Russian Amerika

Two trucks loaded with heavily armed troopers accompanied them down the highway. Once out of sight of Chena, all evidence of war faded from the boreal forest. The dark spruce and naked birch lay thick on either side of the road with a protective blanket of snow wrapped securely around the base of each trunk.

In their 160 kilometer retreat to St. Anthony, the Russian Army had left nothing behind. Grisha knew they would appear down the road within days, perhaps hours. For a few miles the road twisted and turned, following the contours of Chena Creek. After it crossed the creek, the road unwound and lay straight for nearly seventeen kilometers.

“This is where we’ll hit them,” Grisha said quietly. “I want scouts at least twenty kilometers down the road —we have to know when they’re coming. I want everybody else out here to get the welcome ready. We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Yes, Colonel. Right away.” Heron turned to an orderly and snapped out commands. One of the trucks drove away toward Chena.

Grisha took a deep breath and held it a moment before making a cloud in the cold air. “This is as good a place to die as any.”

Wing marveled at the energy Grisha exhibited. The man was everywhere, directing the cutting of firing lines, showing where to plant explosives and mines—no detail was too small, no concept too big for him. He threw himself at his work.

A good thing he is doing it this way, she thought. Grisha had been right: there had been rumblings from more than a few about a Kolosh-Russian being chosen to lead them. Wasn’t there some worthy Athabascan in the army who could do the job just as well?

“No,” Nathan had said when she first asked him that very question. “The man went from private to major in the Troika Guard. Judging from what I’ve heard about Bou Saada, he’s probably the best tactician in the Dena Army. Furthermore, Grisha isn’t related to anyone here. We’re all Dena to him, he doesn’t have prejudices about upriver Indians or downriver Indians. The only clans he cares about are still in Russian Amerika.”

And he’s doing fine, she thought. He had been there a hundred percent from the very beginning, but then he had nowhere else to go. Her thoughts about him started down an old familiar path and she focused her attention elsewhere to force a detour.

The Russia-Canada Highway had been built up on tons of crushed rock along this stretch of spruce bogs. In the summer the mosquitoes numbered in the billions and even animals avoided the area. But to the British and Russian engineers building a wartime emergency road, the flat, frozen ground looked wonderful and the entire section had been completed in the dead of winter.

An alien insect tone broke her reverie. She listened for a heartbeat and then screamed, “Aircraft! Take cover!”

The two-hundred-person work party scrambled into the woods. Weapons clacked and echoed through the forest as they cleared for action. The two trucks quickly backed into the largest spruce thicket available; hastily cut branches were tossed on top of them.

Grisha’s voice sounded unnaturally loud. “If you think you can hit them, do it!”

The roar of fighters grew louder and suddenly a Yak fighter roared past, less than one hundred meters above the road, its huge propeller a metallic blur. Two more fighters roared past in formation at the same altitude. The forest erupted with gunfire. Sparks and bits of flying metal surrounded the planes, metallic mosquitoes biting at hawks.

The lead aircraft suddenly trailed smoke, pulled up sharply, and went into a wide turn. The right wingman abruptly nosed down and crashed into the forest. The plane exploded on impact.

Cheers broke out as the left wingman sheered off to the west, trailing smoke and fire. Moments after they lost sight of it a distant explosion boomed back at them. As even more cheers broke out, the first aircraft circled the area at high altitude. The wounded plane painted a dark smear of smoke across the sky.

“He’s getting our position,” someone shouted.

“Wolf Team, go to your positions. The rest of you people get all your equipment and fall back to Chena,” Grisha shouted over the rising babble.

The fighter buzzed away to the east, trailing smoke. As soon as the air cleared, people ran onto the road and surrounded the trucks. Grisha was already there, directing events. “We can get twenty-five people in each truck. That leaves about a hundred and fifty of us to start walking. Radio back and get more trucks out here.”

He detailed the rearguard, handpicked those who were to ride, and had the trucks racing away within the space of ten minutes. With both trucks gone, Wing edged out from behind a tree.

“What do want me to do, Grisha?”

He stared at her in perplexity. “Didn’t I tell you to get on a truck?”

“No, Colonel. You did not.”

“I meant to.” He looked at everything but her. “Well, move out with the forward group there, take command. Send Heron back to me.” He turned and walked away from her.

Wing wasn’t sure what she felt, but she didn’t want to be separated from him. “Grisha, wait a minute, I —”

He whirled and pointed his finger at her, a scowl twisting his face.

“It’s Colonel Grigorievich, Lieutenant Colonel Demoski, and I gave you an order—now obey it!”

He couldn’t have stunned her any more if he’d slapped her. She jerked to a stop and came to attention. “Yes, sir, Colonel Grigorievich!” She scowled back at him, saluted like a Russian private, and started after the forward group at a run. When she passed Heron, she snapped, “Colonel Grigorievich wants to see you soonest, Major Sherry.”

Grisha stared after her, feeling a biting relief. He’d made her chief of staff in hopes of keeping her away from the fighting. But in this war that was impossible on one hand and on the other she’d be angry if she found out.

Wing went everywhere with him. The more tasks he piled on her the more efficient she became; he couldn’t slow her down enough to justify leaving her in camp. He couldn’t tell her that he feared for her very life.

He felt he carried death for the people around him, especially those he loved. All one had to do was look at the list of friends he had lost in one way or another. And now they had put him in command of twelve hundred innocents, many of whom would die soon.

Heron jogged up. “Reporting as ordered, Colonel.”

“I know Wolf Team has a big job. We’ve talked at length about this—you know what I want to have happen here.”

“No problem, Grisha,” Heron said with a smile. “It’ll be an honor to hit them first.”

“Don’t just hit them, Heron. Maim them! Then get out, we need you.” Grisha turned and trudged after his army. Two heavily armed, burly young men followed him, maintaining great vigilance.

54

Russia-Canada Highway East of Chena Redoubt

Heron called Wolf Team together. The five dozen men and women gathered around so the major wouldn’t have to raise his voice.

“They’re coming, and we’re going to kill them.” Grim smiles creased their faces. “People with radios, don’t forget the code; tell us which squad, and one tap for sight contact, two taps you’re pulling back, and three taps will tell us you’re going to fire on the enemy. Be sure you state your sector so we know where they’re at.” He pressed once on the small radio in his hand and a tone issued from the other twelve. “Okay, you all know what you’re supposed to do, so let’s get at it.”

The party split evenly, half going into the woods on the west side of the road, half to the east. Heron and two others moved into a bunker built with heavy logs. A large U.S. .50 caliber machine gun squatted on a tripod, the muzzle projected through a two-meter-long firing port.

“Sure would be nice to build a fire,” Wally Sticks said wistfully.

“The Russians would agree with that,” Heron said.

“Major,” Riley Jones said, “maybe we should take turns getting some rest.”