Russian Amerika (ARC)

by Stoney Compton

"Negative that, skipper," Lieutenant Donaldson replied. "That's the Tanana River."

  "You sure there's a road out here, Major?" First Lieutenant Christenson said with a laugh.

  "Damn sure, we have pictures—"

  "Tally ho! This is Foxtrot Nine, the road's over here to the southwest, just past another river."

  "Good going, Captain Shipley. You heard the man, boys. I want two waves. We should find them under a big dust cloud."

  "I see it, there they are!" Hurley wasn't sure who the voice belonged to, it didn't matter anyway.

  "My gawd, they're sitting ducks," Christenson exclaimed.

  "They're heavily armed ducks, don't forget that," Hurley snapped. "Get the troop carriers first, those tanks aren't going anywhere. Drop your gas."

  A series of microphone clicks told him his people understood. Two all-but-empty long-range fuel tanks dropped from beneath the wings of each fighter, instantly giving the aircraft less weight and drag. The planes suddenly seemed agile as ballerinas.

  "Okay, gentlemen, rank has its privileges. Follow me!"

  He put his fighter into a long turn and came up the mountain behind the armored column. As if the stationary vehicles had lost a load of diamonds, the ground suddenly sparkled with muzzle flashes. Hurley grinned and pulled the trigger on the front of his stick, relishing the roar of his six 50 caliber machine guns.

  Both of his wingmen opened up as they bored in, passing over the first bend of the long, snaking column. All of the Russian APCs carried twin .30 machine guns mounted over the driving compartment. Immediately the entire column fired at the aircraft.

  "Shit, Skipper, I'm taking hits from above me!" Christenson said.

  "Pull up," Hurley ordered. "We'll come at 'em from a better angle."

  All three aircraft pulled up and twisted away in different directions. One of them trailed smoke.

  "Major Hurley, this is Cooper. I'm hit."

  "How bad, Coop?"

  "My engine is smoking and my oil pressure is headed for the Spanish border. I think maybe I've got five minutes."

  "Head straight north for Den country, now. If you have to bail out, do it near a road, that's pretty wild country down there. Kirby, you escort him, try and make the field at Fort Yukon."

  "Yes, sir. Sorry about this."

  "For what, following orders? Good luck, Coop."

  "Same to you, sir. Cooper out."

  "I'll write often, Skipper, don't worry," Kirby said with a laugh.

  "You guys be careful and that's an order."

  Two comm clicks answered and Hurley grinned.

  The two aircraft buzzed away.

  "Okay, guys, this time let's hit them from the top of the mountain. There's thirteen of us now, let's make that an unlucky number for the Russians."

  Roaring down out of a wide circle, the first three Eurekas screamed down at the leading elements of the column. The side of the mountain blurred a hundred feet below their polished aluminum bellies. Only the Russians on the highest switchback could fire at them without fear of hitting their comrades.

  "Plug 'em up, use your rockets on these bastards," Hurley said with a growl.

  The tanks quickly grew in size.

  Colonel Boris Lazarev shrieked into his microphone, "What do you mean there are no aircraft in Alaska? I am being attacked by fifteen of them."

  "My apologies, Colonel, I meant to say we have no aircraft in Alaska capable of assisting you at this time," the man seemed uninterested, lethargic.

  "Pass my request on to High Command before resuming your nap!" He slammed the microphone down. "Where are they?"

  Sergeant Cermanivich, his gunner, pointed up the mountain. "I predict they will come from there, Colonel."

  "Another five minutes of attacking from below and we'd have killed them all."

  "I don't know what kept that wounded plane in the air," Cermanivich spat over the side of the tank and flexed his hands before again grabbing his machine gun. "I think I hit the son of a bitch a hundred times myself."

  "We're in a bad spot here, Rudi, shoot straight—"

  "There!" Sergeant Cermanivich's twin thirties blasted up at the onrushing aircraft.

  "Fire!" Lazarev bellowed. The 150mm cannon fired an antiaircraft shell, which passed the first planes completely before detonating. Bullets splanged off the side of the tank.

