“Shall we go?” The colonel swept his hand toward the door.
31
The helicopter beat northward. That the Russians brought him with them gave him no surprise, but he hadn’t anticipated flying. He nervously remembered the gunfire knocking down helicopters during the attack on Toklat.
“You’re worried,” the colonel said.
Grisha glanced at the man sitting next to him and nodded.
“I would rather be walking.”
“We’ll join the ground forces as soon as we ascertain there is indeed a battle under way. I don’t want to send my motorized battalion into an ambush, do I?”
“No. Of course not,” Grisha said, rubbing sweaty hands on his trouser legs.
“I thought all
“How can I fight from this?” Grisha thumped the metal wall with his knuckles. “I do my fighting on my feet.” He slid the razor-edged knife from his sleeve. “With this.”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed as he studied him.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Sasha. Sasha Dublinnik, free trader and expert hunter. What’s yours?”
The colonel gave him a frosty grin and looked away to study the ground beneath them. Grisha did the same. Anxiety swirled through him.
He wasn’t sure what they would encounter once they reached the battle site. A lot of people besides him had invested their lives in this complex operation. He would be the first to die if the Dena subterfuge did not work. Cora and many of the Chena assault force would also die.
“There’s smoke ahead, Colonel,” the pilot said over his shoulder.
“Circle the area first.”
The gunship canted to the side as it turned. The left door gunner tightened his straps, slid open a Plexiglas hatch and, gripping his weapon, braced against the wall with one foot. Wind whipped in from the opening, displacing all warmth with withering cold. Their eyes followed the black column of smoke downward.
A Russian half-track burned furiously in the center of a snowy meadow. A figure in mottled white and dark camouflage ran out of the trees and waved at the helicopter, motioning it to land in the open space next to the burning vehicle. The gunship continued to circle.
Other figures in winter camouflage waved up at the craft, then went back to firing into the forest. Many men lay on the ground in various attitudes of death. Blood pimpled the snowy meadow.
“Drop the radio,” the colonel said.
The right door gunner unhooked a parcel from the bulkhead. The pilot rapidly gained altitude in a tight spiral. The ground dropped away at such dizzying speed that Grisha nearly vomited.
“We’re at a thousand meters,” the pilot shouted.
“Send it down,” the colonel said.
The gunner pulled an O-ring clear of the bulky pack and snapped it over a hook welded inside the aircraft. As he threw the pack from the helicopter a cord attached to the ring trailed out. Parachutes blossomed, dropping quickly toward the burning vehicle.
“Make sure our people get it!” the colonel shouted.
The gunship dropped, circling down around the course of the parachute cluster. Grisha forced himself to swallow his gorge before it could pass his lips. His throat burned, his ears ached and stung from the cold and constantly changing air pressure, he swallowed repeatedly to get his ears to pop.
“The package is down, Colonel,” the gunner said. “Our men have it.”
“Establish contact.”
The pilot spoke into his microphone.
“We have contact.”
The colonel pulled out a headset and held one earphone to his head.
“This is Colonel Yuganin. Who am I speaking with?”
“Sergeant Malinski, Troika Guard,” a tinny voice said. “We are surrounded.”
“Let me speak to your captain.”
“Captain Romanov is dead, colonel. All of the officers are dead except the major, and he’s wounded. I am in command of fifteen effectives, sir.”
A bullet punched through the side of the cabin, whirred over their heads, and dented the overhead before falling at their feet.
“Jesus!” the gunner said with a gasp, watching the spent bullet slide across the deck and fall out the door. “We’re drawing fire.”
Colonel Yuganin raised one eyebrow at the ashen soldier. “What did you expect, flowers?” He spoke into the headset, “Where are your enemies concentrated, Sergeant?”
“Between us and the road.”
“Hold your position. We’ll be back within the hour, Sergeant. And in force.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“Find our column, Major.”
“Yes, Colonel,” the pilot shouted.
The gunship swiveled and sped south.
32
Cora knew at least one of them would come for her. She hoped no more than two would arrive together. When the bar on her cell door rasped to the side, she maintained her calm.
Like most of them, he towered over her, confident in his strength and size that he would prevail. Young and stupid. He stopped inside the door and sat his machine pistol on the small stool that comprised half the furniture in the concrete cell.
She quickly stood in front of the wood-frame cot. The door slammed behind him and someone outside lowered the bar. Cora took a deep breath and ran her right hand down the back edge of her skirt.
A quick grin flashed across the man’s face and he relaxed slightly. She smiled too; he had predictably misconstrued her actions. The strip of silentfastener hissed open under the pressure of her thumb and the skinning knife tipped out and fell into her palm.
The guard pulled his shirt over his head. Just as the cloth cleared his face, she kicked him as hard as she could in the crotch. He sucked in air with a small moan and bent double.
Cora slammed the knife down between the base of his skull and the knotted shoulders; the razor-sharp blade severed his spinal cord, killing him instantly. The body fell to the stone floor like a sack of potatoes.
“Please don’t hurt me!” she said in Athabascan as she ripped his shirt apart. She pulled him over with a loud grunt. She cried out as if struck.
Quickly she searched the body, mimicking inarticulate sounds of pain every few seconds. Soon she had two clips for the weapon as well as a boot knife. She left two wadded rubles and a coin in the pockets.
She dropped her plunder into a small bag sewn to the back of the man’s belt and fastened the belt around her. She picked up the machine pistol and made sure the safety was off, then rapped on the door with the muzzle.
“What a rabbit you are, Zabotin!” a voice boomed through the door. The bar scraped upward. Cora clutched
