Alaska Republik

by Stoney Compton

  74

  Battle of Refuge

  “Del, we got ’em pinned down,” Major Joe Coffey said, breathing hard. Gunpowder streaked his face and a slice had been taken from the sleeve of his combat blouse.

  Both men crouched in a semicircle of rocks that offered excellent protection.

  Colonel Buhrman nodded at his arm. “Did that hit flesh?”

  “Nothing more than a nick, Del. Thanks for asking. They can’t charge up the mountain for fear we’ll flank their position. So we’ve got them cornered. Whattya want to do?”

  “Where’s Major Smolst?”

  “Leading his men. They’re trying to cut the Russians off on the east.”

  “Brilliant, then we have them boxed with nowhere to go.”

  “That’s what Heinrich and I decided about twenty minutes ago.”

  Buhrman grinned. “The best part of this situation is that I get to make battlefield promotions and the army has to go along with it, Lieutenant Colonel Coffey.”

  Coffey grinned. “You are the biggest asshole I have ever known. You will use every ploy at hand to realize your objective. Have I ever not gone above and beyond for you?”

  Buhrman sobered. “Of course not. And you’ve never been able to say ‘thank you’ the first time around in your whole life. You’ve earned this, Joe. It isn’t just manipulation.”

  “Thanks, Del. I really appreciate it. It would have taken another two years to get this through normal channels.”

  “Naw, we’re in a war again. Keep your shit together and you’ll be a bird colonel in three months.”

  “You still haven’t said what you want us to do, Colonel.”

  “I want a runner, preferably one of Major Smolst’s men, to go up that mountain, make contact, and have the Dená charge downhill in concert with our assault on the enemy flanks. Think that will work?”

  “Hell yes! The Russians will have to surrender or die.”

  75

  5,000 feet over Russian Amerika

  “This is Delta Refuge, do you read me? Over.”

  Captain Gerald Yamato thought the transmission was a cruel prank at first.

  “This is Delta Refuge, does anyone hear me?”

  Jerry keyed his microphone. “This is Captain Yamato of the Republic of California Air Force. Who is in charge there?”

  “Captain Yamato! This is Max Demientieff. We fought together when we hit them mercenaries, remember?”

  “Max! I’m so happy to hear your voice and know you’re okay. We’re on our way to hit the Russians attacking you. Over.”

  “We got people out there, Jerry, be careful you don’t get them too. Uh, over.”

  “Is there anyone in your front lines with a radio? Over.”

  “Yeah, hang on for a minute.”

  The radio burst with static and he turned down his volume. The 117th was no more than five minutes from the battle; he needed coordinates.

  “This is Sergeant Haroldsson of Dená Recon. What do you need?”

  Jerry couldn’t believe his ears. “Magda? Is that you?”

  “Jerry!” The catch in her voice tore at him. “Where are you?”

  “Closing on the battle at five thousand feet! We’re going to hit the Russians, but Max said there were Dená elements close to the Russians. What’s the story?”

  “The lines are all messed up and we’re probably within fifty meters of the Russians right now.”

  His heart flew into his mouth. “You’re that close to the Russians?”

  “It’s a war, my love. They damn near killed me yesterday with an artillery barrage. We do what we must.”

  “Magda, get away from the front lines, please!”

  Despite the poor connection, the starch in her voice came through loud and clear.

  “Don’t ever ask me to let someone take risks in my name that I won’t take myself! Don’t you know me better than that, Jerry Yamato?”

  “Of course I do. I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you. I fear for you.”

  “You would soldier on. But I promise to be careful.”

  “Thanks. We can see the dust and smoke from the barrage. Where do we hit them?”

  “At the bottom of the mountain, where all their armor is concentrated. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Consider it done. I love you.”

  “And I love you, over.”

  Colonel Shipley’s voice sounded softer than it had at the beginning of the flight. “Captain Yamato, you have the lead on the first attack.”

