Russian Amerika (28 page)

"I told you she was more dangerous than three men."

"C'mon, let's give these bastards a run for their money." Jackson rose to his feet and checked his weapon. "I'd just as soon die on my feet as freeze to death out here."

"You're not used to cold, are you?"

"This isn't just cold, my friend, this is the dark underbelly of frozen hell. How can you people take this year after year?"

"To be truthful, this is my first winter in the Interior. We never have temperatures this low in Akku."

"Where I come from, we never have winter. This shit is for the birds."

"What birds?"

"Never mind, let's sneak up on those guys and ruin their day."

They trotted along, keeping pace with the machine grinding along a hundred meters away. Suddenly the half-track stopped and the lights winked out. Grisha and Jackson halted in their tracks, eyes wide and ears straining.

Dark figures dropped out of a hatch in the back of the darker machine and moved forward. Dull light glinted off a gun barrel. The half-track lurched and swung out away from the wall, toward the trees.

Grisha and Jackson dropped. The half-track spun around and stopped, engine idling. Two figures emerged through the roof, uncovered the heavy machine gun mounted over the cab and trained it on the wall of the redoubt.

The headlights flared like twin suns to illuminate a twenty meter circle on the stone wall. Exactly in the middle of the eye of radiance sat the door to the bowels of Chena Redoubt.

"We gotta warn them," Jackson whispered urgently.

"How? We make one move and those people will kill us."

The Californian spat in the snow. "Fuck!"

"Be patient," Grisha said. "We're not defeated. Think of us as a secret weapon. The last thing the Russians will expect is an attack from their rear."

"Would you be this blasé if it was that Wing chick sitting on the other side of the door instead of Scanlon?"

"What are you trying to say?"

"All I'm saying is that I'm as attached to Jimmy Scanlon as you are to Wing, except that I don't particularly want to sleep with Scanlon."

Grisha pointed his machine pistol at the Californian's chest.

"Wait a fuckin' minute!" Jackson whispered harshly. "I know a man with a yen when I see one. I don't care if you don't want to admit it, but I think I made my point, no?"

"Yes," Grisha said, lowering the weapon. "So what do you want to do?"

"I want to take out that half-track, now."

"Once we shoot them, the others will turn on us and that will be it. Our people inside still won't have a chance."

"God, you can be dense. Must be from livin' in this stone-age culture up here." Jackson's smile reflected light. "If we capture the fuckin' 'track, we can wipe those other guys out and then we don't hafta walk away from here, we can ride."

The beauty of it overwhelmed Grisha. "Yeah." Part of his fogged brain wondered why he hadn't thought of it himself.

Both men moved determinedly toward the back of the half-track, where rapidly condensing engine exhaust clouded the frigid air. They could not have asked for better cover. They crawled through the back of the machine and paused, peering through the hatch at two men facing away from them in the gun tub.

"We know you are in there," an amplified voice blared English into the night. "If you surrender, you will live."

"Come on," Grisha said, and stepped into the canvas-covered box and waited with his weapon trained on the two soldiers. A moment later Jackson stood beside him.

"Shoot when they shoot," Jackson whispered in his ear, "we don't want to draw a lot of attention."

With a cold knot of fear and determination in the pit of his stomach, Grisha nodded agreement. They sidled forward.

One of the soldiers said something and the other one nodded. The machine gun fired a burst into the door of the redoubt. Without hesitation, almost in perfect unison, Grisha and Jackson shot the soldiers-ending the burst.

Their rounds blended into the cacophony of the heavier weapon. One soldier thudded into the wall of the vehicle and slid off the gun platform and down to the floor. The other bounced off the machine gun itself, knocking the muzzle into the air, before he too collapsed on the floor of the box.

"You have two minutes to surrender," the voice thundered again. "After that we will show as much mercy as you gave Major Kominskiya."

Grisha and Benny quietly crawled up onto the gun platform. They could see eighteen men ringed around the edge of the light, waiting to charge into the redoubt.

Jackson examined the machine gun.

"I know how to operate this," he whispered through a smile.

"The officer must be inside," Grisha said. "I'll guard the hatch from the cab and shoot anyone who tries to come back here."

