Alaska Republik

by Stoney Compton

  “What is happening?” she asked as he pulled her close.

  “I have no idea. All I do know is that Captain Vandenberg had been through this before, so I don’t think we have to worry.”

  Captain Vandenberg overheard him and flashed them a quick smile.

  “Periscope level, Skipper,” Chief Busch whispered.

  “Up periscope,” Captain Vandenberg said.

  As soon as the eyepiece hit knee level, the captain was on it, snapping down the two little arms and walking them around the thick, still-rising shaft of the thing.

  “Destroyer aft, six thousand yards and headed away from us.” He continued to slowly walk the shaft in a circle and stopped abruptly.

  “Second destroyer headed straight for us, balls to the wall! Open forward torpedo doors, now!”

  Grisha saw the fear drop over their faces. This wasn’t a sure thing. They all still might die.

  “How can they do this day after day?” Wing whispered in his ear, echoing his own thoughts. He shrugged.

  “Forward torpedo doors open, Skipper,” Chief Busch said in a conversational tone.

  “Fire one, fire two!” Vandenberg ordered.

  “Torpedoes away, Skipper,” Chief Busch said. “How long until you—”

  The explosion slammed through the water and violently rocked the Mako to the left.

  “Jesus Christ!” Busch shouted. “How fu—,” he glanced at Wing and flashed her a grin. “How close were they, Skipper?”

  “Too damn close. They just went to the bottom,” Vandenberg said, eyes still glued to the periscope. “And here comes their cavalry.” He snapped the arms against the periscope tube.

  “Down scope, full speed ahead. Take her down to 300 feet, port full rudder, Chief.”

  “Port full rudder, 300 feet, aye, aye, Skipper.”

  The deck tilted down and Grisha maintained his grip on the stanchion with one hand and put his other arm around Wing. Behind them he could hear Sergeant Major Tobias muttering under his breath.

  “What’s that, Sergeant Major?”

  “I was just telling myself that this is something I needn’t do again in my life. Once is more than enough!”

  Wing turned to him and forced a smile. “For once I am in total agreement with you, Sergeant Major.”

  “Depth charges!” Sonarman First Lawson shouted, jerking off his headset.

  Thunder filled their steel universe.

  84

  5 miles east of Delta on the Russia-Canada Highway

  Yukon Cassidy aimed at the position from where Riordan last fired. His carbine weighed more than an ordinary weapon, of that he felt positive. The muzzle quivered no matter how hard he grasped the weapon.

  “Where is that son of a bitch?” he muttered.

  Time dragged and he decided that the quarry had different plans, but what? He knew Riordan wouldn’t do anything to endanger himself in a real way.

  What would I do?

  Cassidy craned his neck and took in the whole physical area where they fought. To his right, a ridge lifted above the common denominator plain; the plain actually rose to meet the ridge, beyond which distant mountains could be glimpsed. He didn’t have the luxury of speculating on what might lay immediately over the rise.

  He just needed the high ground.

  Cassidy crawled forward, wondering where Roland had disappeared. He had his doubts about Frenchmen and, as yet, this one was not changing his mind.

  Riordan was fast. Cassidy had trained his .45 on the man and talked while Delcambré had stepped out of the truck cab with a rifle. As soon as he saw the muzzle on Delcambré’s weapon come up, Cassidy had pulled the .45 up and opened the truck door to get out. When Cassidy’s left foot touched the road, Riordan kicked the door into him and accelerated his motorcycle down the road at such speed that Roland’s shot missed.

  Cassidy shoved the door away, dropped the pistol and grabbed his .45-.70, took careful aim at the motorcycle and blew a hole in the back tire. The BMW skidded wildly on the rocky road and Riordan leapt off the machine as the wheels caught and it began to flip sideways. Riordan had the presence of mind to grab his rifle from its scabbard then rolled when he hit the ground.

  “The son of a bitch disappeared!” Cassidy exclaimed.

  “He is very good at that,” Roland agreed. “I suggest you take cover.”

  “He has to be dazed. Let’s get up there and grab him.”

  “After you,” Roland said with a wide smile.

