Alaska Republik-ARC

by Stoney Compton

  “You have military obligations beyond this squadron?”

  “I told them at Delta that I’d be back with a modern aircraft and help them in the fight that’s imminent.”

  “When you were debriefed upon your return last night, all the information was sent to DSC. Their orders as of this morning were quite explicit.”

  “May I have your permission to contact their intelligence people? Perhaps they didn’t fully understand?”

  “I have no objection,” Lieutenant Colonel Shipley said. “We would all rather be flying.”

  They all followed Yamato into the radio room. Sergeant Reddy looked up from his lurid paperback and pulled his headset off.

  “Traffic seems to be pretty quiet, Major Shipley. Lieutenant Yamato, welcome back!”

  With a nod at Shipley, Jerry said, “Can you connect me to the Dená Southern Command?”

  “Sure thing, Lieutenant Yamato.” Sergeant Reddy repositioned his headset and turned a dial. “Chena One, Chena One, this is Cal Squadron one-one-seven, do you read?”

  Jerry found himself holding his breath. There had to be a way around the ordered stand down: the woman he loved faced great danger and he had to do what he promised.

  “Jimmy, that you?” the sergeant said. “Yeah, it’s Bob Reddy, good to hear you again.”

  Jerry felt impatient. Hell, Magda was more military than this!

  “Jimmy, listen, I have a lieutenant here who wants to contact your people. No, I don’t know which ones, but I’m going to put him on, okay?”

  Sergeant Reddy tore off the headset and motioned for Jerry to approach.

  “C’mere, Lieutenant Yamato. Here put these on, yeah, that’s right. Okay, this is Jimmy Sunnyboy you’re talking to, he’s with the Dená Southern Command.”

  Sergeant Reddy slid from behind his desk and motioned for him to sit. Jerry put the headset on and grabbed the microphone.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?”

  “Who is in charge there?”

  “Here in the radio room or on the base?”

  “The commander, over everybody.”

  “Oh, that would be General Grigorievich.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  Jimmy Sunnyboy laughed. “That’s not easy to arrange, Lieutenant. Would you care to tell me why you want to speak to the general?”

  “I just flew in from St. Anthony Redoubt in an antique aircraft. The combined Dená and Russian defenders are facing three Russian armored columns. Our people, your people, are holed up in the rocks waiting for the attack.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And I told them when I left that I’d be back with planes and fighters, to help them survive the Russian attack.”

  “Whattya want from us?”

  “We got the word to stand down from you people! We need to be attacking, not sitting on our butts in the officers’ mess!”

  “What’s your name, Lieutenant?”

  “Actually it’s Captain Gerald Yamato. I just got promoted.”

  “Congratulations, sir. I’ll be right back.”

  The carrier wave collapsed into hash and Jerry glanced around at the other officers. They all stared at him. He concentrated on the heavy metallic-acrid odor of vacuum tubes and electricity that always registered in his mind as “radio.”

  “You there. Captain Yamato?” Jimmy sounded out of breath.

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Okay, I’m putting on General Paul Eluska. He’s in charge of the whole army while General Grigorievich is away.”

  “Thank you, Jimmy.”

  “What’s the story, Captain?” the voice carried authority, interest, and empathy.

  “General, this might take a few minutes.” Jerry launched into the tale of his journey from the air base outside Sacramento, Republic of California, to Delta, Alaska. He left nothing out and ended with “…and the woman I love expects me to return with at least one modern aircraft to help turn the tide.”

  “You have a hell of a gift for story telling, Captain Yamato. Our governing council is negotiating with the Czar through the British. All involved parties were supposed to stand down. From what you’re telling me, the Russians are trying to pull another fast one on us.”

  Jerry glanced up at the other pilots; they were hanging on the general’s words as much as he was.

  “You have our leave and our blessings. Go get the bastards!”

  “Thank you, General! I gotta go now.”

  Jerry ripped off the headset and tossed it to Sergeant Reddy.

  “Make apologies for me, okay?” He raced out the door behind the other pilots.

