spent what little goodwill he inherited from his father."

  "What is it you plan to do with me?" Kronov asked in a small voice.

  "Propaganda, partner. Propaganda of the likes you've never seen before—we want you to tell the truth as you see it."

  "About what?"

  "Imperial Russia. Russian Amerika. How St. Petersburg views her North American holdings and what she plans for their future."

  "I don't have all those answers. I'm a soldier, not a diplomat."

  "That's what we're counting on."

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  58

  Chena Redoubt

  Major Heinrich Smolst worked his troops to their capacity. At his direction they dismantled the destroyed Chena Redoubt and sorted the material into orderly piles and rows. When they weren't working they drilled.

  Soon Bear Team functioned as one. Smolst thought if he clenched his fist, every other fist in Bear Team would do likewise. Their military smartness warmed his Prussian-like soul.

  After breaking their own record on the obstacle course for the fifth time, he threw them all a party. Finding enough beer had been his biggest challenge. But he persevered.

  "This is a wonderful party, Major," First Lieutenant Sunnyboy exclaimed as he slapped his superior officer on the shoulder. "I've never seen anything quite like it."

  Smolst grabbed the officer's wrist with a firm hand. "Lieutenants never slap the shoulder of anyone with higher rank, it works the other way around. Do you understand, Lieutenant?"

  The lieutenant's eyes widened and he visibly wilted. "Oh, hell, I did it again, didn't I?"

  Smolst released the wrist and smiled. "You're a good officer, Elijah. But you're a poor drunk."

  "That's good, isn't it, Major?" Without waiting for an answer the lieutenant stumbled away.

  "You're a good officer, sir."

  Heinrich looked up into the lovely face of Karin Demientieff, one of their best medics. Just looking at her could heal a man, Heinrich thought.

  "Thank you, Lieutenant. May I ask why you say that?"

  "You know me too well to think I'm kissing your ass, sir. But I can see that you truly care about your people. Am I right in supposing you were once enlisted yourself?"

  He narrowed his eyes and nearly lost his smile. "You already knew that, didn't you?"

  Her expression snapped from knowing to surprise. "No!" she blurted. "You really were an enlisted man?"

  "Started as a sub-private in the Troika Guard about ten years before you were born."

  She swallowed. "I didn't mean to get personal, sir."

  "Not to worry, Lieutenant. I'm not a Russian, I'm an Austrian."

  "You served with Colonel Grigorievich, didn't you?"

  "For nearly eleven years in the Troika Guard."

  "I heard he was kicked out." Karin licked her lower lip nervously, but Heinrich thought she looked delectable. "Is that true?"

  Hi
s mood abruptly shifted. The party swirled around them, everyone tipsy or downright drunk. He felt the alcohol lift from his mind and he clapped his hands twice.

  "Bear Team!" he shouted.

  The entire room went silent and, over a thirty-second period, they all straightened to attention.

  "You have all done an excellent job so far. I think you've conquered the civilian in each of you and have formed into a fighting team unequaled in Alaska." He raised his glass. "I salute all of you." He threw the vodka into his throat and swallowed.

  The room burst into applause. He grinned and held up his hands. They went silent and waited.

  "Lieutenant Demientieff," he nodded toward her, "just asked me a question I know many of you are wondering yourself. Would you please restate the question for everyone else, Lieutenant?"

  Color rose into her cheeks and she frowned at him. "I merely asked the major if it was true Colonel Grigorievich had been kicked out of the Troika Guard."

  Many heads nodded. The rumor had circulated among the troops since the Second Battle of Chena.

  "It's a good question, and the short answer is: yes."

  Startled gasps and murmuring voices suddenly filled the room.

  "The long answer, if you're interested, is this."

  They abruptly went silent.

  "In 1979, at the Battle of Bou Saada in French Algeria, then Major Grigorievich defied the orders of his commanding officer by commencing an orderly retreat rather than attack an impregnable position held by forces outnumbering his command three to one. The colonel, Major Grigorievich's commanding officer, held a pistol to the major's head and ordered him to attack the enemy."

  Smolst shook his head and sipped his drink. "Imagine a large, thin loaf of rock, thirty meters high. Then add five more loaves of rock, each half again higher, one behind the other. Now add nearly a thousand heavily armed Algerians evenly dispersed through those loaves of rock.

  "There is dust, and the sun is hot enough to boil your brains. I forgot to mention that the major and his men had been fighting up this miserable ridge for over seven days, were running out of water and ammunition, and had already taken thirty percent casualties. But as long as he led, they followed."

  Every person in the room stared at him, completely mesmerized. Most had stopped drinking as they waited for his words. He smiled and continued.

  "The colonel, a man who had spent his thirty years service behind desks from St. Nicholas to St. Petersburg and had wrangled a combat command to fill out his vanity-oriented career, ordered Major Grigorievich to take those ridges. He shouted the orders from a hundred meters distance, couldn't even face Grisha. The major crawled through heavy enemy fire to face the colonel and beg him to change his mind.

  "The major was fortunate that his sergeant major followed. For when the major faced the colonel, the colonel pulled his side arm and pointed it at the major's head. 'Order your men to attack or I'll shoot you for mutiny on the spot,' he screamed."

  Smolst glanced around. From their faces he could tell this was news to all of them, even Captain Danilov, who had been there. He also knew he was creating the seed of a legend here, but the Den Army needed it. Besides, he was greatly enjoying himself.

  "And?" Lieutenant Demientieff said.

  "Major Grigorievich refused the order, said it was madness and he would not send his men to certain death. The colonel had lost control hours before and was now close to insane. When he started to pull the pistol trigger, the sergeant major shot him. Since they were all in the midst of battle, nobody knew where the shot originated, but they all saw it end in the colonel's head.

