"What brings you out here beyond the pale?" He grinned and moved his lean body about as if he were on euphorics. "Missed my brilliant conversation and insights, did you?"
"Not as much as you would imagine. I bring you an offer from Kurt Bachmann. He wants to hire you and your men."
"For how long?" Riordan stood very still and stared at Hepner with the aspect of a very hungry lion.
"He said three months."
"Did he send money with you, to seal the bargain?"
"Do you want his offer in rubles or dollars?"
"Dollars, preferably California or Texas dollars."
"He offers three hundred forty-five California dollars per day, for three months."
"Shit on my grave, why don't you? That's less than five dollars an hour for each of us!"
"Take it or leave it."
"What does he want us to do?"
"Fight Indians, the Den , I think. But he wants you and your men at Klahotsa."
"That's bloody days away!"
"You start getting paid today if you agree."
"I need an advance to show the men we're not getting rogered yet again."
"Then you you agree?"
"Yes, I bloody well agree!"
"Then sign this," Hepner pulled a folded page from his pocket and handed it to the major, "and I'll give you a thousand California on the spot."
"If you have that much on you, why would I not just kill you and take the money?"
"Because you would forfeit so much more for very little effort."
"How do we get to Klahotsa?"
"There's a road they call the RustyCan—-"
"Don't be impertinent! You know there are Russians everywhere, you can't just glide through them like it's some bloody dance with an 'excuse me' here and an 'excuse me' there."
"You're an ally. You're fighting the Den just as they are. Bachmann said you'd figure out something. Are you going to sign or do I need to look for professional soldiers elsewhere?"
Riordan glared at him, then down at the contract.
"Where do I sign?"
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64
San Francisco, Republic of California
"Please state your name and rank for the members of this tribunal," the white-haired man in the gray uniform said.
"Colonel Grigoriy Grigorievich, Southern Army Commander of the Den Republik."
"I object." A cossack major general stood and stared at Grisha. "This man is in rebellion against his legitimate government and claims fealty to a political entity which does not in fact exist."
"So noted, suh," the old man said frostily. "But we will hear him just the same."
"I made my objection for the record, at the wishes of my government, nothing more," the cossack said.
"Colonel Grigorievich," the old man said, "I am General Carter of the Confederate States Army. The other delegates elected me president of this tribunal—" his eyes flicked over the two Russians at the other end of the table, "—but I wish to assure you the vote was not unanimous."
Grisha surreptitiously surveyed the men behind the long table. Another man in gray sat beside General Carter. Next to them were two men in tan British uniforms flanked by another pair wearing the now familiar khaki of the Republic of California.
He decided the men in black were from Deseret and the two in pale blue from Texas. Kepis lay on the table in front of both New France officers and their deep blue, red-faced uniforms easily captured the prize for most ostentatious. However, he had noticed that New Spain's officers wore highly polished, knee-length jackboots which gave them the most sinister air.
The United States had sent a gimlet-eyed admiral and a cadaverous general as their representatives. Even to Grisha's untutored eye, they seemed very chummy with the Russians next to them.
A tall, broad-faced man wearing a three-piece-suit and two long braids wrapped in ermine sat staring fixedly at him. Next to the tall man sat a stocky, dark-eyed man with a proud face and a prominent hooked nose. He was dressed in starched camouflaged dungarees adorned with a silver bison's head on each shoulder. The First People's Nation delegation, Grisha decided.
No representative from the Den Republik was present.
Twenty judges. He suddenly realized the Confederate general hadn't finished addressing him.
". . . by our governments to ascertain if you are a war criminal or have led others in your organization to perpetuate atrocities on your enemies." General Carter paused for a long moment, his eyes never leaving Grisha's face.
"These are very serious charges, Colonel, and I must tell you frankly that more hinges on your answers than just your reputation among North American nations."
Grisha nodded. "I appreciate your advice, General Carter, and I thank you for it. I am here of my own volition, even though I have troops in the field under my command who expect a counter-attack at any moment." He gave the Russians a hard look before returning his gaze to the general.
"Neither I, nor any of the people fighting for the liberation of the Den Republik, have committed any atrocities or other actions that could be determined criminal under conditions of war. I would like to make this appearance as brief as possible in order to return to my command."
"Your concern is well taken, sir," General Carter said softly. "However, the charge against you is of a grievous nature and must be dealt with before our governments will return to the conference table to help chart the future of your nation's political aspirations."
"Under the rules of the tribunal," Grisha said quickly, "am I allowed to call in witnesses of my own?"
"Certainly, suh. This is not a kangaroo court."
"Then I request that Colonel Benny Jackson be summoned to speak to this gathering."
"Under what flag does Colonel Jackson serve?"
"The Republic of California."
General Carter nodded to a Confederate captain standing by the door and the man hurried away. "Do you have any other requests, colonel?"
"I'd like to know why there are no representatives from the Den Republik at this hear— uh, tribunal."
"They were invited to attend but they declined. Ambassador Adams said that you were quite able to handle anything we could throw at you."
Grisha felt a shadow flit across his mind, leaving Wing's sacrifice and Chief Andrew's scapegoat resonating in his memory.
