“Being deprived of his P-61, Captain Yamato flew an antique 1940 Grigorovich in first a reconnaissance flight over three hostile armored columns and then later returned to attack all three. Captain Yamato was wounded in this last action yet piloted his damaged antique aircraft to an airfield two hundred miles distant where he had never been before.
“In addition,” General Caldwell theatrically wiped his brow causing more laughter in the ranks, “then-Lieutenant Yamato led a strike force back to the Battle of Delta where the 117th surprised a Russian bombing mission on its way north. Captain Yamato shot down two enemy fighters in the action where Major Fowler gave his life, and proceeded to lead his squadron back to the Battle of Delta where they depleted their armament on the forces attacking the Dená Army.”
General Caldwell stopped and looked at Jerry. “I am proud to know you, sir. A grateful nation bestows upon you the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Purple Heart, and the Air Medal, Major Yamato.”
Jerry stood, stunned, as General Jud Caldwell pinned medals on his chest. They had blown everything out of proportion: he didn’t deserve this.
The general stepped back, shook Jerry’s hand. Then he saluted him.
Jerry returned the salute automatically, feeling oddly detached from himself, as if he were watching this happen to someone else.
“Our hosts have something to add,” General Caldwell said and stepped back.
One of the Dená generals stood in front of him, held out his hand. Jerry shook it.
“I am honored to meet you, Major Yamato, I have heard much about your actions. I am General Gregori Grigorievich of the Dená Army. We are a new army, part of a new nation, one that you have helped birth.
“As yet we have no military history, no tradition. All is new. General Eluska and Colonel Grigorievich here, and I, have conferred and created the first decoration for valor in the defense of the Dená Republik.”
General Grigorievich paused and swallowed. Jerry realized the general was more nervous than he was. The colonel passed something to the general and he held it up with both hands for all to see.
“Allow me to explain what you are seeing,” General Grigorievich said.
“The four-inch-wide band of dark blue cloth is backed with moosehide and set off with bead rosettes signifying the North Star on each side. Twin ranks of dentalium shells cascade down to a piece of very old copper taken in trade over a century ago. Both the copper and dentalium shells denote rank in the Athabascan culture.
“This is a unique piece of art, created specifically for this occasion and for Lieutenant Colonel Yamato, his rank in the Dená Army from this day forward. Since only a citizen of the Dená Republik can be commissioned in the Dená Army, Gerald Yamato has been adopted into our people and culture: he is now one of the People.”
General Grigorievich put the necklacelike decoration around Jerry’s neck, stepped back and shook his hand.
“Welcome, Colonel Yamato. We would be honored if you would have dinner with us tonight.”
“Thank you, General Grigorievich. I thank you for the great honor and would be proud to dine with you.”
General Grigorievich grinned, making him look years younger. “That’s settled, then. I’ll have someone come by and pick you up.”
Jerry saluted the officers and returned to ranks. The ceremony wasn’t over. Hafs, Currie and Cassaro were all awarded the Air Medal, as was Major Ellis, posthumously.
Once everyone was back in ranks, General Caldwell spoke again.
“President Reagan has awarded the 117th the Presidential Unit Citation. The squadron will go into history with a legacy of duty, honor, and glory. Thank you for your service. You are dismissed.”
91
Delta, Dená Republik
Toe-tapping fiddle music resonated through the town of Delta. The townspeople had gratefully and quickly descended the mountain to return to their homes. The square in front of the former St. Anthony Redoubt was filled with tables, chairs, benches, and piles of blankets where babies and small children watched the commotion. The aroma of cooking food permeated the area as moose haunches and entire caribou carcasses turned on spits over mounds of glowing coals.
Magda knew she should be as happy as everyone else but she felt very alone. She wanted Jerry here. He deserved to be here as much as anyone else—more than some, in her estimation.
She sensed someone beside her and looked over to see her mother.
“You miss him, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, Mother.” The tear that escaped her left eye surprised her. “How can I celebrate without the man I have come to love?”
“He’ll be back. I know that for a certainty,” Bodecia said with a nod. “He’s as smitten with you as you are with him, maybe more.”
Magda sighed. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”
Bodecia laughed. “You’re wallowing in self-pity. At a time like this, that is a waste of your intelligence. Besides, your father wants your opinion on the latest situation.”
“What situation? Didn’t we win?”
“We won this war. Now we’re faced with not losing the victory.”
Magda jumped to her feet. “I don’t understand, but explain on the way.”
The late afternoon increased in tempo. People danced to fiddle, guitar, and balalaika music. Someone had even brought out an antique harpsichord and was playing it with exquisite expertise.
“Suddenly we are faced with factions within the Dená people,” Bodecia said as they moved briskly through the happy crowd.
“Factions? What kind of factions?”
“Basically, many have different opinions on where do we go from here.”
“Anywhere we want to! I don’t understand this.”
“Well, I do and I don’t. Oh good, there’s your father; he will make us both understand. He’s good at this nuance stuff.”