  "Major Grigorievich was now in command and ordered his men to commence a fighting retreat. He saved their lives," Heinrich had to stop and swallow, "and the Imperial Army court-martialed him for disobeying orders. The bastards should have given him the Alexander Cross."

  "You were there, Major?"

  "Yes, Lieutenant, I was there. That was when I knew I would someday repay the Czar and his Imperial Army full price and when they least needed it. I have the Den people to thank for the opportunity."

  They burst into applause. He knew a Den appreciated a good story as well as the next person.

  "Let me buy you a drink!" he shouted. The party resumed and a line formed at the two kegs of beer.

  "If I may, Major?" Lieutenant Demientieff asked.

  "May what?"

  "Ask what your rank was at the Battle of Bou Saada?"

  "Of course you may." He winked at her. "I was a sergeant major."

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  59

  Klahotsa, on the Yukon River

  "The Den Army has destroyed or captured two Russian tank groups, knocked down almost every Russian aircraft they've encountered, except for bombers, and more people are joining their side." Georg Hepner leaned on the counter separating the two men.

  "Where's the Russian Army?" Kurt Bachmann demanded. "The real Russian Army?"

  Hepner laughed. "I need something to drink, I've come a long way. Part of the army is massing on the Siberian side of Czar Nicholas Bridge, part is landing in St. Nicholas, and one wing of the Imperial Air Force and a tank battalion are staging out of Tetlin. The rest of the Russian military is beefing up their borders with other European and Asian countries."

  Bachmann sat a bottle of vodka and two glasses on the counter of his store and again sat on his stool. "So everything the Russians have in Alaska is around the edges of Den country, nothing here in the center?"

  Hepner filled his glass and drank half. "I haven't been everywhere, so I can't swear there aren't Russian elements inside the country. But I'm good at asking the right questions and hearing what I need to know, and if the Russians have troops inside Alaska, they're well hidden."

  "I didn't think the damned Indians could get this far," Bachmann said, sipping from his glass. "Did you find the Freekorps?"

  "That's what you paid me to do, that's what I did."

  "Where are they?"

  "Just across the BC border. But that's only, what, a hundred and fifty men?"

  Bachmann grinned. "A hundred and fiftly accomplished, well trained soldiers right here could make a very large difference." He smacked the bar top with his doubled fist.

  Someone rattled the door.

  "If the door's locked it means we're closed!" Bachmann bellowed. "Come back tomorrow."

  "Must be nice to own your own town," Hepner said.

  "There's a lot of responsibility," Bachmann said. "Keep the cossacks paid off. Keep goods on the shelves. Make sure the damned Indians don't go upriver to Tanana or down to Melosi to sell their game, furs, and crops."

  "But still, you're like the king of Klahotsa. You got them all too scared to crap without your say-so." Hepner grinned and tossed back the rest of his drink. He reached for the bottle but Bachmann had already returned it to the shelf behind him.

  "I want you to get a good night's rest. First thing in the morning you get back in your boat and go find Major Riordan and his Freekorps. Tell him I want to hire his boys for at least three months, and the sooner they can get here, the better."

  "They're at least five days away, and they have vehicles, not boats."

  "That's their problem. There is a road out there they can take, if they're tough enough to get through the Den ."

  "I don't think the Russians will be too keen on them using it, either."

  "Have them tell the Russian commanders that they're working for me, the Russians will let them through."

  "This could take some time."

  Bachmann smiled. "As long as they arrive in time."

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  Chena Redoubt

  Three weeks inched by unattended by conflict. The sudden absence of the enemy proved more worrisome than coping with solitary fighters or squadrons of gunships. Gris
ha sent out more and more scouts, posted double sentries, constantly anticipating the sudden appearance of another Russian armored column or more camouflaged ground troops.

  Where were the Russians? Grisha wondered, reading the pamphlets the Den propaganda department printed by the bale.

  The Den Army constantly worked on rebuilding Chena Redoubt. More recruits drifted in to be turned into soldiers and the bitter truth of February softened into the false promises of March.

  Bodies recovered from the broken redoubt were placed in an unheated building to wait for thawed ground later in the year. For three weeks, four men worked from dawn to dusk building coffins. Unless hers was one of the unidentifiable charred bodies, Valari Kominskiya did not number among the dead.

  Grisha chafed and worried at the interminable waiting. "Anything from the diplomatic front?" he asked Wing for the third time that morning.

  "Same as yesterday—the Czar's representative insists this is an internal matter for Russia to settle, and the NATO countries are saying it's a revolution. We should be thankful that the Yanks, the First People's Nation, and the Californians have such an independence-minded history."

  "There's more to it than their history," Grisha said, "I'll give you odds on that."

  A truck roared up next to the building and labored in unmuffled cacophony for a long moment before shutting down. Doors slammed and Wing smiled over at Grisha. "I think we've got company."

  The door to the outer office slammed and a loud indistinct voice could be heard through the wall. Knuckles rapped briskly on the office door and Sergeant Major Tobias appeared.

  "There's a woman here to see you, colonel. She says to tell you she's blue." His eyebrows arched for a moment in disbelief and he whispered, "But she's no more blue than I am, sir. Should I call the guard?"

  Grisha and Wing burst into laughter and the sergeant frowned. Describing himself as a "clerical mercenary," Sergeant Major Nelson Tobias had appeared at the front gate of Chena Redoubt a week before. With his expert assistance they put order to the command structure and the sergeant major became gatekeeper for both Wing and Grisha. The man was a military treasure but knew nothing about the Den Republik or the Council.