  The three leading aircraft fired rockets.

  "Take cover!" Lazarev shrieked, dropping into the hull.

  The tank rocked with the multiple explosions but the terrified crew detected no breach in their armor. More explosions went off and a shower of debris from two directions rang against the tank.

  "They keep missing us," Cermanivich observed.

  Lazarev peered through the periscope but could see nothing but scenery. "To hell with this." He stood and opened the hatch, cautiously peered over the rim.

  The tank behind them burned like a bonfire in autumn. He turned and looked up the mountain, and his heart lurched. A boulder twice the size of his tank had been blasted from the mountainside and tumbled down, coming to rest against the side of the road, less than a meter from the left track.

  Who knew how long it would stay there? But for the moment it was a perfect wall against the R.O.C fighters. Abruptly he scrambled out.

  "Come on, Rudi, we have work to do. Ivanivich, reload the gun with another antiaircraft shell."

  "Yes, Colonel," the burly Georgian bellowed, grabbing a shell.

  "Rudi, I'll tell you when they're almost on top of us. Blow them out of the air when they go over." Lazarev stood on the turret and peered over the top of the boulder. "Get ready, here they come."

  Major Hurley whipped his P-61 down to hug the mountainside again. Only eleven of them were still in the fight. Barton, in the second wave of fighters down the mountain, had run right into an anti-aircraft shell. He crashed into the mountain and his plane exploded, blowing a huge boulder down the steep slope. At first Hurley thought the lieutenant was going to score a posthumous kill, the boulder tumbled straight at the leading tank—and stopped at the slightly elevated edge of the road, creating a perfect barrier for the Russian.

  The fight was not one-sided. Four of the tanks behind the leader had become incinerators for crew members who hadn't moved quickly enough. Sixteen tanks still fought for their lives.

  Seven of the fifteen armored personnel carriers would never operate again and all but one of the ten troop carriers burned brightly. The valley provided a natural draft, pulling the smoke away from the battle site, thereby awarding the fighters a clear view of their targets.

  Two bullet holes in the plexiglas of Hurley's canopy and the absence of part of his left wing flap attested to the skill of the Russian gunners. He didn't want to know what the rest of his bird looked like. Not that it mattered, he was still in the air.

  "We have to stop these guys," he grated over his radio, "or our Indian buddies are so much meat."

  Christenson now flew on his left wing and had accelerated to pull twenty feet ahead of Hurley. They both fired their cannons at the huge rock but it absorbed their efforts. They zoomed over the protected tank and fire laced the entire length of Christenson's Eureka.

  "Oh, shit, Ben! That son of a bitch got me!" Fire suddenly engulfed the aircraft and, as Hurley watched in horror, it exploded.

  Tears abruptly pooled in his goggles and he tore them off to dry his eyes with his sleeve. They had flown together for seven years. Mike had been his best man when he married Jenny, and ended up bedding her best friend, the maid of honor, the same evening. You never knew what he was going to do next. He'd made captain twice and was busted back to lieutenant both times for crazy stunts, mostly involving women and alcohol.

  He took a deep breath. No time for this now. They had a battle to win.

  He went into a tight turn and came back at the road from the valley side. Two tank turrets turned and fired flak shells at him. Ten machine guns clawed after him and he thought this might be his last pass.

>   He wanted the leader, whose turret now swiveled to fire point blank. One of the flak rounds exploded directly under Jenny Love. The controls instantly went mushy and he knew there wasn't much time left.

  Then he saw it; the mammoth boulder supporting the road with the lead tank right there on top of it. A scree field gave mute testimony that the roadbed wasn't solid here, but built up. The plane dropped slightly, not his doing.

  The lead tank fired and the shell burst ahead and above him, shredding his cockpit, and him, with burning bits of razor-sharp metal. His last act aimed the plane at the base of the mammoth boulder.

  "Jenny, I'm so sorry." She smiled at him and opened her arms.

  "Beautiful shot, Ivanivich!" Lazarev screamed. "You got him, he's going down. Save your ammo, Rudi, he's going to hit the side of the mountain." Lazarev stood to peer over the rock again and heard the enemy plane explode downslope behind him.