  Cassidy grabbed his pistol off the truck seat and holstered it. Holding the rifle close to his chest he went down the road at a dead run.

  Riordan’s first shot went through the crown of his hat and snapped it off his head like magic. Cassidy threw himself behind the biggest rock within a meter. It wasn’t a very big rock since he couldn’t fit all of himself behind it.

  A quick glance behind showed no sign of Roland Delcambré. Cassidy aimed toward where he last saw Riordan, and waited.

  A bullet, so close to his head it sounded like a hummingbird in full flight, buzzed past. Another bullet whined above him.

  Where the hell is he?

  Cassidy carefully surveyed the ground immediately around him. The terrain was flat on both sides and gained elevation up to the rise. With Riordan ahead of, and above, him, he didn’t have a chance of flanking the bastard.

  Where the hell is Delcambré?

  Cassidy had the largest rock within five meters. Engine noise behind him suddenly registered.

  This is either a very good thing or a very bad thing.

  Without really thinking about it, he rolled over and over toward a larger rock five meters distant. After the fourth roll he felt disoriented and stopped, completely in the open. The engine sounds were louder and he scrambled over to the rock.

  Blood pounded in his head but he felt relieved to have some decent cover.

  Rifle fire behind him added to his decision to just stay put for a moment. He watched the area from where Riordan had last fired, and waited.

  He heard Roland shout, “Que est vous?” and heard the answer: the damned Freekorps. Then Riordan shouted from somewhere in front of him. The damn terrain made it sound like his voice was everywhere.

  The voices behind him suddenly ceased. The quiet stretched too far into his nerves to be comfortable.

  “Are you soldiers with me?” Riordan shouted.

  A voice Cassidy didn’t recognize answered, “Sorry, Major, this is your fight. But we’ll watch.”

  “Bastards!” Riordan shrilled. “After all I’ve done for you!”

  Cassidy realized he knew where Riordan was, off to his left side, and started inching toward him.

  “Riordan, you have dropped our balls in the dirt for the last time. I hope they hang your ass!”

  Cassidy grinned and quickened his pace. In moments he was out of the roadside dirt and rocks and on softer, quieter sphagnum moss and lichens. He stopped to rest in a shallow depression, wishing he could take a quick nap on this delicious bed.

  He heard a scuffing sound and raised his head to look Riordan in the face less than a meter away. Immediately Cassidy threw himself forward and used the .45-.70 to block the rifle Riordan quickly tried to aim. They parried, both swinging their weapons at the other, both still on their knees.

  A furious battle of rifles as quarterstaffs ensued. In an effort to gain height, Cassidy shuffled to his right and his knee came down on a sharp stone. For the briefest moment his attention diverted to the piercing pain in his knee and in that moment Riordan clipped the side of his head.

  Cassidy, stunned, rolled away and Riordan, still in the fierce heat of the fight, swung his rifle back and with all his force brought it down where Cassidy’s face lay blinking at the sky.

  Cassidy jerked to his right. Riordan’s rifle stock hit a rock the size of two doubled fists and shattered.

  “Damn!” Riordan shouted.

  Cassidy reared up and swung the .45-.70 at the Irishman’s head and missed when
Riordan fell onto his back, scrambling for his pistol.

  Cassidy pulled back the hammer on the .45-.70 and aimed at Riordan’s head. “I know you’re not from the Great Plains, but I’m sure you’ve heard of a buffalo gun.”

  Riordan pulled his hand away from the pistol and held it in the air. His other hand lay on the ground, shaking with desire and exhaustion.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of ’em.”

  85

  9 miles east of Delta on the Russia-Canada Highway

  Lieutenant Alex Strom of the International Freekorps wondered how to end this once and for all. Riordan and the other guy could fight all night at this rate. Yet Roland Delcambré sat behind him with a weapon.

  The three truckloads of mercenaries behind Delcambré had no idea what was going on. They merely waited for Strom to give them direction. He finally decided to call Roland’s bluff when suddenly a tank reared up over the ridge and slammed down on the road surface. The dusty, faded paint depicting a Kiowa war shield adorned the front of the machine.