  The Ops sergeant had already hit the klaxon and a high-pitched warble pierced the air outside the building.

  “Captain Yamato,” the sergeant shouted, “You’ve got zero-three-four, okay?”

  Jerry gave him a thumbs-up as he raced through the door.

  51

  Delta, Russian Amerika

  “General Myslosovich, Colonel Janeki, this is Corporal Cliper,” Major Riordan hesitated for a moment before continuing. “He is an Athabascan from this area. I have used his knowledge to good effect in the past.”

  “You’re a turncoat,” Colonel Janeki said.

  “I am a realist, Colonel,” Cliper said. “It does not take a genius to see which side is going to lose this conflict.”

  “I like this man,” General Myslosovich said with a wide grin. “He knows of which he speaks!”

  “Where are the people who live here?” Janeki asked.

  Cliper’s eyes took on a haunted cast.

  “I don’t know. I was here for three weeks about a month and a half ago. I come from far upriver and they would talk to me but there were times when I knew they were lying.”

  “So far he has no knowledge,” Janeki said, staring at Riordan.

  Riordan didn’t respond. This young Russian lieutenant colonel wanted him as a trophy; he’d known it from the first moment they met. Riordan struggled to keep his face impassive: just when he’d had Myslosovich’s command in his hands!

  “I asked them what would happen if the Russians attacked them,” Cliper continued.

  Riordan tried not to show his contempt for the spare, balding Indian. He recognized him for a man who thought himself adept at manipulating others. Using him as a foil against Janeki might not work.

  “They said they would take refuge in St. Anthony Redoubt.”

  “If they were attacked by Russians, they would go to Russians for protection?” Janeki asked, eyes wide in mock incredulity.

  “That’s what they said, Colonel.”

  “I hope you didn’t pay him much,” Janeki said to Riordan. “His information is as worthless as he is.”

  “He knew all about the magic woman, and her husband, the great warrior.”

  “And this helped you in what manner?”

  “We knew who they were when we captured them,” Riordan said sharply, instantly regretting enlarging the incident.

  “So produce these people. I would speak with them.”

  “They escaped.”

  “I hope you had the guards summarily shot,” Janeki said in a pompous tone.

  Riordan glanced around the circle of men. Janeki had three armed men present. He suddenly realized the colonel was trying to provoke him, get him to do something stupid, and then kill him.

  A male version of Bodecia, he thought wryly.

  “We were all too busy fighting for our lives when it happened. The DSM ambush was cleverly laid and perfectly executed. I caution you to put nothing beyond their means.”

  “Well,” Janeki said, his eyes wetly condescending while fastening fast on Riordan, “we’re a bit more than a band of bandits, aren’t we?”

  Timothy Riordan had to reach deep down inside himself to his core of discipline to not tear this bastard’s heart out with his teeth. He refused to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction of visible anger. Willing his eyes to be as
bland as a monsignor at a baptism, he looked back at the Russian colonel.

  “Well, sir, if your army of bandits can accomplish more, I’ll applaud all of you.”

  “We fight for the Czar, for the flag of Imperial Russia,” Janeki said with gravel in his voice. “If you insult this command again, I’ll have you shot.”

  “No offense intended,” Riordan let his eyes laugh at the man. “But if you try that, you’ll need your entire army.”

  “Gentlemen!” Myslosovich said. “Please save your anger for the enemy. We need everyone we have to assure victory over the damned Dená.”

  “Anger, General?” Riordan said with a wide grin. “No such thing. The good colonel here and I are just establishing our bonafides, as my sainted father used to say.”

  Janeki visibly stifled a retort. Glancing around at the horizon, he called, “Sergeant Malute,” then held General Myslosovich with his gaze. “I have an expert tracker from Kamchatka; he can follow your dreams. He will find our missing traitors and their DSM accomplices, and we will hang them all.”

  A small, bandy-legged man ran up, stopped at quivering attention, and saluted the colonel. “Sir?”