  “Thank you, sir, I sincerely appreciate that. Permission to reconnoiter the area, sir?”

  “Permission granted, Captain.”

  Jerry dove toward the base of the smoke cloud where it intersected with the RustyCan. He swept over the Russians so quickly they didn’t have time to direct any fire at his plane. Their column looked pretty well shot up to him.

  He banked left and right, following the highway while digesting what he had seen, and flew over a second, much larger, column. He stared incredulously at the long line of tanks and armored troop carriers. Just as his heart was sinking into the pit of his stomach, he realized they were not displaying Russian insignia.

  “First People’s Nation?” he blurted.

  “What was that, Captain?” Shipley’s voice sounded taut. “Where the hell are you? We’ve completely lost visual on your craft.”

  He pulled the P-61 up as sharply as he dared while machine gun fire erupted from dozens of locations in the column. Two rounds put holes in his left wing. Jerry took a deep breath.

  That was too damn close!

  “Colonel Shipley, there is a First People’s Nation armored column less than five miles from the Russian position. It outnumbers the Russians by four to one.”

  “Who …” Shipley began and then faltered for a moment. “Whose side are they on?”

  “Ours, I think. But they still put two holes in my left wing. They weren’t expecting friendly aircraft.”

  “Friendly aircraft, hell,” Shipley said with a snort. “They weren’t expecting any aircraft at all! Tell me about the Russians.”

  “They’re bunched up and hurting. But we have to make sure we don’t hit the sides of the road; they’re engaged in hand-to-hand combat there.”

  “Roger that. Good work, Captain.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Jerry knew there would be a citation for this in his service jacket, but he didn’t really care. His war had transcended nations; now it was completely personal.

  “Gentlemen,” Shipley said, “you all heard the captain. Hit everything in the middle of the Russian parking lot but don’t shoot near the edges.”

  A bevy of comm clicks answered him and the 117th dove to the attack.

  76

  Battle of Delta

  Provost Marshal Senior Lieutenant Kubitski screamed at his men to take cover when the Californian aircraft went over. Private Ilyivich stood watching as the plane buzzed into the distance.

  “Get your dumb ass under cover!” Kubitski screamed. “Did I tell you it was permitted to move?”

  His bandaged head throbbed where the cannon fire from the earlier strafing run had clipped his scalp.

  “But the plane didn’t fire, Lieutenant—”

  “There will be more planes, you stupid bastard. Now get under cover!”

  As his men went to ground he sprinted toward Colonel Janeki’s position. Ten minutes after the colonel shot his new adjutant, everyone in the column knew about it. This had to be ended.

  Bullets skitted past him and took cover. They were being flanked and Colonel Janeki was still obsessed with going to the top of this damn mountain. Fifth Armored had been Kubitski’s life since he was sixteen and a sub-private.

  The battlefield commission came as a surprise; he just thought he had been doing what they trained him for. The promotion to provost marshal was an even bigger surprise; he hadn’t thought he was hard-assed enough for the job.

  He glanced about, seeking hi
s men. Three feet behind him a bullet ricocheted off the fender of an armored car. He let his training take over and watched for the next shot.

  Nothing happened. He wasn’t facing an inexperienced recruit; this fellow knew what it was all about. He waited.

  A volley of automatic fire erupted from a dozen places and Mother Kubitski’s little boy Leonid dove for cover. His adversaries were just as professional as himself.

  Perhaps more?

  The fire drew attention from his troops and the enemy area received heavy machine gun and mortar fire. He utilized the lull in incoming fire by running toward Janeki’s last known position. Just as he was about to go to ground again, a bullet clipped the side of his steel helmet and knocked him sprawling.

  He lay stunned. His head throbbed worse than the most massive hangover he had ever experienced. Between the earlier graze and this near miss, he felt marked for death.

  For a moment he saw two of everything and squeezed his eyes shut. The scent of flowers suffused him and he didn’t know if he should enjoy the incongruity or worry about brain damage.