  “Shit!” Strom said, dropping off his elbows onto the ground. “I know when I’m licked.”

  Three more tanks followed. All stopped and their cannon and machine guns pointed at the vehicles carrying the remnants of the International Freekorps. Riordan and the other man stared at the machines. Roland’s friend lowered his weapon and stepped back from Riordan. Both gasped in exhaustion.

  “I’m getting out of here,” Gagne said. “Don’t wait up. You have a good life, Alex. Roland, can I leave?”

  Delcambré nodded and Strom watched Gagne slip away from under the car and disappear off to the right. One of the FPN gunners fired a quick burst in that direction but made no indication he had hit anything. Strom wondered if they’d hang him.

  A man about his father’s age climbed down off the lead tank. He had the air of command about him and wore two small silver devices on his shoulders. He stopped in front of the man Riordan had fought with and extended his hand to pull him up.

  “Once again Yukon Cassidy gets his man.”

  Riordan, still lying on the ground, quipped, “But he didn’t beat me!”

  Cassidy glanced down at him. “That can be arranged.”

  Soldiers poured over the ridge and surrounded Strom’s scout car and the three trucks. Strom nodded when one of the soldiers deftly plucked the pistol off his belt and the two carbines out of the car. The officer walked over to the scout car.

  “Name and rank?”

  Strom decided the devices were representations of the sun that meant the man was a brigadier general. He stood at attention.

  “Lieutenant Alex Strom, International Freekorps, General.”

  “You’re a prisoner of war, Lieutenant Strom. It will be determined later if you are guilty of war crimes or merely bad judgment in following that worthless bastard.” He nodded at Riordan.

  “I’ve already convicted myself of the latter, General.”

  “You’re smart; that’s why you’re a lieutenant.”

  “Maybe I’m not smart enough?”

  86

  Port Lemhi, Republic of California

  The RCNS Mako slid into her berth and sailors on the dock tied her fast while a gangway was expertly lowered to her deck.

  Wing felt completely drained of emotion. It seemed a miracle to see sunlight, solid ground, and the last of this horrible, smelly submarine. Still, she had to be polite.

  “Colonel Grigorievich,” Captain Vandenberg said, holding both of her hands in his, “your unflinching bravery gave all around you added determination.”

  “Captain Vandenberg,” she said earnestly, staring into his eyes, “it’s a true wonder I didn’t soil myself. I have never been that frightened before in my life. You and your men have to be the bravest people I know to go down and do that day after day.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll make sure my crew hears your words. We’re proud to have helped make your quest more successful.”

  She didn’t hear what Grisha said behind her. She didn’t care. She just wanted off this terrifying boat once and for all.

  Lieutenant Commander Hills waited at the bottom of the gangplank.

  “Welcome back, Colonel. How was your trip?” His wide smile gave him a boyish look.

  “Hell, Commander Hills. Total hell. I really need a drink of something stronger than tea.”

  “Perhaps I can interest you in a shot of twenty-year-old brandy?”

  “I have never drunk liquor before, so …”

  “Maybe a nice glass of California wine would be a better choice then.”

  Grisha and Sergeant Major Tobias walked down the gangway, deep in conversation. Wing wondered what subject they discussed. Once on land Grisha turned and saluted the Mako, then bent down and kissed the ground.

  The watch standers on the submarine all laughed and applauded.

  “Commander Hills, it is a true joy to see you again,” Grisha said.

  “The trip was that bad, huh?”

  “Have you ever been in a depth charge attack?”

  “No, General, I haven’t. You don’t see any dolphins on my chest. I’m in awe of those guys, but I’m not crazy.”

  “Commander Hills has offered us a glass of wine.”

  Grisha regarded her with an odd expression. “But you don’t drink.”

  “Today I do, perhaps for the only time in my life, but getting back here alive deserves a celebration.”

  “As long as you don’t overdo it.” Grisha smiled and offered his arm. As they walked to the black sedan, Grisha whispered in her ear, “We have to return to Tanana as soon as possible. The election is getting ugly.”

