Alaska Republik-ARC

by Stoney Compton

  “I’ll do the count.” Jimmy licked his lips again. “One. Two. Fire!”

  The two trackers both fell backwards with destroyed heads.

  Ben stared down the trail. Jimmy bent over, “Don’t forget your brass.”

  “Yeah. Y’know, I think I killed a couple guys in the fight that night, but I couldn’t see ’em like this: up close and in the daytime.”

  “I think you better get used to it, brother.”

  Pelagian crept up behind them.

  “Okay, guys, as soon as you see more troops coming toward you, fall back to the first line. Okay?”

  “We’ll do it, Pelagian.” Jimmy turned and watched the big man fade into the brush. “Y’know, when I was a kid I used to be afraid of him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s so damned big. I used to think he was some sorta monster.”

  “I always felt safe around him,” Ben said, still watching the slope below them. “He never—hey, did you see that?”

  “What?” Jimmy stared down into the hazy summer afternoon.

  “I thought I saw someone, but they dropped before I could really be sure.”

  “Scan your side,” Jimmy said and went silent.

  They intently watched the 180 degrees of slope before them. Nothing moved; the ground lay bereft of life. Ben found himself staring at the boot propped up on a rock, where one of the trackers had fallen.

  Motion flickered on the left in his peripheral vision and he snapped his gaze onto it without moving his head: two men in mottled green-to-black field dress. He grabbed Jimmy and pulled him down with him as he dropped behind the boulder.

  “Wha—?” Jimmy blurted. The sound of his voice was abruptly obliterated by heavy machine gun fire chipping rock and blasting the top of their boulder. Ricochets whined off into space.

  “Damn!” Jimmy said. “Thanks, man.”

  “We need to withdraw, right now.”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  54

  Over the Dená Republik

  Jerry felt totally at home for the first time in what seemed like forever. The P-61 responded under his hands like an eager lover who understands exactly what is wanted of her. Magda’s presence suddenly suffused him and he forced the thought of her out of his mind.

  This was deadly business and he needed to maintain vigilance if he wanted to kiss her again.

  “Captain Yamato,” Colonel Shipley’s voice crackled in the headset. “You know where we’re going, so you take point.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The Alaskan landscape rushed beneath them in full spring fecundity and bright morning brilliance. Numerous tree-shadowed lakes, large and small, reflected their swift passage. Yamato turned to the south and the flight crossed the wide, brown Yukon River and paralleled the famous Russia-Canada Highway. Jerry knew it led to Magda and St. Anthony Redoubt.

  Shipley ordered the nine fighters to spread out. “Keep your eyes peeled; this is still Russian air space and until President Reagan says otherwise, we’re still at war.”

  Jerry kept his eyes on the road below them, noticing the small outposts every few miles. What had Magda called them? He felt completely serene and ready to blow hell out of the Russian armor gathering at St. Anthony Redoubt.

  “Colonel, Ellis here!”

  “Go ahead, roger.”

  “We have bandits at two o’clock.”

  “Bandits?” someone said with evident disbelief.

  “Cut the chatter!” Shipley ordered. “Okay, I see them. Ellis, Fowler, put your glasses on them and tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Wrong about what, Skipper?” Jerry asked.

  “I count six Russian Yormolaev-2 bombers with eight Yak fighters flying cover,” Fowler reported. “Looks like they’re headed for Chena or Fort Yukon.”

  “I concur,” Ellis said. “They must be out of St. Nicholas Airdrome.”

  “I don’t think they’ve seen us yet,” Shipley said, “Probably because they’re an easy 5,000 feet higher than we are. Captain Currie, alert Dená Command, we’re going to engage.”

  Jerry’s heart fell, but he knew Colonel Shipley was making the only realistic decision.

  “We’re gonna hit them as hard as we can,” Shipley said. “Major Ellis, you are now Sucker Punch Two. Take Currie, Donaldson, Cooper and Cassaro, cut right and stay on the deck until you’re under the bombers, then blow them out of the air.”

