Alaska Republik

by Stoney Compton

  “And they both made it through the war?”

  “Indeed, and brilliantly led troops in combat. I was astounded to say the least.”

  “Is the helicopter airworthy?”

  “Oh yes. We didn’t lose all of our mechanics, just the best one.”

  “With your permission, Stephan, I would like to have the airfield named after Sergeant Suslov.”

  Stephan’s eyes brightened. “I can think of no better name, nor a better way to show your Russian-born citizens that they made a difference and are fully accepted in this new republik. Thank you for that gesture.”

  “No thanks needed, sir. It’s the very least we can do. I hadn’t thought of it as a unifying gesture, but you’re right. If we both sign the request, I think Tanana will agree.”

  “It probably helps that you will soon be related to the First Speaker.”

  “Pelagian hasn’t been elected yet. He has a lot of campaigning to do before the May elections. People up north don’t know him as well as folks around here. Gri—General Grigorievich is going to take him down to the Tlingit country, uh, Sealaska State, and introduce him around. The general was very impressed with Pelagian during the constitutional convention.”

  “I am amazed at the speed with which all of this is happening,” Stephen said, shaking his head. “After all my years dealing with the tortoiselike bureaucracy of the Imperial Russian Army, this is like falling off a cliff!”

  “We’re a small nation in population, but with vast distances. I’m amazed at how many people know each other yet live hundreds of miles apart. They sent Yukon Cassidy up north to talk to the Eskimos because they knew him. Yet he was born down in the First People’s Nation.”

  “Cassidy is a good man; I’m proud to call him friend,” Stephan said.

  “I can’t call him friend just yet, but I’m working on it.”

  “We keep straying from the official purpose of your visit. We also have a number of field artillery pieces, I’m not sure how many at this point, as well as three old Zukhov-1 tanks. Beyond that we have a few dozen tripod-mounted machine guns and cases and cases of rifles.”

  “Scout cars, trucks?”

  “Oh, yes. We have one command car that is nearly an antique, three scout cars, four or five armored personnel carriers and twelve lorries; one is rigged with a dump mechanism.”

  Jerry wrote furiously for a moment and then looked up. “Great. Some of the machines might get sent elsewhere but you’ll be consulted first.”

  Stephan Romanov smiled. “It is just past the noon hour. Would you please join me for lunch?”

  “Thank you, I would be honored.”

  113

  On the RustyCan between Nowitna and Klahotsa

  “Just like the colonel said, there’s another one trailing behind.” Corporal Bennett sounded like a kid on Christmas morning.

  Private Hendrix kept the binoculars to his eyes. “Isn’t the colonel always right? That man gives me the creeps! He ain’t natural.”

  Corporal Bennett wasn’t listening; he had pulled his radio from inside his coat, extended the aerial and flipped the switch.

  “Field Fox One, this is Field Fox Two, come in.”

  Hendrix lowered the binoculars and joined Bennett in staring at the radio. New equipment was always suspect until it operated correctly under field conditions.

  A tiny voice clearly said, “This is Field Fox One, go ahead Field Fox Two, over.”

  “Oh, shit, I forgot that ‘over’ part,” Bennett muttered. “Field Fox One, the second target is in range, moving slowly. You want us to take him out? Over.”

  “Take him alive if you can. If he threatens either of you, kill him, but bring in the body. Over.”

  “Understood. Field Fox Two out.” Corporal Bennett gave Hendrix a level stare. “Did you make marksman back home?”

  “You know damn well I did.”

  “Then you stay here. Keep your sights on him at all times. If he looks like he’s even thinking of shooting me, blow him away.”

  “Is this gonna get me a PFC stripe?”

  “It will if I have any say in the matter.”

  “Go get him, tiger!”

  Their vantage point was on a hillside where the road turned to the left behind them. The target point was straight downhill at the apex of the curve. Bennett hurried down the back of the hill, out of sight of the lone scout, and across the road to a fall of boulders.

