resting after the extensive disruption.
Jerry Yamato felt very alone. He looked around at the valley walls, the trees, the rocks, the now-audible river. For the very first time he realized he was completely on his own.
The Republic of California fighters were on their way north to Chena Redoubt where the Dena Republik Army, their new ally, was fighting for its life against the Imperial Russian Army. The transports held 960 R.O.C
airborne troops who hoped to make a difference. The fighters would do everything they could to aid the Athabascan revolution.
But how long would it take Major Hurley to remember Lieutenant Yamato and where he was shot down? Did Hurley even know Jerry was still alive? The plane that flew over hadn’t come back; had the pilot seen him at all?
They were on their way to next part of the battle; would any of them make it to Fort Yukon? It might be months before anyone came looking for him; or never.
“Okay, airman,” he said aloud. “Time to take stock.”
He stuffed his chute between two rocks and put his flight helmet on top of it to keep it from blowing away in the vigorous breeze. In moments he emptied his pockets and stared down at the result. Two protein-concentrate bars, a canteen of water, a survival knife, his service .45 automatic, and two full clips of rounds constituted his total belongings.
He felt grateful he wore good combat boots and a warm flight suit. Stuck down in the front of the flight suit was his garrison cap. Not three months ago he had gone through a survival course refresher.
With the abrupt start of the North American War he had been eligible for full flight status because he had remained current with training and preparedness protocol. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.
Jerry Yamato laughed out loud. He peered around at the stunted spruce, which grew at a forty-five degree angle, then up at the sky which still held a couple hours of daylight. The thinning smoke from the wreckage of his P-61 caught his attention.
He shrugged out of his parachute harness and carefully propped it up on the highest rock within ten feet. He didn’t want to lose what little he had. Stuffing the PC bars in his pocket and putting the rest of his gear in place, he started toward
She had nosed in at full speed and exploded on impact; what was left burned. The lump in his throat surprised him. The P-61 had just been a machine, a very beautiful one to be sure, but still…
Wiping away a tear, he looked around the crash site, maybe something usable had been thrown clear. He found nothing and searched the sky again. The smoke would draw any aircraft in the area.
Two billowing columns of smoke a half mile away caught his attention. The tanks, he thought.
Keeping a moving eye on the terrain all about him, he moved carefully down the river.
As a boy he had been a member of the Bear Scouts of California, he had earned every woodcraft badge possible. In flight school he was first in the class in the survival portion of training. He’d just had that refresher a couple of months ago.
So why did he feel frightened?
Turrets, ripped off the tank hulls in their descent, lay randomly amongst the bent and broken steel. Tracks and bogeys lay scattered, macabre prizes from the Devil’s pinata. Only small flames remained in the two burning machines but he could feel their heat from fifty meters away.
Jerry thought the destroyed machines looked naked.
“You cry over your plane and now you’re sad about enemy tanks?” he said out loud. “Did you hit your head when you ejected?”
He stared at the ripped hulls, knowing there might be items inside that could enhance his odds of survival. He also knew the remains of the crews rested in the heavy metal. This was part of why he had elected to join the air corps rather than the infantry—he didn’t want to see stuff like this up close.
First Lieutenant Jerry Yamato, RCAF, took a deep breath and walked over to the first hemorrhaged hull and peered inside. Trying to ignore the heavy, rusty-colored slime coating the interior, he looked for equipment. When he saw the uniform pierced through with bone splinters, he turned and vomited.
He flipped off the canteen cover and rinsed his mouth.”
For long moments Jerry eyed the closest turret, trying to justify skipping the whole thing.
“Gotta look, dammit,” he said and spat off to the side.
He trudged over to the turret. The barrel stub of the .88 cannon bent to one side, looking for all the world like a comma with a ragged tail. The inside lay empty.
“Damn.” Jerry leaned against the metal bulk and slid down to a sitting position, staring at the other wrecks. Was there nothing here he could use?
He stared up at the canyon wall. Should he try to climb out here, or follow the river until it either joined a larger body of water or went past a town? His destroyed charts mocked him; he should have looked at them more carefully.
“Who knew?” He shrugged and let his head fall forward.
He jerked in fright and threw himself behind a large rock. Two more bullets smeared across the turret where his body had leaned. This time the rifle reports were just sounds.
Yamato made himself small and squirmed behind a boulder.
Adrenaline kicked in and his terror turned to anger. He pulled out his .45 and peered up the slope. Where was the son of a bitch?
He thought for a second.
It wouldn’t take a genius to know there could have been no survivors. Sudden doubt washed through him. Could one of the crew have survived? Or had he run into an unfriendly local?
The odds against both were astronomical. Nobody human could survive that steel avalanche and it was scores of miles to the nearest village. But someone out there was trying to kill him. Yamato decided to go with the assumption he faced a surviving Russian.
Okay, that meant the man was close to the path the tank made on its way down. Jerry thumbed on the safety of the .45 as quietly as possible. He didn’t want the damned thing going off accidentally while he was moving.
Fortune had given him something. Medium to large boulders lay scattered across the floodplain. Taking his time and moving as quietly as possible, he squirmed his way from boulder to boulder toward the canyon wall.
He had to outflank the bastard. His shoulder ached and he had to piss. He tried to ignore the distracting elements, knowing his life depended on it.
81
Bear Crepov carefully made his way to the front line of the Russian advance. The Siberian Tigers were excellent marksmen—many Dena lay splayed and torn in the meadow. The Russian artillery waited in silence, but shells from behind the Dena lines now fell on the Russian rear.
A small armored column appeared from the direction of Chena Redoubt. Bear expected it to meet the Russian armor attempting to ford the Chena. A thrill of excitement ran through him when most of the column turned toward his position, spread out, and charged.
The Russian artillery resumed with a vengeance. A half-track took a direct hit. At this distance one couldn’t differentiate between truck and human parts as they rained across the meadow.
