Grisha entered the aircraft and a handsome, smiling woman took his bag and led him to a plush seat next to a bubble window.
“My name is Anita, Colonel Grigorievich. Please sit here and fasten your seat belt. As soon as we are in the air I’ll get you something to eat and drink.” She disappeared from the small cabin and Grisha wondered what the rest of the aircraft held.
The plane turned sharply and a muted roar filled the cabin. He stared out the window as they raced past the small fires outlining the field, and wondered if they were going as fast as he thought.
Then they tilted back and roared upward.
Once airborne, Grisha had his first beer in eight months. His last had been in T’angass the day he and Karpov picked up Valari Kominskiya for the trip north to New Arkhangel. Despite the memories the beer was excellent.
Anita walked toward him carrying a steaming tray. Suddenly the plane nosed downward without warning. She and the tray slammed into the overhead and hung there as the plane arced in a dive.
“Are we going to crash?” Grisha yelled.
Abruptly the plane pulled up and went into a steep climb. Anita crashed to the floor and steaming food rained across the cabin. The flash of an explosion above them pulled his attention briefly to the window.
“We’re being attacked,” he said to himself.
A fighter flashed upward and a rocket ignited under its wing as both streaked out of sight.
Grisha unbelted himself and hurried to Anita who sprawled moaning on the floor, grasping at seat legs. He picked the woman up, put her in a seat, sat beside her, and strapped them both in. He intently examined her for injuries.
A voice came from above their seats. “This is the pilot speaking. My apologies for that unannounced dive. We were under rocket attack from a bogey and I had to take evasive action. The two attacking aircraft have been destroyed. Would the stewardess please report to the flight deck? Once again, my apologies.”
Grisha unstrapped and moved through the cabin to the flight deck. He rapped on the door and then pushed it open. A man wearing a headset sitting at a console of switches and gauges looked up and his eyes widened in alarm. Beyond him were the pilot and copilot.
“Hey, who’re you? Where’s Anita?”
“I’m Gri—, Colonel Grigorievich. The stewardess was injured and I’ve got her strapped down in a seat.”
“I’ll take care of it, Captain,” the man said to the pilot. He pulled off the headset and unstrapped. “I’m Navigation Officer Donahue. After you, sir.” He pushed Grisha ahead of him.
Anita’s ashen and drawn face testified to her pain and shock. Donahue examined the woman. “Broken arm.” He opened an overhead compartment, produced a first-aid kit and gave Anita an injection. He straightened her arm, wrapped splints around it, and positioned it in a sling before looking up at Grisha again.
“Who fired on us?” Grisha asked.
“Don’t know, Colonel Grigorievich. But we nailed both of them.”
“Were we attacked over British airspace?”
“No, sir. Alaskan.”
Grisha nodded at the nearly comatose Anita. “I’ll watch her if you like.”
“Thank you, we appreciate that.” Donahue beckoned toward the flight deck. “If her condition changes, just let us know.”
Grisha strapped himself in. The aircraft hummed swiftly through the night and he wondered if he would return in time to see the ice go out on the Yukon.
62
Colonel Konstine Kronov, seemingly oblivious of the motion-picture camera, grinned widely at Major Douglas. Both men, now slightly drunk, had dropped formalities some days before.
“But, Konni, why doesn’t the Czar modernize Alaska?”
“It’s my theory he has a secret agenda, James,” Kronov said carefully, struggling tipsily with English. “An economically viable Alaska would pose the same threat that the Indians are currently pressing. By themselves, however, they do not have the political and military clout to make the transition to a true republic.”
“You don’t think they can win this fight?”
“Not alone.” Kronov leered and tossed back more vodka. “And if you or any of the other NATO members assist them, you are risking a full-fledged war on this continent, and perhaps Europe as well.”
“Why would the Czar fight a war over Alaska?”
“Would not your president fight a war over Pennsylvania? Wouldn’t the French fight over Quebec?”
“Ask the British,” Douglas said.
“Pah! The British,” Kronov said with a rude laugh. “Let them posture all they wish, who else would want it? But France still owns Quebec.”
Major Douglas opened his mouth then pursed his lips without speaking. He regarded Kronov with stony eyes for a long moment before continuing. “The Czar hasn’t developed Alaska. He’s kept it in the nineteenth century for ninety years longer than any other part of North America. Why would he fight for it at this late date?”
“Do you really believe that a mere colonel, who happens to be a distant cousin, has the ear of Czar Nicholas? What his majesty wishes and doesn’t wish is of paramount consequence to me, but there’s damn all I can do about it,
“Why do you think the Czar will fight for Alaska?” Douglas persisted.
“Because he thinks he can sell it,” Kronov said airily. “Just as his great-grandfather attempted to do in the 1860s.”
“To keep it from being absorbed by Canada,” Douglas said triumphantly.
“British Canada,” Kronov corrected.
“Then”—Douglas’s face became animated and his eyes wetly caught the light—“do you believe he could be bought off?”
“Good question, Major. But who would do the buying, and more importantly, who’s willing to be bought?”
Douglas blinked owlishly before recovering. “Nobody would be bought. But a nation might be aided financially by its neighbors.”
Kronov laughed so hard his eyes watered.
“What’s so damned funny?”
“You, you Yankees. You still think you’re the only ones in the world who have a brain or know how to use it.” Kronov’s countenance went steely.
“One of the most unsavory parts of being a Russian is knowing that our forefathers of the 1850s allowed themselves to be allied to you inept losers in your short civil war.”
“You can relax now.” Douglas shot to his feet, his lips a firm line. “I think we’re through for today.”
Two rangers eased into the room and stood on either side of Kronov.
The Russian stood and gave Douglas an exaggerated bow. “My thanks for the excellent vodka. Next time we should have bourbon, to which I’m sure you are more accustomed.”
Douglas nodded, turned sharply on the balls of his feet, and marched over to the door.
“Good luck on your Indian purchase,” Kronov called gaily as the door slammed.
63
“Who goes there?” The voice held menace.
“Friend! I am Georg Hepner, from Klahotsa, sent by Kurt Bachmann. I need to talk to Major Riordan.”