  “Yes, sir.” The five Eurekas banked and dropped almost to treetop level on a course to intercept the now-distinct Russian aircraft.

  “Fowler, Yamato, Hafs, and Kirby—you’re with me, Sucker Punch One. We’re going to bore straight in and hit the fighters. If we’re real lucky and they’ve all got hangovers, we might pull this off.”

  “This is a lot more interesting than hitting an armored column,” First Lieutenant Hafs said. “And I love the odds.”

  “I always knew you were crazy, Mark,” Yamato said with a grim laugh. “This just proves it.”

  “As soon as we know they’ve seen us,” Lieutenant Colonel Shipley said, “drop your wing tanks. We’re going to need all the agility we can muster.”

  Jerry felt the adrenaline singing in his veins while fear for Magda’s situation ate at his guts. We’ve gotta do this fast, he thought. I’ve still got to keep my word.

  The Yaks grew in his gunsights and he flipped off the safety cap over the trigger button on his stick. Suddenly the Yaks dropped away from the bombers and turned toward Shipley’s flight. The ruse had worked.

  As if on cue, the wing tanks dropped from beneath the wings of all five Eurekas. They roared up to meet the enemy.

  55

  Delta

  “They’re hiding up there in the rocks,” Major Riordan reported to the general and lieutenant colonel. “It cost us two good men to get that intelligence. I’ve ordered a squad to engage the enemy and report their position. We’ll envelope the area with cannon fire and eliminate the possibility of an attack. Then we can arrest the surviving traitors from Chena Redoubt and hang them.”

  General Myslosovich awarded him a wide smile.

  Riordan wasn’t watching the general; his eyes were on the lieutenant colonel.

  “Not bad,” Lieutenant Colonel Janeki said. “I would have done exactly the same thing. But how can you be sure they’re all in the open?”

  “No matter what, they’ll be softened up after the barrage.”

  “I approve.”

  The radioman in Riordan’s command car called out, “Major, the transmission is breaking up, but they’re receiving fire.”

  “Coordinates?”

  “Range four, vector three, sir.”

  Riordan snapped the numbers to the sergeant beside him and within thirty seconds every tank in the command fired at the ordered target. Explosions echoed back to them, one after another.

  The shelling lasted five minutes, then abruptly ceased.

  “Who’s going to go look?” Lieutenant Colonel Janeki asked, staring at Riordan.

  “My men are already up there. They’ll report soon.”

  56

  Battle of Delta

  First Squad, Company B, of the International Freekorps, crept up the mountain. A week ago they had mustered thirty effectives; since the midnight attack of a few days ago they were down to nineteen. Lieutenant Alex Strom felt electrified with every sense wide open for input.

  His record listed battles in Afghanistan, China, the Belgian Congo, Portuguese East Africa, and all the way back to his first as a Royal Austrian Fusilier private at the Siege of Berlin. Over the years and wars, he had worked his way up the muster list.

  This was his second command as a lieutenant. His elevation to commissioned status came in the French Foreign Legion while serving in Africa. If this current arrangement failed, he could always return to France, which he now considered as home.

  But the money was so much better in his present situation. Major Riordan had been less than forthright when he told the battalion
they had a new war and they would draw standard pay. He hadn’t mentioned the identity of the employer, nor when the next payday was scheduled.

  He’s never screwed us over, Strom thought. Not yet. He had yet to decide if he believed that Riordan would do that. As a naturalized Frenchman serving under an Irishman, he held a quiet skepticism as to the commander’s grasp of reality.

  He halted and waved his men down before thinking about it. There had been a noise, a very small thing, but yet something different than before. He waited, patience as much a part of him as his spleen, and just as hidden.

  There! He heard the sound of a foot pushing at, or slipping on, gravel. Not with effort, he decided, but in eagerness. There were close to a firing line; someone waited for them.

  He pointed to two troopers and motioned them forward. Both were well trained and veterans of at least three engagements. But in his heart of hearts, Strom didn’t care for either of them.

