They stopped and stared at him.
“There’s an ambulance coming, or what serves for one. I’m away from the fighting. Leave me here. Go take care of someone who really needs help.”
They sat the litter down and gently lifted him onto the moss and flowers. Both men stood and saluted. “We’ll follow you anywhere, Colonel,” the corporal said. They raced away toward the carnage where a few bursts still stuttered.
Grisha lifted his binoculars and viewed the Russian line on the far side of the Chena. Smoke poured from shattered tanks. Russian soldiers ran toward the rear, only a few pockets here and there retreated in an orderly fashion. For the moment, the Dena Republik Army held the field.
He wondered how much time the Russians would need to regroup before hitting them again, and how long they had before the full column arrived. Could they stop that much armor? Even the lowest private could see they had already given their all.
Four P-61s roared over the battlefield followed by three more, flying wingtip to wingtip. The Dena and R.O.C. soldiers cheered. The Russian retreat picked up speed. Grisha felt the tide of battle shift to their side despite the imminent threat of more Russian armor. Owning the sky made a hell of a difference.
He heard the ambulance close behind him. Somebody ran toward him from the battle zone. Grisha peered through the binoculars again.
At that point the figure threw off her helmet and the deep black hair fanned out in her wake.
“Wing!”
Something in his chest released and tears of joy ran down his cheeks. He had been so careful not to think about her, not to worry, not to dwell. And the whole time he’d kept her locked carefully in his heart, knowing he really didn’t want to live without her.
The ambulance skidded to a stop next to him and two U.S. Army medics jumped out. “Where ya hit, Mac?”
Grisha spared them a glance. “Left leg broke when I hit the ground.” He turned his attention back to Wing.
They slit his pants leg open. One made a small sound in his throat.
“Simple fracture, but this is still gonna hurt a bit.”
Wing waved urgently, wanting to be seen. He waved in response and she slowed to a trot. His eyes searched her as she approached, looking for harm, fearing damage.
Sweat ran through the streaked gunpowder on her face. One of the epaulets on her field jacket flapped, cut by a bullet. Dirt and moss matted her hair.
Grisha had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.
She panted as she came up to him, stopped, and saluted.
“Good… to… see you, Colonel.” She smiled, the scar on her cheek wishboned together. “Christ, I’ve missed you, Grisha.”
The medics pulled back and watched in astonishment.
He spread his arms and she knelt and hugged him close.
“Hell, Sarge,” one of the medics said. “Maybe we’re in the wrong outfit.”
“Officers!” Sarge snorted.
Grisha pulled her face to his and kissed her.
“You want us to come back later, Colonel?” Sarge said with heavy sarcasm.
Grisha and Wing pulled away from each other, laughing.
“No, Sergeant, I’ll be right with you. I just have to ask the lieutenant colonel something.” Grisha stared into Wing’s face. “I know the war isn’t over yet. But, will you marry me anyway?”
“Yes.” She kissed him again and broke away. “Okay, guys, fix him up. I need him in good shape for the honeymoon.”
“Not to mention the war,” Grisha said.
The corporal grabbed him around the chest and the sergeant gripped his ankle and expertly pulled his leg straight.
Spots danced in his vision, thickened, grayed out everything around him.
“I’m so very tired,” he said. Then he slipped away from them.
87
Sergeant Cermanivich began to wonder if he had actually hit the pilot. Most people would have moved by now. He had seen nothing.
Anxiety abruptly surged through him. Could he see anyone moving if they stayed on the ground? How to know?
He stretched his leg out, setting off the waves of pain.
Metal scraped rock behind him and he twisted, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder. Trying unsuccessfully to ignore his sudden, debilitating agony and to see through fresh blood, he hesitated. A weapon fired and his rifle burst out of his hands, nearly taking his trigger finger with it.
The impact slammed him sideways and he felt his butt slide off the edge of the rock. He fell onto the rock- riddled ground. Magnified pain shot through him and he screamed his way into darkness.
“C’mon, wake up.”
Something stung his cheek.
“C’mon, Ivan, wake up.”
Again the stinging. Rudi Cermanivich tried to open his eyes, but they would not obey him.
“C’mon—”
“Do not strike me again,” Cermanivich said in English, the language in which he was being addressed. “I am injured all over, my body does not respond as it should.”
“I have a pistol. If you make any sudden moves I will hurt you.”
Cermanivich barked a laugh that turned into a painful cough. “If I make sudden move
“Do you have water? I need some on my face.”
A moment later a dollop splashed in his eyes. He rubbed briskly and felt his eyelids tug open. The light blinded him and he squinted. The throbbing in his head intensified.
“What’s your name, Sergeant?”
Rudi blinked up at the man, realizing for the first time his opponent was an Asian. “Sergeant Rudi Cermanivich, Imperial Tank Korps, Flash Division. Do you wish my service number also?”
The pilot smiled for a moment. “No, that’s enough. This battle is over for us, why are you still trying to kill me?”
“For you, perhaps the battle is over. For me, never. Who are you and why are you on Russian soil?”
“First Lieutenant Gerald Yamato, 117th Fighter Squadron, Republic of California Air Force. I’m not on Russian soil, I’m in the Dena Republic, I think.”
“Kalifornia? For what reason do you make war on us?”
“Ask the politicians, I’m just following orders.”
“Who do you fight for, and against?” Rudi demanded.
“We’re aiding the Dena Republic and fighting against you, the Russian Empire.”
“There is no Dena Republik, how can you aid what does not exist?”
“The Dena Republik has been a recognized country for a week, at least. Are you guys supposed to be pretty hot in combat, or what?”
