78
Major Ben Hurley scanned the horizon, craning his neck up he searched the sky all around his P-61 Eureka fighter,
He read his gauges and dials. According to his computations the Republic of California aircraft had just crossed the border between British Canada and Russian Amerika. He radioed the lead transport.
“Flight Delta, this is Foxtrot One. We have seen no enemy aircraft. Flight Foxtrot will now go to Plan B.”
“Roger that, Foxtrot One. Thanks for the company and good hunting.”
“Thanks, hope your delivery goes well.”
The fifteen fighters peeled off and flew directly west.
“Okay, guys,” Hurley said, “stay awake, the highway should be about a hundred and fifty miles ahead of us.”
The flight dropped until they were a thousand feet above the terrain and bored onward, their propellers radiant in the Alaskan sunshine.
Tank Kommander Colonel Boris Lazarev breathed a sigh of relief when he received the radio communication from General Myslosovich. Immediately he told his driver to go to full speed. He knew the other tanks and armored personnel carriers behind him would keep up. He once had broken a captain to the ranks for not maintaining pace, after that it had never again been a problem.
Being the lead tank gave him the advantage of not eating any of the dust they threw up in stultifying clouds. They traveled in battle formation, each tank staying within thirty meters of the machine in front of it. Colonel Lazarev glanced at the column behind him as it wound up the series of switchbacks to reach Baranov Pass, the only road pass in the Alaska Range.
Every tank commander stood in his hatch, goggles and helmets facing forward. His command had arrived in Russian Amerika less than forty-eight hours previously. This was quite different than patrolling the China/Russia border. For one thing, the scenery from absolutely striking.
On one side of the road the mountain rose at an angle nearly impossible for a man to traverse, on the other side of the road, below the switchbacks, lay a valley at least four hundred meters deep. Across the valley a long ridge, displaying a variety of hues as if painted by a gargantuan artist, ran for miles. The locals called it Rainbow Ridge.
Abruptly he thought of the transport plane from their small armada that had crashed on takeoff, killing twenty of his men and destroying one tank. He detested waste, and flying.
They sped along at thirty kilometers per hour, steadily climbing toward the summit. He hoped the Indians would hold long enough to insure his men would not be cheated out of combat; they had come a long way for this. He had it on good authority that the Czar used political maneuvering in order to gain time for this buildup. He also understood that the Indian rebels had gone along with it completely.
Colonel Lazarev!” the voice in his headset all but shrieked. Before he could bark an admonition, the voice went on, “Aircraft!”
“Where?”
“East, northeast, coming straight at us.”
“Man your machine guns!” He stared at the incoming planes; so far he counted seven, trying desperately to identify them. Could they be friendly?
The Dena didn’t have aircraft as far as he knew.
He finally recognized the slim profile with the underfuselage air scoop. “Oh, my God, they’re R.O.C. P-61 Eureka fighters. And we’re roosting chickens with a wolf in the henhouse.”
Vainly he looked for options. “All personnel out of the troop carriers, fill the sky with fire!” He glanced back to see men scurrying like ants around the halted column.
Major Hurley spread his flight out like a wide wave heading for a distant beach. Intelligence said there were a lot of Russian tanks and APCs headed north out here somewhere, and unless they were stopped the Dena were going to lose their asses. He spied a ribbon undulating across the landscape in the distance.
“Is that it, guys, dead ahead?”
“Negative that, skipper,” Lieutenant Donaldson replied. “That’s the Tanana River.”
“You sure there’s a road out here, Major?” First Lieutenant Christenson said with a laugh.
“Damn sure, we have pictures—”
“Tally ho! This is Foxtrot Nine, the road’s over here to the southwest, just past another river.”
“Good going, Captain Shipley. You heard the man, boys. I want two waves. We should find them under a big dust cloud.”
“I see it, there they are!” Hurley wasn’t sure who the voice belonged to, it didn’t matter anyway.
“My gawd, they’re sitting ducks,” Christenson exclaimed.
“They’re heavily armed ducks, don’t forget that,” Hurley snapped. “Get the troop carriers first, those tanks aren’t going anywhere. Drop your gas.”
A series of microphone clicks told him his people understood. Two all-but-empty long-range fuel tanks dropped from beneath the wings of each fighter, instantly giving the aircraft less weight and drag. The planes suddenly seemed agile as ballerinas.
“Okay, gentlemen, rank has its privileges. Follow me!”
He put his fighter into a long turn and came up the mountain behind the armored column. As if the stationary vehicles had lost a load of diamonds, the ground suddenly sparkled with muzzle flashes. Hurley grinned and pulled the trigger on the front of his stick, relishing the roar of his six .50 caliber machine guns.
Both of his wingmen opened up as they bored in, passing over the first bend of the long, snaking column. All of the Russian APCs carried twin .30 machine guns mounted over the driving compartment. Immediately the entire column fired at the aircraft.
“Shit, Skipper, I’m taking hits from above me!” Christenson said.
“Pull up,” Hurley ordered. “We’ll come at ’em from a better angle.”
All three aircraft pulled up and twisted away in different directions. One of them trailed smoke.
“Major Hurley, this is Cooper. I’m hit.”
“How bad, Coop?”
“My engine is smoking and my oil pressure is headed for the Spanish border. I think maybe I’ve got five minutes.”
“Head straight north for Dena country, now. If you have to bail out, do it near a road, that’s pretty wild country down there. Kirby, you escort him, try and make the field at Fort Yukon.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry about this.”
“For what, following orders? Good luck, Coop.”
“Same to you, sir. Cooper out.”
“I’ll write often, Skipper, don’t worry,” Kirby said with a laugh.
“You guys be careful and that’s an order.”
Two comm clicks answered and Hurley grinned.
The two aircraft buzzed away.
“Okay, guys, this time let’s hit them from the top of the mountain. There’s thirteen of us now, let’s make that an unlucky number for the Russians.”
Roaring down out of a wide circle, the first three Eurekas screamed down at the leading elements of the column. The side of the mountain blurred a hundred feet below their polished aluminum bellies. Only the Russians on the highest switchback could fire at them without fear of hitting their comrades.
“Plug ’em up, use your rockets on these bastards,” Hurley said with a growl.
The tanks quickly grew in size.
Colonel Boris Lazarev shrieked into his microphone, “What do you mean there are no aircraft in Alaska? I am being attacked by fifteen of them.”
“My apologies, Colonel, I meant to say we have no aircraft in Alaska capable of assisting you at this time,”