"I really appreciate that, man." Grisha couldn't detect any levity in Jackson's voice.

Grisha heard a tiny voice and spied a headset on the floor. He picked it up and pressed one of the phones to his ear.

“-are you doing back there?" snapped a voice in Russian "I ordered you to blow the damned door to flinders!"

"Sorry, sir," Grisha answered in that language, "I was taking a piss."

"Who is this?"

"They want us to shoot," Grisha said.

"Bitchin'." Jackson fired into the edge of the light. Five Russian soldiers died before the others realized something was amiss. Jackson swung the weapon in an arc, scything down the dumbstruck troopers.

The hatch on the cab burst open and Grisha sprayed the opening with a long burst. A scream curled up to an impossible octave and stopped. The door remained open. The machine gun ceased its thunder.

"Come out," Grisha called in Russian. "Or I'll throw in a grenade."

"
D-da
!" a strained voice said from the opening. The corporal wasn't wearing his parka, and the growing blossoms of blood soaked the chest of his field jacket. He tried to step toward them, but his legs buckled and he fell in a heap at their feet.

Grisha rolled him over with his foot. Sightless eyes regarded eternity. Grisha pulled a grenade from his parka.

Jackson frowned and held up his hand in admonition. Grisha twisted the grenade to show him the pin still intact, then he tossed it into the cab.

Silence.

"If there's anyone alive in there, they got more balls than I do," Jackson said fervently.

Grisha peeked inside, machine pistol at the ready. A Cossack captain lay crumpled on the floor in front of the seat, dead. Grisha straightened up and smiled at Jackson.

"Let's get our people and get the hell out of here."

49

West of Chena on the Russia-Canada Highway

The half-track rumbled through the night as the glow in the sky dimmed behind them. The radio ordered Captain Romanov to report to base immediately. Five minutes later the order repeated.

"Shut that damn thing off," Jackson said drowsily.

"Go to sleep," Grisha replied as he steered the 'track carefully down the RustyCan. Between them on the bench seat Wing snored lightly, her head thrown back and her cheek resting on Jackson's shoulder.

"I want to know as much about their intentions as possible." From the heavier snores at his side, Grisha knew he was talking to himself again. He had done a lot of that through this endless night.

He glanced at the compass again to see if the road had yet swung due west. Their decision to make a dash for Tanana had been greatly weighted by a surprising statement from Jackson.

"You get us there, I can get us out of Russian Amerika, if need be."

Wing argued that their objective was not escape but independence. Jackson pointed out that anyone who wished could stay in Tanana. So they tied down the wounded in the back, secured the heavy machine gun, and smashed through five kilometers of birch and spruce forest before angling over and finding the road itself.

The two in the cab with Grisha supposedly served as guards in the event they came across Russian troops. After ten miles in the cab's warm confines Wing and Jackson fell asleep. Grisha felt thankful for his three-hour nap in the redoubt.

The subarctic night lay stiff and brittle on a land cloaked with snow meters deep. The northern lights capered unappreciated above them.

As he drove he thought about Nik and wondered if his family would ever know how bravely he died. Not that it made any difference. He also wondered if the lump in his throat would ever go away.

So many good people had died in such a short time that Grisha had trouble believing he would never see them again. Chandalar Roy had not come out of the redoubt. The loss of Slayer-of-Men would be felt throughout the Dená Nation. He wondered if Malagni still lived.

The half-track bounced as it went into the ditch and Grisha groggily steered it back into the middle of the road. He had almost gone to sleep himself. He pulled his foot off the accelerator and glanced at the other two. They snored on.

The track came to a stop and he put it in neutral, stepped out of the cab, and urinated on the ground. The hatch to the troop compartment popped open and Karin stuck her head out.

"Is there time for me to do that, too?"

"Of course. How's Nathan?"

"Still in the land of morphia." She jumped down to the road. "Look the other way, please."

He grinned and looked up the road as she made water. The grin evaporated as lights bobbed toward them.

"Company," he barked. "Unlimber the machine gun."

"Yes, sir," she said and clambered back into the half-track.