  “I want to know where the villagers went.”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  52

  RCNS Mako

  Village of Kilsnoo, Admiralty Island, Russian Amerika

  “Up periscope,” Captain Vandenberg ordered.

  He snapped down the control arms as the massive tube rose from its well and was peering through the lenses before the scope finished its ascent. He slowly went in a full circle before he relaxed and turned to the others on the small bridge deck.

  “Well, no welcoming committee that I can see. Our security must be good.” His grin couldn’t disguise the tension in his eyes.

  “Was someone to meet us in a boat?” Wing asked.

  “No, Colonel, not at all. We’re actually going to tie up to a pier for all of five minutes while you folks disembark. I was just worried that word had slipped out about our visit.”

  “Are all of your missions like this?” Grisha asked.

  “Pretty much, General. This is one profession where paranoia is part of the job description.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “Excuse me, General, I’ve got to get you delivered.” He turned away and shouted, “Chief of the Boat, make ready to surface!”

  The chief was no more than six feet away. He shouted back, “Aye, aye, Captain! All hands prepare to surface!”

  Activity quickened all through the submarine and Grisha and Wing watched it all with wide eyes and total lack of understanding as the vessel made sounds different than anything they had heard before. The deck tilted upward slightly. Sergeant Major Tobias eased up next to them.

  “Never in my life did I think I would find myself in one of these things,” he muttered.

  “Seems to work pretty good from what I’ve seen,” Grisha replied.

  “Give me the open air,” Wing said. “I need to see my enemy.”

  “I concur, Colonel,” Tobias said.

  “Bridge watch to stations, line handling party to stations,” Vandenberg ordered. The submarine began to slowly rock from side to side.

  Men raced up the ladder to the conning tower, threw open the hatch and disappeared through a shower of seawater. A sailor carrying heavy jackets appeared next to them.

  “Compliments of the California Navy. You folks will need these foul weather jackets, the weather out there is pretty nasty.”

  “Thank you!” Wing said with enthusiasm. “I was just wondering what to wear.”

  The pockets of each coat revealed an indigo knitted watch cap and a pair of warm gloves.

  “These fellows think of everything,” Tobias said.

  They pulled on the gear and then followed Captain Vandenberg up the ladder. Two sailors helped them step onto the wet steel deck. Wind-whipped rain blew past at a forty-five-degree angle.

  Grisha laughed. “Damn, it smells good here!”

  “How can you inhale without drowning?” Wing shouted.

  The Mako was being pushed up against a dock by a small log tug borrowed from the local sawmill. Men on the dock threw lines to sailors along the hull of the submarine. The lines were quickly secured and tightened, pulling the sub up snug against the large rubber fenders hanging down from the dock.

  On the dock, a hoist lifted a gangway across and placed it between the dock and deck of the submarine. The chief bosun gave the captain a thumbs-up.

  “Good luck, General,” Vandenberg shouted. “We’ll be in the area if you need to leave quickly.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Our people owe you and your crew a party after this is all over.”

  “We’ll look forward to it. Now, please let me get under way.”

  Both men smiled and shook hands. Then Grisha, moving carefully on his crutches, followed Wing and Tobias as they hurried across the gangway to the dock where a group of people in oilskins waited in the stormy afternoon.

  “Grisha, how good to see you, my cousin.” Paul Chernikoff extended his hand.

  “Paul!” Grisha propped the crutches in his armpits and grabbed Paul’s hand with both of his. “It’s good to see you, too. Your brother sends his warm regards.” He lowered his voice, “You and I need to speak privately very soon.”

  “I understand. Let’s get in out of the weather.”

  He led them to an ancient Russian wood-burning omnibus. Once inside, the vehicle was pleasantly warm and cozy. Everyone pulled down hoods or removed rubberized mariners’ hats.

  For a few seconds each party looked over the other. Then Paul grinned again.

  “You look healthy, cousin.”

  “Thanks. Except for an almost healed leg, I am. This is my wife, Colonel Wing Demoski Grigorievich, and Sergeant Major Nelson Tobias.”

