Wing stopped just inside the door. “Colonel, there’s a contingent of forty recruits from upriver villages. It would be a good thing if you welcomed them personally.”
“Forty,” Grisha said. “We need so many more than that, but I had given up hope of getting more village people.”
“Many of them thought the Russians would kill us all as soon as we attacked. The fact that we’ve held the highway from Bridge to Chena has made an impression. Now they know the Russians can be beaten.”
“I wish I knew that,” Grisha said as he moved around the desk toward her. “C’mon, let me at these people.”
Wing led him over to a group eating from bowls. When they saw Wing they stopped eating and quietly watched her and Grisha.
“It’s customary to show respect for the colonel by standing when he enters your area,” Wing said in a low voice.
Everybody immediately began to rise.
“Thank you,” Grisha said quickly. “I am honored. Please sit, you’ve all come a long way and I know you’re tired.”
They eased back down. One man remained standing. Grisha glanced over at him and had to force himself not to let his jaw hang open in astonishment. Slayer-of-Men stood there!
“How. You can’t be standing there—I saw you die.”
“You are Grisha, the boat captain?” the man asked.
Grisha felt relief. This wasn’t Slayer-of-Men. The voice was different, higher than the steel bass of the dead warrior. “Yes, I’m Grisha. How are you related to my friend Slayer-of-Men?”
“I am Nikoli. Slayer-of-Men was my older brother, as is Malagni. They spoke highly of you and your dedication to the Dena Republik.” Grisha was positive this is exactly how Slayer-of-Men sounded in his youth.
The words sank in. “Malagni is still alive?”
“Yes. He is healing. He said to tell you that he would be back soon.”
“Thank you for the news. I thought both your brothers died that night.”
“You’re welcome.” Nikoli nodded politely and sat down with the rest of the group.
For a moment Grisha felt as if he had regained a measure of his two dead friends in this person. Then he firmly suppressed the feeling. Nik wa—Nikoli was a whole new unknown and to give him that sort of measure to stand against wasn’t fair. “Do you mind if I call you ‘Nik’?”
The youth smiled. “That’s okay. Everybody else does anyway.”
They all smiled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wing sniff and look off to the side.
“I thank you all for coming to help. So far we have more than held our own against the Czar. The price has been high.”
Grisha felt awkward at this kind of thing, he would rather sit around and drink beer with them and tell lies about fishing and hunting. But the cashiered major/charter captain had changed somewhere between slave and new soldier. Now he had to be a colonel.
“We’ll teach you what we know about fighting the Russians. And because we must teach you quickly, we might wound your pride. You’ll have to accept this as part of being in the army, so we apologize now and hope you remember then.”
Nods eddied through the group.
“We need you on the lines now and so we’ll put small groups of you in every part of the organization. Even though we are all constantly in danger, I will only take volunteers for the rifle companies—”
Forty hands shot into the air.
“—and I’ll only take eight,” Grisha said with a smile.
They laughed and all hands stayed in the air.
“I knew this wouldn’t be easy,” he muttered to Wing.
“You did fine, Colonel,” she said. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” He turned, left the dining hall and walked briskly toward his office, his emotions churning.
“Colonel Grigorievich!” a voice shouted harshly. “I demand my rights as an officer and a gentleman.”
Grisha veered over to where Colonel Kronov stood chained to the wall. The Russian had enough chain to lie on the cot if he wished but he stood with the extra lengths puddled over his boots. A number of Dena stood at a distance watching him as if he were a rare beast.
“You’re a prisoner of war,” Grisha said. “We’ve shown you more humanity than we would have received at your hands.”
“Only because you plan to use me for some sort of propaganda,” Kronov spat. “This is not how an officer of the Imperial Russian Army should be treated.”
“Okay,” Grisha said tiredly. “I’ll tell you what. As soon as we’re done using you for propaganda, I promise we’ll shoot you.”
The growing crowd laughed. Pure hatred shone in Kronov’s eyes. “You’d better shoot me. I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
“They’re sending a helicopter for you as soon as it’s dark. You better rest while you can.” Grisha turned back toward his office.
“You’re a dead man, peasant. I’ll make sure of that.”
“Get in line.” Grisha shut the door behind him.
57
The helicopter circled once while the ground crew switched on lights at each corner of the square landing pad. The machine dropped quickly through the dark sky to hunch in the light like a live thing wary of circumstances. The rotors continued revolving as soldiers hustled Kronov out of his cell and lifted him into the aircraft.
Moments later they flew through an impossibly dark night. Kronov glanced down at his manacled hands and became aware that someone sat beside him. He looked up into gray eyes over an aquiline nose and perfectly trimmed moustache.
“Sorry I can’t take those off for you, Colonel. But we’ve decided you’re a very dangerous man.” The man’s voice held familiarity.
“This is outrageous,” Kronov said. “I demand—”
“Allow me to introduce myself. Major James Douglas, United States Army Reserve. Actually I’m a journalist and just do this soldier-boy bit one weekend a month, until Mario decided he needed my talents.”
“‘Mario?’” Kronov said.
“President Cuomo. Think of him as an elected Czar.”
“What do you intend to do with me?”
“Well, friend, I’m going to put you on the CBS radio network and ask how you came to be in the Dena Republik wrapped in chains when just a few days ago the Czar himself decorated you in St. Petersburg.”
“This is Russian Amerika! There is no Dena Republik. I refuse to allow such a thing. I would rather die.”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Douglas said. “Would you rather stay here in the Dena Republik—and it is a republic ’cause Mario told me so—or come down to the U.S. with me and cooperate enough to get furloughed back to the Czar?”
“This is possible?” Kronov said quickly in a low voice. “To be sent back to Russia, alive?”
“Of course.” Douglas stroked his moustache. “We’re not barbarians, y’know.”
“If I went back to Russia alive, the Czar would have me shot.”
“Your decision, of course. There are other alternatives available, and you can live quite handsomely in some of them.”
Kronov thought furiously. He hadn’t expected anything like this. Even if he escaped being used for propaganda, he couldn’t go back to Russia. The Czar would have him executed for losing his elite command. The