  He had to get to Janeki before the colonel got all of his comrades killed. He wasn’t going to argue with the man. He would just shoot him.

  A roaring grew and for a moment he thought it was part of the concussion. It turned out to be aircraft, and this time they were firing. Provost Marshal Kubitski swiftly crawled under a truck and prayed it didn’t take a direct bomb hit.

  77

  Village of Kilsnoo, Russian Amerika

  “What do you think their answer will be?” Wing asked, staring at the closed conference room door and doing her best not to fidget.

  “In my opinion, there can only be one answer: to agree with us or something very close to agreement.” Grisha wished he had something to do with his hands. For a brief moment he envied cigarette smokers until he also remembered how they smelled.

  “We don’t have a lot of time left bef—”

  The door opened, breaking her sentence along with her train of thought. Colonel Sam Dundas gave them a slight bow.

  “General, Colonel, we would appreciate your presence.”

  Wing studied the man. She didn’t know Sam Dundas like Grisha did, and therefore found his face unreadable. Grisha took her arm and they walked through the door.

  She desperately didn’t want this mission to fail. Not only did it signify the possibility of a unified Republik of Alaska, it also returned to her beloved Grisha the status of which he had been robbed. She didn’t think these people gave him much respect and that put her hackles up.

  All five men stood when they entered. General Sobolof indicated the two chairs on either side of him at the head of the table. No one spoke as Grisha held Wing’s chair and she sat. The others sat when Grisha did.

  Wing tried not to hold her breath. From somewhere inside her she heard Blue say, “Don’t ever show ’em that it matters.” She forced herself to relax, give the men around the table her best “I’m on your side” smile, and wait.

  “General Grigorievich, Colonel Grigorievich,” General Sobolof said in his most ponderous, official tone, “we sincerely appreciate and salute your presence here, and we further understand what personal danger you endured in making this visit.”

  He’s going to send us packing, Wing thought.

  “To that end we wish to assure you that your efforts are not in vain. We have agreed to most of General Grigorievich’s suggestions and are certainly open to further debate.”

  “You are?” Wing blurted.

  All of the men except Grisha broke into laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” she snapped, trying not smile.

  “You thought we were going to turn the whole thing down, didn’t you?” Sam Dundas asked, wiping a tear from his eye.

  She gave them her full grin. “General, I will never play poker with you, or any other game where I might lose money.”

  This time Grisha laughed too.

  “Now that we’ve had our fun,” General Sobolof said, “let’s get down to business.”

  Two people, a woman and a man, came in through a side door.

  “This is Captain Pletnikov and Lieutenant Davis. The captain will record our conversation on this machine, and Lieutenant Davis will transcribe everything said with her incredible command of shorthand.”

  Wing nodded in tandem with Grisha. The captain sat down and glanced at the lieutenant. She opened her tablet on the table and nodded back. He snapped a switch on the machine and it began to hum.

  “This is General Vincent Sobolof of the Tlingit Nation Army. I am officiating at a meeting between members of our War Council and delegates from the Dená Republik. I will now have each of these people identify themselves, beginning with our guests.”

  Wing waited while Grisha spoke and then she identified herself and stated her rank. While the men around the table spoke, she allowed herself a glow of pride. They were making history here, and despite what happened later, this would be remembered, and matter.

  78

  Battle of Delta

  Magda peered intently where she had seen the Russian troopers fall back. At least the artillery had ceased. The Russians were probably worried about hitting their people. Private Clarence Attla, hunkered down to her right, nudged her.

  “Somebody is coming around that rock over there, Magda.” He gestured with his chin and aimed at the spot.

  “Could it be our people?” she whispered.

  “Ain’t we the right flank?”

  “Supposed to be, but you never know who might have gotten off course. Don’t shoot unless I say so.”

  “You’re the sergeant,” he whispered through a quick grin.

  They both watched the slab of rock. The firing had died down to intermittent shots. They could both clearly hear someone moving slowly through the scree around the base of the rocks.