  “Paul, I would know you anywhere. You look just like your brother,” Wing said.

  “Yeah, we get a lot of that. Welcome to Tlingit Country. Allow me to introduce our brand new diplomatic corps.”

  Grisha glanced out the window. The Mako had already disappeared. He turned his attention to the group. The bus moved through the storm and down a small road between stands of sixty-foot hemlock and spruce.

  “General Sobolof is head of the Tlingit Nation Army and on the War Council. Colonel Augustus Paul is from New Archangel, Colonel Gregori George is from Angoon, and Lieutenant Colonel Titian Bean is from T’angass. I am from Akku, as is General Grigorievich.”

  “May I ask where we are being taken?” Grisha asked.

  “To a safe place, Grisha,” General Sobolof said. “May we dispense with formality and call one another by the names we all know?”

  “Of course, Vincent,” Grisha said smoothly. “If that’s how you wish it to be.”

  “Good. How goes your war?”

  “It isn’t just my war, it’s our war. The Imperial Russian government has ordered a cease of hostilities with the Dená Republik, the United States of America, and the Republic of California. However, I am told there is still a battle raging near Delta between a number of different armies, but I am sure we shall prevail.”

  “So who are we fighting?” General Sobolof asked.

  “Vincent, we are all fighting your two-faced ally, the Empire of Japan.”

  “I know we are contemplating fighting Japan, but why are you?”

  “We don’t want to fight them after they have made military gains in Alaska. Do you not agree?”

  “Yes, I do agree. But to be very candid, Grisha, we haven’t much of an army to throw at them, and an even smaller navy.”

  “Actually, I believe we are here to discuss something different,” Wing said. “Unification?”

  “There are a number of viewpoints on that issue,” General Sobolof said carefully. “We realize that things must change, that things are changing whether we wish it so or not. But we are an ancient people and have become set in our cultural ways.”

&nbs
p; As he hesitated for a moment, she plunged forward.

  “You wish to change some things but not everything?” she asked with a smile.

  “That’s an excellent way to put it, Col—uh, Wing,” Colonel George said with enthusiasm.

  “So what do you want to change and what do you want to keep?” Grisha held his smile in his eyes.

  The omnibus stopped.

  “Please, let us discuss this over food,” General Sobolof said. “You all must be hungry.”

  “I think we can all agree on that,” Sergeant Major Tobias said, beaming all around.

  The Yéil naa, or Raven clan house was large and comfortable. Many paintings and carvings depicting Raven decorated the walls. At the far end stood an eight-foot traditional carving of Raven done in highly polished black stone. The yellow cedar floor was nearly reflective enough to use as a mirror.

  In the center of the building stood a blazing rock fireplace open on all four sides, and every rock was carved with hieroglyphics. Each red cedar plank wall featured a beautiful Chilkat blanket flanked by button blankets.

  Wing turned to stare back at the entrance. The entire doorway was the open mouth of a huge totemic frog.

  “That’s the Kiks.ádi door,” Colonel Paul said. “We are especially proud of that work.”

  “You have every right to be,” Wing said in a hushed tone. “It’s magnificent.”

  Four women stood close to the great fireplace, cooking on wide sheets of steel suspended over the flames. The aroma of exotic foods filled the clan house and a wave of rightness washed over him as Grisha suddenly realized how hungry he was and how familiar this all smelled.

  53

  Delta

  “See?” Jimmy Deerkiller whispered. “Right through those rocks there, it’s the guy who was asking all them questions a couple months ago.”

  Ben Teske stared hard, licked his lips and eased his .338 magnum up, balanced it on the rock in front of them and squinted through the telescopic sight. “Yep, it’s him all right.”

  “There’s someone with him,” Jimmy hissed.

  Ben moved the weapon slightly. “Looks like an Eskimo in a Russian uniform.”

  “They’re trackin’ us,” Jimmy said as he lifted his weapon and laid it across the bolder beside Ben’s.

  “You take right and I’ll take left,” Ben said, peering through the scope.