Grisha jumped in the cab, turned off the headlights, and pushed Wing's leg.

"Wake up you two, we have visitors."

"Visitors?" Jackson said, rubbing his eyes.

Wing sat up straight, eyes searching quietly ahead as if she had been wide awake the entire time.

"They have to be Russians," she said.

"Why?" Grisha asked. "Couldn't it be a relief column from Tanana?"

"It's only one half-track, not a column," Wing said. "But it could still be our people."

"What's the DSM frequency?" Jackson asked.

"One-oh-four kilocycles," Wing said.

Jackson turned the dial on the radio. Static popped and crackled on a discernible carrier wave. He picked up the microphone.

"Chena Two to approaching vehicle. Identify yourself or suffer the consequences."

Grisha put the half-track in gear and steered for the edge of the road. They all waited as the static grew in volume.

"Maybe it is Russians," Grisha muttered.

"Chena Two, who's in charge there?" The voice from the radio spoke English with a Yukon River accent.

"Identify yourself," Jackson snapped.

The lights slowed and came to a halt. Grisha estimated the other vehicle to be about three hundred meters from them. He twisted around and opened the hatch behind his head.

"Karin, you ready with the machine gun?"

"Yes, but I'm freezing my butt off. Let's shoot the bastards and get it over with."

"Not yet. I'll tell you when to shoot."

"Okay," she said resignedly.

"What does 'Tanana One' mean to you, Chena Two?" the voice asked hesitantly.

Wing grabbed the microphone out of Jackson's hand.

"It means Blue is in charge. Please put her on."

"Blue Bostonman?" Grisha said. "From the labor camp?"

She nodded her head and grinned, bending the scar nearly double.

"Wing!" a new voice issued from the speaker. "I would recognize your voice anywhere, even over a crappy Russian radio."

"Where are you going, Blue?"

"To join you. Before I say anything more, blink your headlamps for the number of brothers Malagni has."

"All right." Wing stared through the windshield at the distant lights.

"Flash the headlights twice," she said in a tight voice.

Grisha complied.

"I see you, Wing!" Blue said. "Meet you halfway."

Wing hung up the microphone. "Do it."

Grisha let the clutch out and the half-track moved forward slowly, clanking along in low gear. "You're sure this is okay?" he asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Didn't that sound like Blue to you?" she asked.

"Yeah, but I couldn't see if anyone was holding a gun to her head or not."

"If somebody had been holding a gun to her head, she would have used the term 'squaw candy' when she spoke to me."

"Tell her we're hungry," Grisha said tersely. "Ask her if she has anything to eat."

"Jesus, but you're paranoid," Wing said with a growl. She picked up the microphone and repeated the question.

"Sure, we got food." Blue's voice all but chirped over the radio. "We got caribou, moose jerky, and even some squaw candy. I remember how much you like squaw candy, Wing."

"Oh, no," Wing said quietly. "She's a prisoner. How are we going to get her out of there alive?"

"We might not," Jackson said, now fully awake. "Depends on what the Russians have in mind."

"They don't know that we know they're there," Grisha said. "They expect us to be surprised."

"And defeated," Wing said with a ghastly smile. Abruptly she pulled the hood of her parka up, fastened the front, pushed open the hatch, and crawled into the back of the half-track. "Pull up and stop beside them, Grisha," she said over her shoulder. "Take out the driver. We'll handle the show from that point."

"Who's 'we' ?"

"Warrior women." The hatch slammed behind her.

Grisha glanced over at Jackson. The Californian stared steadily at the approaching lights.

"Y'know," Jackson said absently, "if I'd met someone like that at the right point in my life, I might have developed a thing for women."

"I don't think I want to hear about it just now," Grisha said. He picked up the microphone. "Hey, Blue. This is Grisha. Remember me?"

"Grisha?" Her voice sounded tentative. "The little skinny guy who blew the head off that pig of a Cossack sergeant?"

Grisha smiled. Blue knew her warning had been interpreted.

"Yeah," he said with a chuckle, "I've even killed a couple more since then."

Only fifty meters separated the two half-tracks. The other half-track suddenly stopped. Grisha braked and took his machine out of gear; the fight would be here.