Two FPN drummers, one Pawnee and one Sioux, added their harmony to the music. Laughter and loud talk echoed around the square. Dená girls walked with FPN warriors close to their own age, chatting and flirting.
Magda knew there would be many babies made this night. Was that why she was so morose? Is that why she wanted Jerry to be here with her? She realized their war was over and now she could examine the emotions she felt for him. She wanted to do that with him—not alone.
Pelagian sat on a folding campstool conversing with General Spotted Bird, Colonel Fires-Twice, Colonel Romanov, Yukon Cassidy, and a small man she didn’t recognize. On the perimeter of the group others sat or stood.
“Ah, here’s my clear-thinking daughter. This is Magda, a sergeant of scouts and the pride of my life.”
She stopped and came to attention. “Gentlemen,” she said with a nod.
All the men stood. Pelagian introduced everyone, ending with the small, dark man. “And this is Roland Delcambré, who is traveling with Yukon.”
“Sir.” She nodded again. Magda glanced at her father. “Mother says there are factions. Please explain what that means.”
“First it means that the war is over and we won. I’m not sure how we did that as quickly as we did, but the fact remains that we’ve run out of Russians to fight. So now we’re free to fight each other.”
“Why? What is there to fight about?”
“Please give me your opinion on this: where does the Dená Republik go from here?”
“We form a government, of course.”
“I agree. How?”
“We’ve already started. We pick delegates to a constitutional convention and they write a constitution and we do whatever the constitution says to make a government.”
“So who do you pick to write your part?”
“I don’t even know who’s running. Delta is our whole district, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So who is running?”
“Konstantin Mitkov for one.”
“Viktor’s father?”
“Yes.”
“Who else, Father?”
“Me.”
“What?” Bodecia jumped like a bee-stung pup. “Shooting Russians is one thing, but if you go into politics, you’ll have Indians shooting at you!”
“Why, Father?” Magda asked.
“I’m sorry to spring this on you both, but there is no time to spare. The election is a week away and I haven’t had a chance to tell people how I see the situation.”
“How do you see the situation?” Magda didn’t know why, but she felt very apprehensive about his decision.
“We are a brand-new country filled with people who were born here and others who have helped us fight for our liberty. Who are the citizens of this new country? Just those born here, or also those who were willing to die for it?
“And what about land ownership? Does our new country recognize the deeds of those who owned land under the Czar, or is everything up for grabs again? Who decides if Dená who didn’t fight against the Czar have the same rights as those who did?”
Magda blinked. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought about any of that, and I know you would be essential in a constitutional convention if it were to be fair for all. How can I help you?”
“How can we all help?” Yukon Cassidy asked.
“Are you even a resident?” Pelagian asked Cassidy.
“If six years of running a trap line on the Charley River doesn’t make me a resident, then nothing will.”
“He’s a resident as far as I’m concerned,” Doyon Isaac said from the edge of the circle. “As is every person who fought for the Dená Republik. Who could argue against that?”
“Konstantin Mitkov, for one,” Pelagian said. “He believes that if you’re not at least half Athabascan, then you’re not a citizen.”
“Remind me, old friend,” Yukon Cassidy said. “Where was it that this Konstantin fellow fought?”
“He didn’t. He was one of the first to reach Refuge and he grabbed as much space as he could. When the evacuation began, he was told he couldn’t have that much area and he argued about it.”
“Yet nobody shot him?” Cassidy’s grin made everyone else laugh.
“You’ve made my point,” Pelagian conceded. “This is why I must run, and why I must win.”
“May we be of help?” General Spotted Bird asked.
“I guess you could talk to people.”
An FPN Army sergeant suddenly ran up to the group and saluted General Spotted Bird.
“What is it, Sergeant Fox Dreams?”
“Sorry to bother you, General. Major Riordan has escaped.”
92
5 miles northwest of Delta
The motorcycle backfired for the third time and the engine died. Riordan coasted to a stop and stepped off one side of the machine and let it topple the other direction into a deep ravine, causing a small landslide of rock and gravel that covered the motorcycle. His water and food were strapped to him, part of his constant vigilance attitude.
They had probably found the dead guard by now, wrapped in his blanket and on the cot in the half-assed jail built on the back of a lorry. It took him all of a half hour to unhinge the door. It took another ten hours for the right circumstances to make his escape.
He jogged north with glances over his shoulder every thirty paces. They might wait for dawn, and they might not: it wasn’t that far away. He couldn’t take anything for granted. Where the hell was Klahotsa?
If he could reach that village he would be safe, perhaps. But there was nowhere else in the new Dená Republik where he could find sanctuary. Kurt Bachmann was the man who had hired him; that’s who he had to find.
Riordan glanced over his shoulder again and when he looked forward again he saw the glow. He slowed to a fast walk and peered ahead. Finally he realized he was seeing the reflection of a campfire off the edge of a vehicle on the side of the road.
He stopped and let his breathing subside into something normal. This had to be done carefully and a panting, wild-eyed apparition out of the night would be problematical to say the least.
Ten meters from the truck he yelled, “Hello the camp, one man coming in.”
Two young Indians stoically watched him emerge into the firelight.