  A head popped up and then down again. Magda glanced at Clarence. He shrugged. The head edged from behind the slab at a different spot.

  She realized the person wasn’t attacking; they were trying to make contact or surrender. She shared the thought with Clarence.

  “And how do you know that?” he asked.

  “If they were attacking, they’d just lob a grenade over here and charge in when the thing went off.”

  He stared at the slab and scratched his jaw. “That’s good thinking, Magda. I agree.”

  “Be ready to shoot anyway.” Her mouth went flat. “It could be a trick.”

  “Okay, you take it from here.”

  “This is the Dená Army,” she said in a loud voice. “Stick your rifle straight up and ease around that rock if you want to live.”

  A rifle speared into the air. “Okay,” a voice called. “Don’t shoot, okay?”

  “Okay,” Clarence replied. “Get yer pokey butt over here.”

  Magda thought the rifle looked like a California carbine.

  “Clarence? Is that you?” A man wearing ROC dungarees edged around the slab and moved toward them, keeping low behind the rocks.

  “George? What the hell you doing out here? I thought you were still fishing down at Russian Mission. Get over here, man.”

  Clarence and George pounded each other’s back and grinned.

  “Magda, uh Sergeant—”

  “Magda’s just fine,” she said through her smile.

  “Uh, this is my cousin, George Hoyt from Russian Mission. I ain’t seen him for years.”

  “Hoyt? What kind of a name is that?” she asked.

  “My great-grandpa was one of them Moravian missionaries. Great-grandma sorta absorbed him into her way of life.”

  “What you doing out here, George?” Her voice went crisper than she intended.

  “Yeah. I’m with Major Smolst from Chena and we got a bunch of California rangers and paratroopers with us. Them California guys want to hook up with the people at Refuge and coordinate an attack.”

  “That would be us,” Magda said. “Anybody else with you, George?
”

  “No. Just me.”

  “Clarence, you stay here. I’m going to take George to Pelagian.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Magda.”

  George followed her along their line of soldiers. “You’re a sergeant?”

  “Is there something wrong with that?”

  “Not at all. It’s just that you’re the prettiest sergeant I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’re a flirt, George. It must run in the family.”

  Pelagian was suddenly in front of them. “Magda, who’s this?”

  “Father, this is George Hoyt from Russian Mission. He’s Clarence’s cousin. He’s also a scout for Major Smolst and the Californians.” She stepped aside.

  “George.” Pelagian shook hands with him. “Where are your people?”

  George pulled a map from his blouse pocket and spread it on a flat-topped rock. “We’re here, the California rangers are here, and the paratroopers are here.” His finger stopped moving and he looked up at Pelagian. “And you know where you’re at.”

  “This is great; we have them hemmed in on three sides. All they can do is retreat toward Tetlin.”

  Magda’s radio beeped and she lifted it to her ear as she keyed a response.

  “Magda, this is Jerry. I just flew over a column of armor less than five miles from Delta headed your way—”

  “Oh Christ! How are we—”

  “Let me finish! It’s an FPN column.”

  “FPN?”

  “You know, First People’s Nation.”

  “I know what the letters mean, but what does it mean that they’re here?”

  “We are going with the assumption that they are on our side, even if they did put a few holes in my plane.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Not this time. Don’t worry. What is your tactical situation?”

  “Here, talk to Dad.” She handed the radio to Pelagian. “It’s Jerry.”

  “Captain Yamato, how good to hear your voice!”

  Magda watched her father as he listened. When he frowned she knew he had heard “FPN.”

  “What are they doing this far north? Have they declared war on Imperial Russia, too? This changes things drastically here, especially for the Russians. We have them enfiladed on three sides and I believe they are low on artillery shells.”

  He listened intently again and began shaking his head. “No, no more air strikes. We’re cheek to jowl with them at this point and I would hate to lose our people to friendly fire. Your squadron has done an exemplary job so far and the Dená Republik will never forget your service and sacrifice.”