  They moved up the slope, keeping low and maintaining vigilance. They passed Strom’s forward position. He watched them edge around boulders and slide down into what depressions the land offered.

  They disappeared from sight. The lieutenant realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to continue breathing. He strained to hear anything, the least sound, or slightest suggestion of resistance, anything alive beyond their position.

  The ground they traversed was torn and blasted, only splinters and pieces of leaves were left of the brush and trees which once grew here. Boulders held their positions but sat split and fractured; their shards had blasted through the area at high velocity. Strom took it all in silently.

  Sergeant Verley, his immediate subordinate, motioned from the far side of their position.

  Take cover? They were under cover! What did he mean by—?

  He registered the rumble then and quickly screamed back at the men behind him, “Take cover. It’s an avalanche!”

  The universe filled with hurling rock.

  57

  Refuge, Dená Republik

  Magda watched the succession of broken men and women being carried into the Refuge and wondered how this could have happened, not realizing she was speaking aloud.

  “We didn’t expect the artillery,” Gregori Andrew said, making a sling for his bloody left arm. “Them rock pieces were flying all over the place. The one that did this”—he lifted his left arm with his right hand—“flew right through one of them Russian soldiers like he was a thin sack of blood.”

  “Go over to my mother, there; she’ll help you.” Magda felt angry, sick to her stomach, guilty, and relieved all at the same time. Her scout patrol was scheduled to begin five minutes after the attack started, therefore they were all still in the Refuge when the shells began falling.

  Scout Two, returning from reconnoiter, had been wiped out.

  “Magda,” Uncle Frank said as he approached. “I’ll bet I know what you’re thinking.” He put his hands on her shoulders and stared into her face. “It’s called the ‘fortunes of war’ and nobody knows what will happen. It just wasn’t your turn.”

  Her eyes felt hot and she didn’t want to cry. “I hear your words but my heart still doesn’t understand. Maybe next week or next month I’ll finally get this all straight, but not yet. Right now I’ve got to get my squad moving. We don’t have any eyes out there watching. Thanks for the support, Major.” She saluted and he returned it.

  Her squad consisted of a corporal and five privates. Even a week ago nobody had bothered with rank, but now everything needed to be exact and military.

  Corporal Anna Demoski stood when Magda approached. “I’ve got the guys all ready to go, Sergeant.” She handed Magda her pack and weapon.

  “Thanks for minding my gear, Corporal. Let’s move out.”

  The five privates—four men and one woman—rose to their feet and followed without saying a word. All prior levity had vanished with the artillery barrage. It finally hit home: they were in a shooting, and killing, war.

  They passed through the wide cave mouth, which was being closed up as quickly as the work crew could manage. The passage to the outside twisted back and forth. Large boulders were being levered into a wall complete with firing slits backed by yet more rock so a satchel charge or a grenade would only harm the defenders in that location.

  Only the turrets on the two Russian tanks could be seen under the ceiling of rock. Nothing was built higher than their lowest firing elevation. Machine guns poked through the wall like spines on a rock porcupine.

  Magda stopped her people at the very end of the passage. Two sentries peered out at the summer morning.

  “See anything?” she asked.

  “Nothing yet, but we know they’re out there somewhere.”

  “We’ll get back to you on their location, okay?” She patted the radio strapped to her side, then waved her people forward and led them into the deadly open.

  58

  Battle of Delta

  “I want you to go up that hill at speed,” Lieutenant Colonel Janeki said to Infantry Captain Koseki. “Your wave will be followed by another, fifty meters behind you. Shoot everything that moves and any person who does not. Take no chances, understand?”

  “Yes, Colonel! After the barrage there should be nothing alive on that mountain.”

  “That was our estimation also. But there were enough people left to trigger an avalanche. They can’t engineer two of those on one mountain. But still—take no chances.”

  Captain Koseki saluted, clicked off the safety on his machine gun, and motioned his men forward. Sixty heavily armed troopers started up the slope as quickly as they could manage. The center of the wave had the easy task of following the tracks of many vehicles on the closest thing to a road the mountain offered.

