“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
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.”