Alaska Republik-ARC (17 page)

The colonel’s door, at least, was dark brown oak. Jerry knocked on it twice, and then waited.

“Enter,” said a loud voice rigid with authority, never doubting instant compliance on the part of the listener.

Jerry opened the door and stepped into a comfortable office decorated with lace curtains; an oriental rug covered most of the stone floor, and the colonel rose to his feet behind a beautiful cherrywood desk.

“First Lieutenant Gerald Yamato reporting as ordered, sir.” He gave him the best salute he owned.

The colonel stiffened to attention and returned the salute. He smiled and gestured to a chair on front of Jerry.

“Please sit, Lieutenant Yamato, enjoy being off your feet while you can. I am Colonel Stephan Romanov, late of the Imperial Russian Army. Even though a number of my men and I have joined the Dená Republik Army, I have been left in nominal command of our little band of volunteers.”

“Yes, sir,” Jerry said, waiting for the real reason he was here.

Romanov smiled. “I understand that you are new to the area, flew in from California?”

“Flew most of the way, walked the rest.”

Romanov laughed far more than the situation warranted. After a few moments of deep breaths, he said, “Thank you, Lieutenant, I needed to laugh at something.”

Jerry had remained deadpan throughout. “You’re welcome, sir.”

“We’re faced with overwhelming odds. I’m sure you’ve been told we have the remnants of an angry, defeated army coming at us from the north and a fresh, fully complemented army of retribution coming at us from the south. Unless we fade into the bush, where the remains of a band of pissed-off mercenaries still lurk, we have nowhere to go.”

“What is your plan, sir?”

“Who said I had a plan?”

“You and Doyon Isaac did great quite recently. I know, I was there.”

“Yes, so I heard. In fact you showed great courage leading the infiltrators and sappers. If I was still in the Russian army I would decorate you for your actions.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jerry felt a wave of astonishment sweep over him; the colonel actually meant it!

“No, I thank you. I need your help again: what should we do here and now?”

“I’m a first lieutenant from another nation’s military; I don’t even know the country. Why are you asking me?”

“For some of the same reasons you just mentioned as well as the fact that you are a warrior. Perhaps I was at one time, but for the past eleven years I have been an administrator.”

“Have you spoken to Doyon Isaac about this?”

“Yes, he recommended you as an advisor.”

“Oh.” Jerry thought for a moment. He had sorted things out, but he needed to put them in the right order. “We need reconnaissance, on the ground and in the air. Do you still have aircraft?”

“We have a Sikorsky helicopter, which is almost repaired, and an old Grigorovich fighter.”

“A Grigorovich. How old is it?”

“I think it was built in the late ’40s.”

“Does it fly?”

“Beautifully. But our last fighter pilot left three years ago and our drunk—our helicopter pilots won’t touch it.”

“Does it still have armament?”

“A 20mm cannon on each wing and 7.62mm machine gun in each wing root. Our mechanics have kept it in perfect condition, as a pastime more than a duty. They run the engine up each month just to keep it functional. Have you flown such a plane?”

“We trained in old fighters for months before they would let us touch a P-61 Eureka. Would you allow me to take her up and see what’s going on in the neighborhood?”

“Provisionally. First we must make contact with your people so they don’t shoot you down. Then you must convince the chief mechanic that you won’t hurt his pride and joy.”

“Lead me to him, sir.”

35

Delta, Russian Amerika

“I’m fine, I tell you! Please stop this incessant questioning,” Pelagian said.

“It’s only been a few days, my husband,” Bodecia said as contritely as she could. “I wanted to be sure your wound had knitted.”

“Frank is making deals with Russians, there are armies advancing on us from both directions, and I have been completely out of the action for a week!”

“You know Colonel Romanov is an honorable man. Why are you doubting his sincerity?”

“Because he’s a Russian! They have no more control over their emotions than a Frenchman does, they just look at the situation in darker terms.”

“Pelagian, the man is part Yakut. He’s only part Russian.”

“They’re more like Eskimos than they are like us.”

“Stop talking like that this instant!” she snapped. “It’s beneath you. Where is your head?”