  Wing felt her spirits slump. “I was afraid that would happen.”

  87

  4000 feet over the Dená Republik

  “Give me a damage assessment,” Colonel Shipley ordered.

  “This is Cassaro. I’m out of ammo but they didn’t lay a finger on me.”

  “Hafs here. I’m getting frostbite from a hole on each side of my canopy; other than that I’m just fine.”

  “I’m fine as frog hair, Skipper,” Currie reported. “As far as I’m concerned, we could hit them again.”

  “Yamato?” Shipley’s voice had gentled and his concern was obvious to all who heard it.

  Jerry cleared his throat. “No injuries, no aircraft damage, Colonel Shipley.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” Shipley said in a more fulsome voice. “This is our last mission. We’ve been ordered back to Fort Yukon. We’re being relieved.”

  “Excellent!”

  “Man, that’s the best news I’ve heard since we came north.”

  “Who’s replacing us, Colonel?” Yamato asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say over an unsecure frequency. But suffice it to say they will add a lot of speed to the war.”

  Jerry frowned. What the hell was he talking about?

  As they angled down toward the runway at Fort Yukon, an aircraft whipped past them at an incredible rate of speed.

  “What the hell was that?” Cassaro yelled.

  “It’s a plane. I can see that much,” Hafs said.

  “That, gentlemen, is the future of aviation,” Shipley said in a reverential tone. “That was an RCAF F-82 Swordmaster, the most modern jet fighter aircraft in the world today.”

  “What the hell is a jet?” Currie asked.

  88

  Tanana, Dená Republik

  “I want Gennady Ustinov arrested and tried for murder!” Nathan Roubitaux bellowed.

  “Who did he murder?” Grisha asked, keeping his tone neutral.

  “One of my oper—one of my campaign workers! A man named Alexi—”

  “Popovich,” Grisha finished for him.

  “Then you already know about it. Why hasn’t this man been arrested?”

  “For one thing, there’s still a war being fought. And from what I heard, your campaign worker challenged Mr. Ustinov to a duel and lost. There is the issue of personal responsibility her
e. Mr. Popovich shouldn’t have been so free with his challenge.”

  “You’re siding with them against us?”

  “Who are them and who is us, Nathan? I thought we were all on the same side here; the Athabascan People, the Dená Republik.”

  A murmur eddied around the Council Chamber.

  Grisha and Wing had been summoned to the chamber ostensibly to give a report on their meeting with the Tlingit Nation Army. But they knew much more needed to be dealt with than the stated subject; they had been warned.

  *

  Grisha, Wing, and Sergeant Major Tobias had arrived in Tanana the previous day to a welcoming committee of four: General Eluska, Lieutenant Colonel Blue Bostonman, Major Lauesen, USA, and a man named Waterman Stoddard.

  Introductions had been quick and General Eluska summed up with, “We represent four situations: I’m military, Blue is politics, Major Lauesen is intelligence, and Mr. Stoddard is trouble.”

  Grisha’s grin died quickly when he realized Paul wasn’t kidding. “So tell me.”

  “There is a battle under way at Delta; we heard it might be finished, but nothing official has come through. The Republic of California has sent a—”

  A quickly growing roar filled the air and a formation of four aircraft shot through the sky over them and dwindled into the distance.

  “What the bloody hell!” Sergeant Major Tobias blurted.

  “Couldn’t have timed that better if I tried,” General Eluska said with a grin. “That was part of the squadron of fighter jets the Republic of California has sent north.”

  “Jets?” Wing asked, glancing at the sky again.

  “I’ll handle that part, Colonel,” Major Lauesen said in a low voice.

  “We still have about fifteen hundred people stationed at Bridge,” General Eluska continued, “and the Dená Army is pretty damn thin everywhere else. But we still have the ROC and the USA bolstering our pitiful numbers.” He nodded at Major Lauesen. “I think you should go next, Elstun.”

  “Thank you, General Eluska. General and Colonel Grigorievich, a great deal has transpired since you left on your mission. And please allow me to congratulate you both on the results; I wish I could have been there.”