  They had already set the site and he squirmed into position, rested his scoped rifle on the rock in front of him, and waited. He could see Hendrix out of the corner of his right eye, sitting up there like an archangel in winter camouflage.

  Bennett watched the road, letting his mind wander a little. He was grateful that it had warmed to ten below zero and then marveled at the concept that that temperature could be considered warm. Still nothing moved on the road.

  That son of a bitch should be here by now.

  He glanced up at Hendrix. Hendrix wasn’t there. Bennett didn’t move.

  If there were people uphill from them, there might be people down here, too. Very slowly, without moving his body, he turned his head to look behind him.

  Two men stood two meters away with weapons pointing straight at him. He dropped his rifle and raised his hands.

  “Turn around,” one of them said in an accent Bennett couldn’t place. He did as he was told. He still reclined on the rocks.

  “Anybody else with you other than the Kaffir up the hill there?”

  South Africa, Rhodesian probably. “No, just the two of us.”

  “Good.”

  Bennett didn’t hear the shot.

  114

  Nowitna, Provisional State of Doyon, Alaska Republik

  “Any word from Field Fox Two?” Colonel Buhrman asked.

  “No, sir,” First Sergeant Scally said. “And it’s been more than a half hour since they broke contact.”

  “Silent alert, now. Get your weapon ASAP.”

  “Sir!” Scally flipped a switch that turned on a red light in every house in Nowitna. The electricians had enjoyed the exercise and the residents thought it a novel way to communicate. None of them had ever believed it would be used.

  Soldiers and armed villagers moved into prearranged positions. Radios were switched to the combat channel and locations were whispered into the microphones. Then they all waited for orders or action.

  The village of Nowitna sits on a relatively high bank opposite the side where the Nowitna River enters the Yukon River between three islands. The Nowitna River bends and turns through a massive floodplain dotted with hundreds of lakes and ponds that entice millions of waterfowl every year as well as the ubiquitous muskrats valued for their fur. Moose populate the area in large numbers and the first Athabascans to come through the area thousands of years before probably thought they had found the most perfect place on Earth.

  Now it lay swathed in a meter of snow, much of it deposited by the constant wind blowing across the frozen river and myriad lakes. Dark spruce and tamarack trees mingled with the denuded branches of willow, birch, and alder. A moving object of any size in the open could be seen over a mile away.

  Colonel Buhrman and Lieutenant Colonel Smolst had their men watching the tree line, the clumps of Labrador tea, rosebushes, and various berry bushes. With the wind blowing small clouds of snow, it was difficult to tell whether or not humans worked their way forward through the growth.

  Nowitna lay buttoned up; the houses on the north and west side of the village were all secure forts, with six to eight riflemen waiting at darkened windows or chinks in the log walls. The Titus Brothers Mercantile was one of the three two-story buildings in the village. Centrally located, one could see the entire swath of the region from northeast to southwest.

  Buhrman, Smolst and two radiomen hunkered on the second floor, glassing their perimeter. Buhrman had the north and northwest; Smolst had the west and southwest.

  “Do you really think they’ll attack us, Del?”


  “I’d bet the family farm on it. They think we don’t know they’re coming. They’re pissed and want us out of the way for whatever they have planned down the line.”

  “The guy we caught could give us a lot of that information.”

  “Maybe there’ll be time for that later.”

  “Colonel,” Easthouse, the radioman said, “is it okay if I smoke?”

  “You make any kind of light and I’ll shoot you myself.”

  “That would be a ‘no,’ then,” Easthouse said. “And I thought the biggest thing I had to worry about was lung cancer.”

  “The last thing we want to do is make a light in here that can be seen from outside.” Colonel Buhrman glassed over his area.

  “Don’t those lenses reflect light?” Easthouse asked.

  Colonel Buhrman froze and dropped below the window area. “Jesus, he’s right—”

  The glass in the window above his head suddenly blew in with a rush of cold wind and snow sprinkles. The rifle report echoed across the icebound flats.

  “Did anyone see where that shot came from?” Colonel Buhrman snapped. He hadn’t been this pissed at himself since the fight in the Arizona no-man’s-land years before.

