“Within ten hours I will remind you of your words,” Pelagian said with a ghastly smile. “Stay alert. When they discover how we have tricked them, they will be livid and out for blood.”
“Our blood?” the sergeant said.
“You’re Dená, aren’t you? Watch out for our people in front of you.”
Pelagian moved on down the mountainside and Magda followed.
45
“Major, we’ve made contact with the enemy.”
Riordan looked up from the map spread across his lap, glanced at General Myslosovich, then opened the door of the command car. “Show me where they are on this map, Charly.”
The two scouts looked at the map for a moment and Charly put his finger down next to the town. “They’re right there, Major. Aren’t they, Bondi?”
The other scout nodded his head. “That’s where we find them, sir. Right on the other side of the town.”
“They weren’t in the redoubt?”
“The gates of the redoubt are gone; maybe they burned them, I dunno,” Charly said, rubbing his neck. “The whole village seems to be deserted; we didn’t see anyone. So we went on down the road and saw a scout car headed toward us.”
“A Russian scout car?”
“Yes, Major, with a Zukhov tank right behind it.”
“They’re not supposed to have any tanks!” Myslosovich blurted.
“Sorry, sir, but I know a Zukhov when I see one,” Charly said evenly.
“I don’t doubt you, soldier,” Myslosovich said quickly. “This is getting entirely out of hand.”
Riordan unhooked the microphone from its clip on the dashboard. “This is Major Riordan, I want all three tanks to the front of the column—now.”
Three clicks on the small speaker confirmed his orders.
The general frowned. “I thought your batteries were depleted.”
Riordan glanced at him. “Our long-range radios are depleted. We can communicate only between our units.”
The general held his gaze for a moment then turned to the scout.
“How many tanks did you see, soldier?” Myslosovich asked.
“At least three, General. But there was a lot of dust obstructing visibility and they were on a bend in the road. There could have been fifty behind it.”
“You said there was a column moving up from Tetlin,” Riordan said. “Could it be them?”
Myslosovich frowned and pondered. Riordan could almost see wheels turning and smell burning gear oil. Riordan stopped and coughed, knuckled one eye.
“They would have to be moving at top speed to be that far in such a short period of time. Based on the column I brought north, they couldn’t have covered that much distance. This has to be the renegades from St. Anthony with their DSM allies.”
“Good enough for me,” Riordan said, picking up the microphone again. “All units, prepare to engage.”
46
1,000 meters over Russian Amerika
First Lieutenant Jerry Yamato thought the rudder control seemed a little sluggish, but the Grigorovich fighter roared forward, as if eager to see what was over the next ridgeline. He had taken hits from both columns. Fire from the first target had only hit his left wing once, a mere nothing in the greater scope of things.
The second column put three rounds through the cockpit and God knew how many elsewhere in the aircraft. One of the rounds had blown a hole in the left side of the fuselage and shattered part of the windscreen. The second round had taken out the instrument panel with a great shower of sparks.
The third round had ripped along the side of his left thigh muscle, cutting him open. He had immediately tied it off with his belt. But Christ almighty, it hurt!
So far he had fought off the lightheadedness he recognized as a symptom of shock, and concentrated on just crossing the next ridge while ignoring the other ridgelines beyond his position. Not knowing the condition of his bird bothered him more than he thought possible. Perhaps it was because he had nothing else to think about?
“No, dammit, it’s because I might be low on fuel or running hot!” he bellowed into the wind whipping past the open cockpit. One thing he knew for certain: an enclosed cockpit was infinitely superior to the alternative. All his life he had read stories about the early days of aviation—open cockpits, goggles and scarves catching the wind, seat-of-the-pants navigation.
He decided they had to be crazy or so bored with their lives they would do anything for excitement.
The next ridge passed beneath his wings and he peered through his goggles, trying to pierce the hazy air. A ribbon of reflection snaked from one side to the other and he realized he was looking at a river, a big river.
“Damn, that has to be the Yukon!” he shouted.
He ducked his head and studied the map Romanov had given him. According to the map, Fort Yukon was right on the river. He jerked his head up and searched for signs of civilization.
Too high, he decided, pushing the stick forward and arcing toward earth. Still nothing. The banks all looked wild and untouched to him.
He had to go right or left… which? How much fuel remained in the tank? Had one of the rounds holed his fuel tank?
The fact he didn’t have a parachute throbbed in the back of his head like a whiskey hangover. He had to land safely or die. Flipping a mental coin, he angled to the left and flew directly over the river.
The river made a bend to the left and he put the Grigorovich over and followed the water. Something glinted in the distance on the right side of the river. He dropped to what he thought might be three thousand feet and stared hard at the spot.
And there was a village. Just behind it was a runway. Something big and fast roared over him and he snapped his head around to see a P-61 twist into a turn.
He pushed the lever to lower the landing gear and it stuck halfway. Fear ran through him like ice water. He had to lower his landing gear so they knew he didn’t want to fight. So he could land!
He pulled the lever back and slammed it forward again. It stuck in the middle again. The Grigorovich rocked violently to the right as the P-61 buzzed him again.
He sat back and held both hands in the air, waiting. The wind beat on his gloves, tried to tear the sleeves off his flying suit. And a P-61 edged up beside him while the pilot closely inspected him.
Jerry pointed down and mimicked landing gear lowering. Then he slammed the lever forward as hard as he could.
The other pilot gave him a thumbs-up and peeled away. Jerry put his bird into a bank and lined up with the runway. He felt so happy he could almost cry.
47
Delta
“Lieutenant Colonel Janeki, our scouts report Russian armor ahead and in battle formation.”
“Have you tried to contact them by radio, Vladimir?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Colonel. No response. We seem to get a lot of interference around here.”
“I don’t like this, gentlemen,” he said to the officers gathered around him.
“We know that St. Anthony Redoubt has gone over to the enemy, Lieutenant Colonel,” Major Brodski said. “They wouldn’t answer us anyway.”
“Have you been able to raise Third Armored?”
“No, Lieutenant Colonel, that interference again.”
“Where the hell are they? They couldn’t have been completely annihilated.”
“Perhaps their communications have been knocked out?” Captain Vladimir said in a hopeful tone.
“Or perhaps they have been overrun by the damned Dená and their California allies.” Janeki spat in contempt.
“If that’s the case, Lieutenant Colonel, would there still be Russian crews in those tanks?” Major Brodski asked.