“You’re going north?” Grisha said.
“Yeah, they’re letting me take a Special Forces strike force to get your ass out of the jam we helped put you in.”
“Benny,” Colonel Buhrman said with a grin, “you’re going with us, not the other way around.”
“Sure, Del, whatever you say.”
Colonel Buhrman looked at Grisha and motioned to the transports. “Going my way, Colonel?”
70
“Colonel Romanov, the last of General Myslosovich’s supply train has left the area.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Severin. Let us enjoy the silence for a while before we bring Captain Kobelev’s motorized scout unit back to the garrison.”
Romanov stepped to the window and opened the blinds. He loved this place more than he had loved any other thing in his life. Most of his men thought of their posting to St. Anthony Redoubt as punishment, but not him.
The Delta River joined the Tanana River less than a kilometer from his office. The redoubt enjoyed a view that few appreciated. Stepan Romanov felt drawn to this country.
Despite his aristocratic name, Roaanov’s grandmother was a Yakut from Siberia and he held deep sympathies for the Dena. He tried to keep his attitudes to himself, but others had noticed.
A visiting colonel once asked for an Indian woman for the night.
Stepan had frowned. “I’m not a whoremonger, colonel, you’ll have to solicit for yourself.”
“You do not know women who—”
“No. You’ll have to ask one of the privates.”
Thankfully, the colonel let the matter drop. Romanov would not allow his men to molest the local women or mistreat any of the civilian population. He preached brotherhood to his troops and had a corporal lashed within inches of his life for beating an old Athabascan man.
Colonel Romanov glanced up guiltily at his sergeant to see if the man had interpreted his silence correctly. The sergeant was staring out of the other window at the same view.
Romanov grinned, then eased back into his military role.
“Very well, Sergeant Severin, notify Captain Kobelev to bring his people in, we have room for them now.”
71
General Taras Myslosovich pulled idly on his white mustache until the scout finished his report. His jowls shook as he turned to Bear Crepov sitting next to him in the command car. “They only shoot from concealment, like the brigands back home?”
“Yes, they are animals without courage. They cannot stand up to the might of the Imperial Army, so they attack like coyotes in the night.” Bear kept his eyes in constant movement as the column clanked up the RustyCan. The Dena could be anywhere.
His loathing for the Indians barely eclipsed his hatred of the Russians. Fate had dealt him a deadly hand. The Russians didn’t trust him and the Indians had put the price of five hundred California dollars on his head.
The Dena bounty was the only thing that kept the Russians from shooting him outright for leaving Valari behind at Chena Redoubt. They thought he should have died to save her, the two-faced bastards, after they had bombed the place flat! He spat out the window of the command car.
“Perhaps war is not to your taste, woodsman,” the fat old general said, barely concealing a sneer.
“The way you wage war is not to my liking,” Crepov said. “The Indians have already proven they can destroy your fancy machines, whether they fly or crawl. We should be advancing quietly through the forest to surprise them in their beds.”
“Reconnaissance shows they have fortified the road at Chena Redoubt as well as the bridge over the Yukon. Infantry, no matter how brave or skilled, cannot take positions like that without armor or air support.” General Myslosovich pulled on his walrus mustache again. Squinting at Bear, he continued with an air of condescension.
“When you have fought as many battles for the Motherland as I have, understanding tactics will become as instinctual as mating with a woman.” He broke into hoarse laughter. “And it can be a damn sight more fulfilling!”
Bear watched the old man crumple into a coughing fit. He felt doomed. This fool was like all the others.
Bear didn’t think the Imperial Army had won a major engagement since the Great War. As far as he knew the troops had spent the past forty years balanced on the backs of the people of Russian Amerika.
A vein of ice pulsed through his head as he considered his past decisions and present limited options.
A dirt encrusted motorcycle, its engine sounding like an army of flatulent men, came up next to the car and the rider handed something to the guard in the front seat. After a quick glance at the paper, he passed it back to General Myslosovich.
“Excellent. The rabble are moving up behind their fortifications in front of Chena Redoubt. We finally have them in a position where we can smash them!”
“You will pardon me for saying so, General, but I’ve heard that before.” Bear spat out the window again.
“If you continue to spout defeatist sentiments, I will have you shot in front of the troops as an object lesson.”
Bear bit his tongue to keep silent. He had no doubt the old bastard would do it.
Bear glanced at the General. “I feel boxed up in here. It’s not to my liking. I’m a man of the forest.”
“You’re here to interpret anything I do not understand at first glance. If I allow you to leave you will instantly disappear like a jinni.” He patted the holstered pistol on his hip. “I want you where I can get a good aim at you.”
Bear estimated the time it would take to kill the guard in front of him. Could he get to the general before the fat bastard shot him? His fingertips caressed the haft of Claw in its oiled boot sheath; he thought about the razor- sharp edge.
Perhaps something would pull their attention outside the car. Bear knew patience—he was a hunter.
72
Colonel Grigorievich.” The headset provided incredibly clear communications. “Would you come up to the flight deck, please?”
“Certainly.” Grisha pulled off the headset, unsnapped his harness, and picked his way between the rows of paratroopers who constantly examined and reexamined their equipment. The tension in the aircraft felt tangible.
