The sergeant major opened the hatch to the flight deck, waving him through, his black face impassive.
After days of total isolation Grisha was exultant to be heading north again. Colonel Buhrman flew in the lead plane, and Major Coffey flew in the second transport. Grisha had been more than happy to fly as senior officer in the third aircraft.
He wasn’t sure where Benny Jackson and his Special Forces were, but it really didn’t matter as long as they were in the fight.
“Over here, Colonel.” The navigator, Major McDaniel, waved him to a seat in a bubble in the side of the aircraft. “Colonel Buhrman asked us to show you this. Here—” binoculars were pushed into his hands “—take a look down there and tell us what you think it is.”
Grisha estimated their height at five kilometers. He saw two other transports, each with huge propellers on their four engines reflecting perfect circles, droning along in formation with them. A P-61 Eureka fighter passed in the distance. He peered down at the ground.
The RustyCan wound across the ground like an indolent reptile—whose scales glistened as he watched.
“What the hell?” Grisha sharpened the focus and tapped the enhancer control. The ground quickly swam up at him and he could clearly see an extensive armored column moving north up the highway.
“Those aren’t Russian,” he said. “Where are we?”
“Over northern British Canada.” Major McDaniel lowered his binoculars and studied Grisha. “At first we thought they were Canadian, but look at the insignia.”
Grisha strained his eyes to pierce the distance and dust. He anticipated the Union Jack and felt amazement when he saw the stylized Cheyenne war shield. “They’re from the First People’s Nation. What the hell are they doing this far north?”
The major grinned. “It looks like they’re going to hit the Russkies in the ass. This war is beginning to get interesting.”
“But their fight is with the British, not the Russians.”
“Perhaps, Colonel, they’re coming to help their fellow Indians,” Major McDaniel said.
“But how did they get past the British?”
“The word we got says they went through the British. The Brits’re fighting two battles as we speak. They sent too much of their army south and now they’re paying for the blunder.”
“If the F.P.N. hits the Russians at Tetlin, the only forces we’d have to worry about are the ones at St. Nicholas and St. Anthony.” Grisha felt his excitement grow.
“If they hit the Russians soon enough.” The major peered down through the fleecy cloud cover. “But I’d bet a month’s pay the Russians know they’re coming.”
Grisha chuckled. “If we got paid I’d be willing to take that wager. The Russians are incredibly arrogant. If they weren’t so mule-headed they would have defeated us by now.”
“I’ve wondered about that,” the major said. “We know you guys are hell on wheels, but you’re outnumbered by at least five to one.”
“More like seven or eight to one. But the Dena Republik isn’t nice, flat farmland like Canada back there.” He nodded his head. “Russia depends on her air force and her armor. Our antiaircraft have pulled her aviation teeth and her armor is confined to the RustyCan.”
“You can hold the highway?”
“That remains to be seen, Major. Perhaps if we arrive in time.”
73
Wing inspected the fortifications carefully. This was where the Russians would hit first. Both banks of the Chena bristled with mines.
The Dena weapons could traverse the minefields with impunity by lining up on the bright swatches of cloth tacked to trees on the far side. Even if the Russians noticed them, they wouldn’t know how to interpret the markers.
Behind the minefield stood a reinforced log-and-rock wall spanning the highway and stretching into the muskeg on both sides. The muskeg itself aided defense, consisting of meter-wide pods of lichen, called pingos, rearing up to a half meter in height, where a hastily placed foot sinking between the thousands of pingos could easily break a leg. Beneath the muskeg was a watery gruel of soil and gravel, below that lay the implacable permafrost, frozen to a depth of fifty meters or more.
After fording the river the first few tanks might make it through the muskeg but the rest would bog down. Six newly imported artillery pieces from the United States had the area zeroed in, complete with range markers.
“Placing those markers is something we learned in the Great War,” Captain Lauesen told her. “The advancing troops rarely notice them and it tells us their exact distance.”
The initial assault would be horrendously costly for the Russians. Wing almost felt sorry for them. A Russian-built command car roared up. The Imperial two-headed eagle had been painted out and what looked like an eightpointed star replaced it.
Malagni jumped out of the car and slammed the door.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wing pointed.
“The North Star, of course! Made from dentalium shells. It’s the insignia of the Dena Republik.” He glanced around. A huge axe hung from a loop on his belt. “Are we ready for them?”
“God willing and the creek don’t rise,” Captain Lauesen said.
“Which God, white or Indian?” Malagni asked. Sometimes, Wing thought, he sounded as balanced as anyone else. But it never lasted long. “It could make a difference, you know.” Malagni darted off down the fortification, talking to the heavily armed Dena who watched the distant tree line with flinty eyes.
“Is he always that, ah, exuberant?” Captain Lauesen asked.
“Malagni is a madman. But a very crafty madman. He has absolutely no fear. I don’t think he will live through this war—I don’t think he wants to.”
“What did he do before the war?”
“There’s always been a war here. It just took some of us longer than others to realize it.”
Captain Lauesen stared at her frankly. “How about you, are you going to survive the war?”
“Only if the man I love does.” She turned and walked back toward the command car. Her feet hurt and she worried about Grisha.
74
The lead column sat in the middle of the road. Engines idled as men relieved themselves and slapped at mosquitoes. Bear heard the motorcycle before he saw it.
Filth caked the rider and the lenses of the smeared goggles looked unnaturally clean on his dusty face. The motorcycle came to a stop next to the command car. “General Myslosovich, we are two kilometers from the front.”
“Excellent.” He smacked the back of the driver’s seat with his jeweled baton. Bear had already heard the story how the Czar had presented it to the general for pacifying the Yakuts fifteen years before. “Vladimir, spread the word, I want an officers’ meeting in ten minutes.”
Bear absently rubbed his scar and noted the insignia on each officer as they arrived. Captain of Artillery. Major of Infantry. Lieutenant Colonel of Armor. An Okhana captain.
Bad sign. The Cossacks had a way of fucking everything up. Back in his grandfather’s day Cossacks had a reputation for being noble, honorable warriors. That was before they sold their souls to the Czar and joined his secret police.