  The captain appreciated the honor of commanding the assault, but at the same time he fought to keep his fear at bay. One had to ask, he thought, where was the destination of the vehicles they followed? Were the Dená naive enough to leave their army exposed on a mountainside?

  For two decades, Branif Koseki’s father had served as a counselor to the Czar. Baron Koseki went into a total rage when Branif told him he had joined the Imperial Army.

  “Serving in the military is completely beneath you, beneath this family! I will arrange for a commission immediately. If you insist on playing the toy soldier, at least you must be an officer.”

  Three years beyond the tirade, Captain Branif Koseki had not again laid eyes on his father. The old bastard wouldn’t understand anyway, he thought. Watching out for those who served under you was as alien to the baron’s mind as walking on the moon.

  Sergeant Turgev’s right fist shot into the air and every man in line went to ground. Captain Koseki felt grateful for the plentiful boulders, some newly arrived, which offered shelter. He held his hand open, palm up.

  Turgev pointed to his right and left, held three fingers stiff for a long moment and then grabbed his wrist with his left hand. Machine gun nests, three defenders each. Captain Koseki nodded understanding.

  How the hell could they have lived through the barrage? Fox dens? Trenches? Caves? He focused on the tactical issue at hand.

  He motioned for three men on both sides to go wide around the enemy flank. Then he signaled for two widely spaced men to move forward, along with Lieutenant Taksis. The lieutenant gave him a withering look and the three men moved slowly up the mountain.

  Captain Koseki thought his lieutenant was a coward who could still be turned into a fighting man, and he had just granted him the opportunity. The flankers faded from sight and Koseki felt sweat beading on his forehead beneath his helmet. Deep in his soul he cursed Colonel Janeki.

  Heavy machine gun fire erupted on the right, frighteningly loud, far too close, and from a weapon larger than any of his men carried. A high-pitched shriek climbed to unbelievable decibels before choking off abruptly. A Russian grenade, distinctive with its flat popping sound—the men called them “Czar’s farts”—exploded somewher
e up in the rocks and brush.

  Captain Koseki held his hand up and waved his men forward. He was the first to move slowly up the mountain, hunched over and frightened more of appearing cowardly in front of his men than of dying. He glanced back at his men.

  Sergeant Turgev directed two squads toward the machine gun nests he had spied. The soldiers stayed as close to the ground as possible as they moved forward.

  Machine gun fire abruptly tore through three of the soldiers, dropping them down into the rocks with the hammer blows of heavy rounds. Sergeant Turgev’s men opened up, firing beyond Captain Koseki’s field of vision.

  Koseki and the men around him edged upward, eyes wide and casting about for targets and death. The captain eased around a large boulder and slid behind another. To his right the rocks abruptly decreased in size, creating an inviting path up the mountain that promised ease of movement.

  Sergeant Turgev’s men continued firing and the staccato roar of two heavy machine guns now bounced off the rocky slope. Captain Koseki knew that basic military logic ordained more than two guns would be guarding this slope. Corporal Kasilof edged up beside him.

  “Do you want me to send somebody around that way?” He pointed toward the open slope.

  “They would be killed instantly. That’s a natural field of fire that even the poorest soldier couldn’t help but notice. Our foes do not seem to be fools.”

  Corporal Kasilof’s eyes widened as he stared at the slope. “My apologies, Captain. This is my first combat experience.”

  “Spread the word, when I blow my whistle, everyone goes over these rocks. We must do it together or the effect of surprise will be lost.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The corporal hurried back and spoke to every man. One by one, they all turned and stared at Captain Koseki.

  He climbed up as far as possible without showing himself above the covering boulder and braced himself. A glance back at his men determined they all followed his example. The first time he put the whistle in his mouth he trembled so violently that it fell from his lips and dangled on its cord.

  He cursed and jammed the whistle into his mouth so hard he chipped a tooth. Subduing his fear for the moment, he blew a shrill blast and leapt up and over the boulder, firing his machine gun.