  The turret suddenly dipped beneath him and he fell onto the machine gun. "What the hell—"

  "The road is collapsing," Rudi blurted.

  Before they could react, the road dropped away under them. The tank fell, tumbling over, crushing Lazarev and throwing Rudi into the void before continuing its roll, crushing the three screaming crew members to death with their own ammunition. The huge protective boulder obligingly rolled after them.

  Men and equipment filled two of the five switchbacks below them. The growing avalanche picked up speed and widened, taking out six operational tanks on the first switchback and everything on the second. Only on the tight curves were there still living Russians, and their machines would stay there until the road was rebuilt at some point in the future; the men would have to walk out—if they could.

  Captain Shipley surveyed the devastation and took notes on his knee pad. Ben Hurley had been a personal friend and he wanted the recommendation for his Medal of Honor to be as complete as possible. Then he and the remaining seven fighters headed north.

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  79

  Behind the Den Front Line

  Malagni viewed the battle through his binoculars as Tobias bounced them along in the command car. A young soldier hung onto the .30 caliber machine gun mounted in the back. They couldn't go into battle without a man on the gun.

  Malagni spoke into his headset. "Tanks, spread out and commence firing at the Russian side of the Chena. No short rounds or I'll have your ass!"

  He saw the Den fire into the woods, peered through the binoculars at their targets. "Sweet baby Jesus, Tobias. They got Russian troops on their flank." He spoke into his microphone, "We need infantry on the left flank up there. Now!"

  Malagni watched the Russian troops, noted their expert deployment and discipline, much better than their regular army.

  These guys know their stuff. Not good.

  As he watched, more Russians emerged from the woods. New guys, different uniforms, maybe they were not as experienced. Many of them fell to Den fire before the rest stopped their rush and took cover.

  "That way, Sergeant Major!" Malagni pointed at the Russian-filled woods. He twisted around and shouted at the young Athabascan on the machine gun. "When you think you can reach them, knock the shit out of them!"

  The young man gave him a wicked grin and fired the machine gun. Behind them, armored troop carriers raced to keep up. Farther back, scores of infantry ran doggedly after them.

  Maybe we waited too long? Malagni felt a flash of apprehension.

  Shell fire crashed into the wide meadow between them and the woods. The Russians had spotted them and were trying to find the range with their artillery.

  "Don't drive in a straight line!" Malagni shouted. "They'll shaft us for sure."

  "Yes, sir!" Tobias shot back. He turned the car as sharply to the right as he could without rolling it. They headed directly toward the Russian line on the highway.

  A shell whistled past and exploded behind them. Tobias veered left and another shell destroyed tundra where they would have been if they hadn't turned.

  "Some son of a bitch has plans for us," Malagni bellowed.

  The machine gunner kept up a steady fire that laced the tree line despite the violence of Tobias' driving.

  The Russians don't have all the good gunners.

  Malagni smiled, felt his heart hammering and his senses keen as razors.

  He heard the one that got them. The shriek sounded far too loud to miss. Malagni didn't hear the explosion, but the front of the car flew apart as the shell detonated directly in its path.

  The shattered car body flew back in a lazy spin, throwing the men out to be buffeted by the sledgehammer concussion of the round. Malagni landed on the stump of his right arm. Pain vomited through him and he screamed. He rolled over and came to his feet, involuntary tears streaming down his face.

  Tobias, still clutching the steering wheel in his hands, hair scorched by the explosion, sat on the ground peering about owlishly. "Wot the hell was that?"

  The decapitated body of the machine gunner lay kicking in the sphagnum moss and early forget-me-nots, blood jetting from the mangled neck. An armored troop carrier roared up and men leaped out, picked up Tobias, and tossed him in the back.

  "Can we offer you a ride, Colonel?" the sergeant driver asked.

  Malagni jumped on the running board. "Let's get them."

  The troop carrier bounced toward the enemy. The Russians had dug in and fired at them with good effect. Bullets splanged off the roof and hood of the carrier.