"I'm sure the ambassador is correct, General," Grisha said, surprised that his suddenly dry throat could produce words. "Please continue."
"You are charged with exposing a naked prisoner of war to subzero cold," General Carter said succinctly. "Is this true?"
"No. I was asleep when Major Kominskiya was expelled from our shelter."
"Who, then, forced her into the night?" the Russian major general asked in acid tones.
"I did."
All eyes in the room shifted to the crisply uniformed man standing at the door.
"Benny!" Grisha blurted before he could stop himself.
"Would you please identify yourself to this tribunal, colonel?" General Carter said.
"Colonel Bernard Jackson, Special Forces, Army of the Republic of California."
"Please take the seat next to Colonel Grigorievich."
As Benny sat down he flashed a smile and muttered, "You're a colonel? Must be scraping the bottom of the barrel up north."
Grisha smiled and nodded toward the silver bear head on Benny's shoulder. "As if they weren't down here."
"Would you be good enough to explain what happened that night, Colonel Jackson?" General Carter said.
"I lost the person I loved most, and Major Kominskiya killed him," Benny said in a ringing voice.
Some of the officers muttered to each other and, with the exception of the Californians, the First People's Nation representatives, and the Frenchmen, all glowered at him. Both generals from Deseret sat back stiffly in their chairs.
"I realize that
most of you find homosexuality offensive and therefore are probably incapable of understanding my feelings that night. But I'll relate it for you anyway." Benny told of the battle for Chena Redoubt in the bitter cold. He spoke of the people he knew for such a short time. Slayer-of-Men had impressed him and in Haimish he recognized a kindred spirit and fellow operative.
The capture of Valari and the promyshlennik caught the interest of the Russians and the U.S. military. As Benny related the discovery of the hidden transmitter, the Russian general interrupted him.
"How did you know she had a radio, Colonel?"
Benny hesitated for half a heartbeat before replying, "I think one of the Den heard it."
"You're a liar, colonel," the Russian said softly.
A sharp intake of breath came from the California contingent and one of the Canadian generals mumbled, "I say!"
"The radio Major Kominskiya wore that night"—the Russian's eyes shone with eagerness masked from his speech—"did not have a receiver or a speaker. Nothing could be heard. I repeat, how did you know of the radio?"
Benny frowned and glanced at Grisha before replying. "That's a military secret, general. I'm sure you can appreciate that."
"It's a secret, all right," the general said in a controlled voice. "A hidden mutation used on behalf of these rebels. Do you deny that one of the Den "—he spat the word—"read her mind in order to discover the hidden transmitter?"
"We deny nothing," Grisha said. "We merely wait for your proof."
The First People's Nation representatives conferred without taking their eyes off Benny.
"Please continue, Colonel Jackson," General Carter said, shooting a quick frown at the Russians.
"Colonel Grigorievich tried to shoot her on the spot. But at that moment Russian aircraft, homing in on her radio, bombed the redoubt, killing eighty percent of the people in the building. Alf Rosario, my constant companion of twelve years, was part of that eighty percent."
Benny abruptly fell silent and stared down at the floor for a long moment. Grisha could see his jaw muscles working. The U.S. admiral broke the silence.
"Colonel Jackson, I would like to repeat General Romanov's question. How did you know Major Kominskiya had a transmitter?"
Before Benny could say anything, General Carter slapped the table with the flat of his hand.
"That's enough! We're here to determine if a war crime was committed—not to delve into intelligence matters despite how arcane they might appear."
The admiral scowled, pursed his fleshy lips, and nodded, leaning back in his chair.
"We found a stairway," Benny continued. He succinctly related the events in the frigid dungeon of Chena Redoubt, told of Nik's death as dispassionately as of Crepov's escape. Grisha listened carefully as Benny told about Valari's foolish attempt to seduce him.
"So I let her undress and then I threw her outside."
"Why didn't you just shoot her?" General Carter asked quietly.
"I didn't want her death to be quick." Benny's voice was a snarl. "I wanted her to suffer."
"I wish to call a witness," General Romanov said.
"Whom do you wish us to call?" General Carter asked, a puzzled expression on his face.
"Major Valari Ivanevna Kominskiya." The Russian's voice grated on Grisha's nerves.
"So ordered." General Carter nodded to his captain and the man vanished once more.
Benny leaned over and muttered to Grisha, "That bitch can't be alive."
"I told you she's tough," Grisha whispered back.
The door opened and the Confederate lieutenant pushed a wheelchair into the room. A beefy female Russian Army nurse followed him. A figure wrapped in dark shawls sat in the chair.
At first Grisha thought they had brought in a child, because he could see the person's legs ended a half meter above the foot plate. Then he realized that Valari had suffered as Benny wished.
The nurse walked around to Valari's side and pulled off the heavy shawl. The tribunal recoiled. In a prayerlike voice a Canadian general muttered, "Christ wept!"
Both legs ended at mid shin. Both of her arms, crossed on her lap, stopped at the wrist. Teeth and pink gums shone through an oddly serrated mouth and Grisha realized her lips were gone. But what remained of her nose, unnaturally bobbed with exaggerated nostrils running up between her closed eyes, proved the most horrific feature.