“I’m angry, damn it! I have worked for years to create a sovereign nation for the Dená. And when it finally starts to happen, I get winged by a damn ricochet and am on my back for a whole week.”

She shrugged. “Ricochets happen if you’re around guns. It’s not your fault, nor mine. It’s kismet, why not accept it?”

Pelagian opened his mouth, frowned, and then closed it. She watched him think and felt more in love with him than ever.

“You’re right, I haven’t accepted this for what it is.” He gazed into her eyes. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit of a shit. You’ve done an incredible job of getting Rudi and me through this. You are the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known and I’m so happy you married me.”

She hugged him tightly. “That’s one of the reasons I love you—you know when to retreat.”

They both laughed.

“I am so transparent to you,” he said.

“But I like what I see.”

The door opened and Naomi Jim filled it. “Hey, looks like my patient is much better.”

Bodecia released her husband and moved across the room to her friend. “That’s because you’re such a good nurse, Auntie Naomi.”

“Well, Auntie Bodecia, that’s because he had a healer with him. He’s a very lucky man.”

“You’re both right,” Pelagian said. “Now I have to get out of here. Where’s Frank?”

“Doyon Isaac is over at the redoubt,” Naomi said with a sniff and gave him a slight curtsy. “And you’re welcome.”

“Thank you, old friend,” he said, suddenly hugging her to him. “You know I love you.”

He vanished through the door.

“He just wanted to get around me,” Naomi said with a chuckle.

36

Port Lemhi, Republic of California

“No, Wing,” Grisha said with a sigh, “you can’t move your rook like that.”

“Damn! I thought you said this was a war game. How can soldiers only move in certain ways? It doesn’t make sense.”

General Grisha Grigorievich laughed at his wife’s expression until she impaled him with her “you’re walking on thin ice” look.

He coughed. “Look, it’s just a silly game, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried, I’m pissed! This game is too formalized to be a true depiction of war. Why did you think I’d like it?”

“You said you wanted to learn chess…”

A brisk knock rattled the door.

“Come in!” they shouted in unison, him grinning and her glaring.

Sergeant Major Nelson Tobias stepped through the door, assessed the situation, and snapped to attention. “General, Colonel, our next transport is here and they are ready for us to board.”

“Finally!” Wing said. “We’ve been here for a whole damned day!”

“Thank you, Sergeant Major. We’ll be along in a few minutes.”

“General, Colonel,” Tobias said as he nodded. The door closed behind him.

“You’ve been hell on wheels this trip,” Grisha said. “You’ve scared Tobias into acting like a subordinate instead of my mother, and you’ve got me wondering if I can talk to you without endangering my life.”

When she looked at him her eyes widened and her fierce demeanor melted into one of compassion. “Grisha, I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, you know that.”

“Not on purpose,” he said with a chuckle. “Now let’s go see what they have us doing next.” He grabbed his crutches.

They exited the building and entered a staff car, a long, dark affair with leather seats and a glass window between them and the driver. Grisha remembered the hidden microphone in the console of his boat and didn’t believe for a second that anything they said while in the car would not be recorded.

He abruptly realized he had not thought about
Pravda
for weeks, perhaps months. For the first time, he truly understood that the years skippering his boat were the last when he was truly his own master. Now he had responsibilities and interrelationships that demanded most of his time and might possibly take his life.

He was fine with that. If he could turn things back the way they were, he wouldn’t do it. Something shifted in his head and he completely accepted the turn his life had taken; not only accepted it, but welcomed it.

“Grisha, did you hear what I said?” Wing asked.

“I’m sorry, but no, I didn’t.”

“Are you feeling worse?”

“Actually I feel better than I have in a very long time. Have I told you lately that I love you?”

She laughed and his heart warmed.

“About half an hour ago, if that.”

“Oh, good. You remembered.”

The car stopped and a muscular, blonde RCN officer with a wide grin opened the door for them.

“General, Colonel, I am Lieutenant Commander Darold Hills. My friends call me ‘Bud.’ I will be your RCN liaison for the rest of your journey. Would you come with me, please?”

Grisha smelled the sea and the lush forest, transporting him emotionally to the Alexandr Archipelago. The horizon revealed a landmass in the distance. The port teemed with military life.