  "Okay, Sarge," Malagni said casually. "Let's let them off here."

  Another enemy shell screamed over but landed in the tree line, taking out at least five Russians.

  "Damned sporting of them," Malagni shouted, grinning.

  The artillery fire ceased. Now it was an infantry fight. Den troopers poured out of the carriers and spread out, returning fire and digging in.

  Malagni started to speak into his microphone before he realized the headset wasn't hooked to a radio any longer, so he jerked it off his head and threw it over his shoulder. He turned toward the double-timing troops, who had closed to two hundred meters, waved his arm over his head and pointed to the trees where the Russian line thinned to nothing.

  Maybe we can flank them.

  A dozen rounds stitched across the ground toward him and he took cover behind a mossy rock. One round hit the rock, spraying tiny chips across the back of Malagni's neck. He thought it felt like mosquito bites. Big mosquito bites.

  His troops slowed, spreading out in a wavery hundred meter line, with little or no cover, and taking too many casualties.

  "Enough!" he bellowed, jumping to his feet. "Let's take them once and for all!" Malagni fired out the clip in the machine pistol at the Russians and threw the weapon over his shoulder.

  He slipped the axe free, swung it over his head, and charged the enemy. Shouts echoed up and down the Den line as his men rose and charged with him.

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  80

  Rainbow Valley

  First Lieutenant Gerald Yamato found himself in the twin-thirty cross-fire from three tanks. He felt Satori shudder with each hit, and there were a lot of hits. For a blissful moment he thought he could stay in the fight.

  Then his controls went mushy and the solid stream of smoke from his engine compartment burst into bright flame washing back over his cockpit. Another minute in this situation would kill him. He immediately ejected the canopy and, after jerking his seat restraints free, threw himself into the smoky wake of his doomed P-61, which screamed out of control down into the awesome canyon a thousand feet below the battle.

  Lieutenant Yamato wrenched his chute around so he could see as much of the battle as possible. While he watched, one of the Eureka fighters suddenly flamed, trailed smoke and exploded.

  "Looked like Christenson's ship," he said to himself, feeling
his heart lurch. Mike was the squadron mascot, a classic brilliant, self-doomed fuck-off.

  A tree drifted past and he realized he had better pay mind to his own predicament; for him the fight with the Russians was over. An explosion from below pulled his attention to the bottom of the valley. His fighter had impacted at the edge of a river.

  Someone had claimed it was the Delta River.

  The wind pushed him farther down the huge canyon. The artist in him took a quick moment to appreciate the majestic beauty of the valley. The miles-long ridge on the far side rippled in shades of reds, pinks, greens, and even light purples, like a Technicolor layer cake cut and toppled on its side.

  Then the pragmatic flier took over and he worked his chute in order to come down near the river, rather than hang up in the middle of the forest bordering both sides of the obviously swift-moving water. Even before the ground rushed up and grabbed him, he wondered what equipment he had and would it be enough?

  His landing was textbook; take the shock with his feet together and collapse in a rolling tumble. Unlike the field back in the Napa Valley, this one was covered with boulders and rocks the size of his head.

  He landed on a small boulder and his feet slid off to the right. He threw his arm out and instantly jerked it to his side again—he couldn't risk breaking it. His shoulder took the majority of the impact and immediately went numb. Jerry threw out his hands and stopped himself.

  The parachute settled on the rocky floodplain, began to fill from the constant breeze moving alongside the water. He pushed himself up and jerked the shroud lines, collapsing the silk. His shoulder hurt like hell but he swiftly pulled the lines into a pile at his feet.

  Just as his hands touched the silk canopy, he heard a massive explosion from above. He looked up the incredible slope. At first he saw nothing but smoke pouring down from the road on the canyon rim. Then he saw awful movement.

  At least nine Russian tanks avalanched down the steep wall, rotating in deadly decent, thunderously smashing flat the rocks and trees before crashing into each other or bouncing farther out into the canyon. Huge boulders and entire swaths of trees boiled in a descending dust-shrouded dance of death.