One waved him forward and nodded to a rock on the other side of the snapping, flame-engulfed wood.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“I’m starving. Haven’t had food since breakfast.”
The other one peered into the darkness. “You on foot? I didn’t hear any motors.”
“Had a motorcycle. It died about five miles back that way.” Riordan nodded his head, never taking his eyes off the men.
“Where you going?” the first man said as he handed Riordan a steaming plate of stew.
“Thank you!” He grabbed the food and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth and yelped as it burned his tongue. After a moment he chewed and swallowed.
“I’m going to Klahotsa. You folks going that far?”
“Naw, we’re only headed to Nowitna. But that’s a lot closer than you are now.”
“I’d love a ride.”
93
Tanana, Dená Republik
Precisely at 6:45 p.m. a dented, but spotlessly clean, scout car pulled up in front of the old hotel where the RCAF billeted their pilots. Jerry felt ostentatious in his dress uniform with all the decorations but returned the snappy salute the sergeant major gave him.
“Is there a problem if I ride in front, Sergeant Major Tobias?”
Tobias grinned. “I won’t tell if you won’t, Colonel.”
Jerry settled in the front passenger seat. “I’m not used to all this yet, so don’t worry about being formal.”
“It’s not just ‘formal,’ sir, it’s also respect for rank and honors.” The sergeant turned around in the dusty street and they bounced along at ten miles per hour.
“That’s the other part of it,” Jerry said, bracing against the dashboard, “I don’t feel like I did anything that the next guy wouldn’t do in the same situation. And being one rank in the RCAF and a different rank in the Dená Army is just nuts.”
“I’ll give you that, sir. I’ve never seen the like in all my thirty-odd years of soldiering. But as for deserving it, well, that’s not for us to decide, is it now?”
“Where exactly are you from, Sergeant Major?”
“Originally?” He lapsed into silence for a moment. “Boston, down in the United States of America.”
“The state of Massachusetts, right?” Jerry said.
“Very good, sir. Most folks don’t know their geography nowadays, or much else found in books for that matter.”
“You sound like one of my school teachers back home.” Jerry laughed.
“I was a school teacher once, a long time ago.”
“Then you’re a college graduate?”
“That I am, although I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone else.”
“Hell, Tobias, you could be an officer.”
“Nothing personal, Colonel Yamato, but why would I want to do that? Here I am at the top of my game, being involved in all the big things, and yet have no responsibility if it all goes to hell in a hand basket.”
“So you’re happy where you are?”
“Let’s just say I’m satisfied with my lot in life. I’ve had it much worse. Ah, here we are: Dená Army Headquarters.”
Jerry took in the three-story building. “When did they build this?”
“This is an old Russian Army hospital. The USA and your Republic of California have modernized it and it is now the most up-to-date hospital in the country. The left wing on the bottom floor has been turned into quarters for officers. General and Colonel Grigorievich have the nicest apartment in the place.”
“Tell me about them, please.”
“Ah, no time, Colonel Yamato,” he said with a wolfish grin, “you’ll just have to fend for yourself.”
Jerry followed the sergeant major up the walk and through the doors. A sentry snapped to attention and Jerry returned his salu
te. The tile floors were polished to the point that one could use them as mirrors with which to shave.
Sergeant Major Tobias stopped and knocked on a door. It immediately opened and Colonel Wing Grigorievich waved them in. She looked incredibly feminine and Jerry realized she was wearing a dress that more than accentuated her excellent figure. Magda rested in his thoughts for a long moment.
“Colonel Yamato, Sergeant Major Tobias, please come in.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” Jerry said, clutching his hat in both hands.
As he stepped through the door, she neatly pulled the hat from his hands. “I’ll take care of that. Please join the general in the parlor, or whatever that room is.” She flashed him a quick grin and he realized he wasn’t the only nervous person here.
“Yes, Colonel.” Tobias had disappeared and Jerry’s steps on the wooden floors seemed unnaturally loud. General Grigorievich sat on the far side of the room holding a telephone to his ear. He waved at Jerry, smiled, and pointed to the sideboard where various bottles of liquor and wine stood.
Jerry wandered over to the bottles and read the labels. He found a California wine and poured himself two fingers in a glass, then sat in a chair and waited.
“Of course that’s important, but you can’t expect me to come out on either side. What? Because I’m a professional soldier, that’s why.”
General Grigorievich glanced up at Jerry and rotated a finger near his head and smiled.
“For the last time, I cannot help you with this. This is a political situation and I am military; we cannot take sides.”
He put the phone down on its cradle and stared out the window at the subdued twilight.
“They just don’t get it, Colonel Yamato. Every Athabascan with a problem thinks they have the right to call in the army to get them what they want. That’s not our mission and I’ll be damned if the army will get pulled into this political faction thing.”
“Colonel Yamato, relax,” Colonel Grigorievich said, coming into the room. “You’ve chosen a wine. Please tell me which it is and why you chose it.”
Jerry realized he had been sitting at attention. He forced himself to relax and swallowed the contents of his glass. He went over to the sideboard where she stood.
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