Huge cranes loaded transports while troops marched aboard. Bosun pipes shrilled from a variety of quarterdecks and, as they watched, a ship slipped its lines and slowly made its way toward the open water.

“Commander,” Grisha waved at the activity, “what is going on?”

Bud presented his wide, easy smile. “We’re at war, General. The Japs declared war on us in the middle of the f—, uh, the middle of the night, and we’re going to make them wish they had waited for morning and thought about it first.”

“We have been in transit. When was war declared?”

“About 0300. I’m not sure of the exact time, but they did wake me up for officers’ call.”

“Did they declare war on anyone else?”

“Not that I know of, sir. But then there are a lot of things they don’t tell me.”

A large man stood by a gangplank, waiting as if he had nothing else to do for the rest of the day. Lieutenant Commander Bud Hills saluted the man as they approached. Grisha noted the fellow had three half-inch rings on his cuffs.

“This is Commander Josh Vandenberg, also known as PacSubFlot One.”

Commander Vandenberg laughed at the expression on Grisha’s face. “Welcome to Pacific Submarine Flotilla One, General and Colonel Grigorievich. The RCS
Mako
is the most modern boat in our fleet and I’m proud to be her skipper.”

Grisha returned the salute and then shook hands with the submariner. “So you’re our next ride, Commander?”

“Yes, General, and honored to have the opportunity to be of service to two heroes of the Second Battle of Chena.”

“They tend to toss that ‘hero’ term around a bit too easily to suit me,” Wing said. “Commander, we appreciate your assistance to our cause. I thought all naval vessels were called ships, you called yours a ‘boat.’ ”

Commander Vandenberg’s grin was infectious. “Colonel, submarines were called pigboats when they first entered the fleet, since they were made out of pig iron, and the boat part has stuck.” He cracked his knuckles loudly. “We submariners persuaded the surface fellows to drop the ‘pig’ part.”

Grisha and Wing laughed.

Behind them, Grisha heard Sergeant Major Tobias chatting with Lieutenant Commander Hills.

“Please,” Commander Vandenberg said with a wide sweep of his arm, “come aboard our shark boat.”

The gangway angled down to the narrow deck of the RCS
Mako
where two men waited.

Grisha handed his crutches to Wing and grabbed the steel handrails of the gangway, swung his body back and up so both legs hooked over the railings and he easily slid down to where the railing bent and anchored itself in the bottom planks.

Both men on the submarine laughed in surprise when the general landed and stood tall in front of them.

Grisha turned and saluted the Bear flag hanging limply on the stern, then turned to the lieutenant wearing the Officer of the Deck armband.

“Request permission to come aboard, sir.”

The lieutenant returned the salute with a practiced snap and said, “Permission granted. Welcome aboard, General Grigorievich; it is an honor to meet you, sir.”

Grisha glanced down at the name tag on the officer’s uniform. “Thank you, Lieutenant Walls. What does the ‘D’ stand for?”

“Douglas, General. But I answer to ‘Doug’ just as fast.”

Wing stepped off the gangplank and poked Grisha in the ribs, muttering so only he could hear: “You ever pull another stunt like that and I
will
break your leg again!”

“And this is my lovely wife and adjutant, Colonel Wing Demoski Grigorievich. Keep her safe and I hold you all in my heart forever.”

Lieutenant Walls saluted Wing, then turned to the enlisted man at his side. “Allow me to introduce Chief of the Boat Keith Busch, our leading enlisted man.”

Grisha shook hands with the chief. “Gentlemen, I was in the Russian Army for a number of years and had little to do with the Russian Navy, so I’m at sea here in more ways than one.”

“If there’s anything we can do to make this easy for you, General, you just let us know,” Chief Busch said.

“Well, for starters, I can understand that crossed anchors indicate a bosun. But what does the device between all those stripes on your arm mean?”

“That is a diagrammatic representation of a sound wave, General. I am a master chief sonarman bumped up to serve as the senior enlisted man on the RCS
Mako
.”

“I’m sure the California Navy picks only the best.”

“General, I’m certainly not going to argue with you.”

Commander Vandenberg stepped toward the open hatch in the center of the deck. “General, Colonel, if you’ll please follow me, I’ll show you to your quarters.”