  “Nobody saw a thing, Colonel,” Easthouse reported.

  “Can you reach Tanana or Fort Yukon with that lash-up?”

  “Sure, who do you want to talk to?”

  “General Grigorievich, the sooner the better.”

  “Give me a few …” Easthouse fiddled with the radio for a moment. “Tanana this is Field Fox One, do you read me, over?”

  “Loud and clear, Field Fox One. Over.”

  “The O in C wishes to speak to General Grigorievich soonest. Over.”

  “Give me five, Field Fox One. Over.”

  “Aren’t they in the same building?” Smolst said from his window.

  “Yeah,” Buhrman said. “But remember, it’s a big building. Stay back from that glass, Heinrich. You’re the only poker player I have who is any good.”

  “Why are they waiting?”

  “They think we’re going to make a mistake, get excited or impatient, and go after them.”

  “They’re the ones in the cold and snow,” Smolst said. “We can outlast them.”

  “Until it’s dark. Then they’ll attack.”

  “So what are our choices?”

  “We’re going to go after them,” Buhrman said, “but not in the way they anticipated.”

  115

  St. Anthony Redoubt, Provisional State of Doyon, Alaska

  Republik

  Lieutenant Colonel Yamato sipped the last of his wine and considered if he wished a second one or not. Colonel Romanov was drinking up the last of his glass also. Jerry decided he would follow the colonel’s lead.

  Sergeant Severin stepped into the room. “My apologies, gentlemen. Colonel Yamato is needed in the radio room. There’s a call from Tanana.”

  Yamato stood and nodded to the colonel. “By your leave, sir.” He stayed on Sergeant Severin’s heels until they reached the radio room.

  “This is Corporal Desonivich, Colonel Yamato.”

  “What do we have, Corporal?” Jerry asked.

  “Do you wish a private headset, Colonel?”

  “Did they say this was classified?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then put it on speaker and give me the microphone.”

  The corporal complied.

  “Tanana, this is Yamato at Delta, over.”

  “Jerry, this is General Grigorievich. Is your plane operable?”

  “Of course, General.”

  “Have it loaded with machine gun rounds and antipersonnel rockets.”

  Jerry nodded at Sergeant Severin who immediately picked up a phone and started talking.

  “What’s going on, General?”

  “Colonel Buhrman and Lieutenant Colonel Smolst are in a tight spot. They need a fighter over Nowitna as soon as we can get one there.”

  “Once I’m in the air, I can be there in under an hour.”

  “I wish I could send someone else, Jerry. Since the 24th Attack Squadron returned to California, you’re our only fighter pilot at the moment. We need to address that lack as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir, I agree wholeheartedly.”

  “Once you’re in the air, we’ll give you coordinates and updates.”

  “Yes, General. Delta out.”

  “Thanks, Corporal,” he shouted over his shoulder as he dashed out of the room. “Sergeant Severin, get me a car!”

  116

  Nowitna, Provisional State of Doyon, Alaska Republik

  “They’re sending who?” Lieutenant Colonel Smolst asked.

  “Yamato, that kid from the 117th who got shot down over Rainbow Valley while my guys were jumping on the Battle of Chena, where you guys were getting your asses kicked.”

  “I was wounded in that battle, Colonel Buhrman, otherwise you would have a much nicer reception.” Smolst glanced out the window. “We’re losing our light. If he doesn’t get here damn soon, he’ll be fighting in the dark.”

  “Not much I can do about that, Heinrich.”

  “Colonel, we’ve got an incoming message.” Easthouse switched on the speaker.

  “This is Yamato calling Field Fox One, do you read me? Over.”

  Buhrman grabbed the radio microphone. “Colonel Yamato, this is Colonel Buhrman. Nice to hear your voice.”

  “Happy to help, Colonel. Where do you want the delivery?”

  Colonel Buhrman quickly described the area. “They’re in the brush and tree line from the north to the west. You flush ’em and we’ll pick off what you don’t get.”

  “Roger that, be there in five minutes. Yamato out.”