"Jesus Christ," Benny breathed softly. Then in a louder voice he said, "You kept her alive for this farce. And you have the guts to accuse Grisha of war crimes?"
Valari's eyes opened. Her gaze darted over the tribunal before she found Grisha and Benny. The hard intelligence still resided but something else tempered her stare—longing.
"Grsh," she said wetly with what remained of her tongue. She said something else, completely foreign.
"What did she say?" Grisha asked the nurse.
The nurse stared into his eyes. "Grisha, pozhaluysta ubey menya. Pozhaluysta!"
"What?" Benny asked.
Grisha spoke loud enough for all to hear. "She said: 'Grisha, please kill me. Please!' "
"Nurse," General Carter said. "Kindly remove your patient to the waiting room."
The blocky nurse wrapped the shawl around Valari.
"Peas!" Valari shouted, her face a nightmarish mask.
The nurse pushed the chair through the door held open by the white-faced captain.
"Peas!" echoed back through the door before it closed on the desperate voice.
"Colonel Jackson," General Carter said in a hushed voice. "Be careful what you wish for in the future, sir, you might once again get it."
The general raised his voice, "Colonel Grigorievich, thank you for your presence. It is obvious to this court that you are innocent of the charges brought against you and you are free to return to your command. This tribunal is concluded."
Not until the last of the gold-braided judges had trooped out of the room did Grisha realize Benny was sobbing quietly.
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65
San Francisco, Republic of California
"This has all been bullshit," Claude said, pacing around the room, "Nathan and the War Council instructed us to boycott the tribunal to avoid the appearance of Russia ordering us around. We knew you didn't do it, and so did the Russians. So why did we have to go through this charade?"
"To buy time, to assess our strength, to dump every soldier they have into Alaska," Grisha said tiredly. "How is your part going?" He drank off the remainder of his tea and set the cup down. The ambassador's residence outshone anything in his prior experience. The building commanded a hill overlooking San Francisco Bay. With the sun sinking slowly on a liquid horizon, the view equaled the splendor of Denali, but in a much different way.
"It's as if we were a catalyst, causing every festering grievance in North America to pop like a pustule." Claude shook his head. "The Russians are dragging their heels at every turn. I agree, they're obviously stalling, probably pouring troops into Alaska by the plane-load like you said.
"The Californians and the First People's Nation are pressing hard for resolution, but they make very strange bedfellows. The Texans are firmly backing the Confederate States, who are backing the British—" Claude took a deep breath. "—who are allying with the French and the Spanish. And the Spanish are rattling sabers on the Texas border!"
Grisha scratched his head. "This is really mixed up."
Claude grinned and continued, "The United States seems smug but supportive of us and solicitous of the Republic of California. The French and the Spanish are here purely out of avarice. The British Canadians are, oddly enough, firmly in the Russian camp and display animosity toward the United States, probably remembering their colony breaking away from them and now commiserating with another crown."
"What about the men in black?" Grisha asked.
"The religious fanatics from Deseret are like Stellar's jays back home�
��they'll take what shiny trinkets they can get and then fly back to their nest. They are of no consequence to us. I think all the posturing will be over soon, and to our benefit."
"The U.S. contingent seemed very friendly toward the Russians," Grisha said. "Are you sure the U.S. is siding with us?"
"The U.S. has its own internal problems. The current administration is liberal and, as you know, the military rarely leans in that direction."
"I want to get back to my command, as soon as possible."
Claude smiled. "Spoken like a true soldier." He flopped in his chair. "I wish I could go home."
"You can arrange to have me flown north?"
"I'll try." Claude picked up a telephone. "This is Ambassador Adams. I wish to arrange transport for Colonel Grigorievich back to the Den Republik as soon as possible. Yes, thank you." He replaced the phone.
"Day after tomorrow." Claude seemed pleased.
"Why so long? It didn't take them that long to pull me out of Alaska. Are they using all their aircraft for something else?"
"Grisha, we are their guests. Two days is nothing in the greater scheme of things."
"Diplomatically perhaps, but a battle can be lost in a hell of a lot less time than that," Grisha snapped.
The door flew open and Andreivich rushed in. "Quick, turn on the radio," the old scholar said, panting.
Claude picked up a button-covered device and clicked it. The large speaker built into the wall immediately broadcast a voice, no static, no distortion; Grisha thought it sounded like the person speaking was in the room with them. The man seemed intoxicated.
". . . and I know that's why your government is willing to help the Athabascans." The man spoke with a Russian accent.
"There's more than minerals involved, Konni," a Yankee voice said. "There is a people yearning to be free."
"What crap, James!" The Russian swallowed something and the smack of a glass being set on a table with undue force came though clearly.
"We're both adults here. Don't give me grandmother tales. You couldn't even deal with your own aboriginals; they ended up with enough land to double the size of your country. You're after the gold, and the oil, and the silver, and the coal, and the lead, and the fish, and the whales—all of it—just like all the other NATO nations. And the Czar won't give it up without a fight."
Russian Amerika (ARC) Page 29