  117

  On the edge of Nowitna

  “I’m just about frozen solid, Major.”

  “Quit whining, N’go. It’s going to be dark in less than an hour; then we get to take ’em out.”

  “At l-least we’ll be moving. Do you hear an engine?”

  “No, I—oh damn, it’s a plane!”

  “In this weather?”

  “It’s a fighter, you dumb bastard!” Riordan shouted. “We’ve got to get out of here right now!”

  Stiffened with cold they scrambled to their feet and stumbled deeper into the tree line. The engine noise rose to a roar and six lines of bullets raced past them, blowing trees and frozen tundra apart. Explosions burst behind them as the aircraft streaked over them.

  Tears of rage ran down Riordan’s face. He stopped beside an icy birch whose trunk was the size of his thigh and looked back at the carnage. The aircraft spat rockets and machine gun fire at the northern sector where most of his men lay waiting.

  He saw three men leap to their feet to evacuate but they pitched forward after a few steps. The people in Nowitna were picking them off.

  “That damned plane!” Riordan pulled one of his mercury tips out, chambered it, and leaned against a tree for support. The plane was coming back for another run over his old position and it was coming fast.

  Riordan took aim through his scope and as soon as the crosshairs centered on the cockpit, he fired.

  118

  Over Nowitna

  Jerry had enough ammo to make one more strafing run and then he would have to leave. The arctic afternoon was fading fast and he didn’t want to fly back in the dark. He bore down toward the first area he had hit, turned to the right a few degrees, and squeezed the trigger button.

  Something hit the front of the plane and oil streamed out the side of the fuselage. The engine stuttered, roared full blast and then died.

  I’ve been shot down again?

  He turned away from the forest and aimed for the frozen Yukon. Air shrieked past and he held his microphone button with one hand and the stick with the other.

  “Mayday! This is Yamato; I’m hit and going down over the Yukon near Nowitna. Mayday! Mayday!”

  The P-61 lost speed and he had to hold the stick w
ith both hands, willing it to stay in the air. He cleared the trees along the river by a few meters and felt a wave of relief wash over him. He stared at the frozen surface of the river and fear walked up his spine with cat claws.

  The river wasn’t smooth like a frozen pond. It had ridges, bumps, hummocks, and chunks of ice that looked like boulders. And he was out of time.

  “This is going to get ugly,” he muttered.

  He suddenly remembered he had two wing tanks nearly full of fuel that would hit first. And explode. He hit the switch and they impacted the river within seconds.

  The explosions gave the plane a few feet of lift and he saw the trail running through the smoothest portion of that part of the river. He edged toward it, not wanting the bird to catch a wing and cartwheel—he couldn’t survive that. He was moving so fast and there just wasn’t any more time.

  The icy river reached up and grabbed the plane; the frozen propeller immediately bent back under the nose and the plane bellied in, straight down the narrow trail. For an insane moment he worried about hitting a dog sled. The trail went through a cut in what looked like a hill of ice and he knew that’s where it would all stop.

  Both wings hit at the same time and ripped off the aircraft with shrieks of tearing metal. The fuselage shot through the cut, peeling aluminum off the sides of the bird and chunks of ice out of the abrupt wall on either side. The wreck slid to a stop and a gust of wind howled over it, throwing snow crystals like frozen sand.

  “I’m still alive!” Jerry shouted. He keyed his radio. “Can anyone hear me? This is Yamato, can anyone hear me?”

  The wind moaned again as it assaulted the plane. The radio was dead. He was the only thing out here that wasn’t.

  He had to figure out if staying inside the aluminum fuselage would be suicide. The aircraft had no insulation worthy of the conditions Jerry now faced and the inside would actually become colder than the outside. In a matter of hours the shredded fuselage would become an icy tomb, but it might offer protection from the incessant arctic wind.

  “Sure glad I brought my cold weather gear!” he said loudly. He realized that he was afraid and needed to get himself steadied before doing anything at all.

  “I wasn’t afraid the last time,” he said to the wind buffeting the wreck. “Why am I this time?”