“Hey, who’re you? Where’s Anita?”
“I’m Gri—, Colonel Grigorievich. The stewardess was injured and I’ve got her strapped down in a seat.”
“I’ll take care of it, Captain,” the man said to the pilot. He pulled off the headset and unstrapped. “I’m Navigation Officer Donahue. After you, sir.” He pushed Grisha ahead of him.
Anita’s ashen and drawn face testified to her pain and shock. Donahue examined the woman. “Broken arm.” He opened an overhead compartment, produced a first-aid kit and gave Anita an injection. He straightened her arm, wrapped splints around it, and positioned it in a sling before looking up at Grisha again.
“Who fired on us?” Grisha asked.
“Don’t know, Colonel Grigorievich. But we nailed both of them.”
“Were we attacked over British airspace?”
“No, sir. Alaskan.”
Grisha nodded at the nearly comatose Anita. “I’ll watch her if you like.”
“Thank you, we appreciate that.” Donahue beckoned toward the flight deck. “If her condition changes, just let us know.”
Grisha strapped himself in. The aircraft hummed swiftly through the night and he wondered if he would return in time to see the ice go out on the Yukon.
62
Colonel Konstine Kronov, seemingly oblivious of the motion-picture camera, grinned widely at Major Douglas. Both men, now slightly drunk, had dropped formalities some days before.
“But, Konni, why doesn’t the Czar modernize Alaska?”
“It’s my theory he has a secret agenda, James,” Kronov said carefully, struggling tipsily with English. “An economically viable Alaska would pose the same threat that the Indians are currently pressing. By themselves, however, they do not have the political and military clout to make the transition to a true republic.”
“You don’t think they can win this fight?”
“Not alone.” Kronov leered and tossed back more vodka. “And if you or any of the other NATO members assist them, you are risking a full-fledged war on this continent, and perhaps Europe as well.”
“Why would the Czar fight a war over Alaska?”
“Would not your president fight a war over Pennsylvania? Wouldn’t the French fight over Quebec?”
“Ask the British,” Douglas said.
“Pah! The British,” Kronov said with a rude laugh. “Let them posture all they wish, who else would want it? But France still owns Quebec.”
Major Douglas opened his mouth then pursed his lips without speaking. He regarded Kronov with stony eyes for a long moment before continuing. “The Czar hasn’t developed Alaska. He’s kept it in the nineteenth century for ninety years longer than any other part of North America. Why would he fight for it at this late date?”
“Do you really believe that a mere colonel, who happens to be a distant cousin, has the ear of Czar Nicholas? What his majesty wishes and doesn’t wish is of paramount consequence to me, but there’s damn all I can do about it, nyet?” Kronov tossed back another inch of vodka.
“Why do you think the Czar will fight for Alaska?” Douglas persisted.
“Because he thinks he can sell it,” Kronov said airily. “Just as his great-grandfather attempted to do in the 1860s.”
“To keep it from being absorbed by Canada,” Douglas said triumphantly.
“British Canada,” Kronov corrected.
“Then”—Douglas’s face became animated and his eyes wetly caught the light—“do you believe he could be bought off?”
“Good question, Major. But who would do the buying, and more importantly, who’s willing to be bought?”
Douglas blinked owlishly before recovering. “Nobody would be bought. But a nation might be aided financially by its neighbors.”
Kronov laughed so hard his eyes watered.
“What’s so damned funny?”
“You, you Yankees. You still think you’re the only ones in the world who have a brain or know how to use it.” Kronov’s countenance went steely.
“One of the most unsavory parts of being a Russian is knowing that our forefathers of the 1850s allowed themselves to be allied to you inept losers in your short civil war.”
“You can relax now.” Douglas shot to his feet, his lips a firm line. “I think we’re through for today.”
Two rangers eased into the room and stood on either side of Kronov.
The Russian stood and gave Douglas an exaggerated bow. “My thanks for the excellent vodka. Next time we should have bourbon, to which I’m sure you are more accustomed.”
Douglas nodded, turned sharply on the balls of his feet, and marched over to the door.
“Good luck on your Indian purchase,” Kronov called gaily as the door slammed.
63
“Who goes there?” The voice held menace.
“Friend! I am Georg Hepner, from Klahotsa, sent by Kurt Bachmann. I need to talk to Major Riordan.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them and come forward.”
Hepner put his hands on his head and moved forward in his customary loose, rangy amble. “I was here two weeks ago,” he said in a friendly way.
“Yet you returned?” the mercenary said, motioning him to move down the trail. “If I could get out of this miserable mosquito factory there’s no bloody way I would come back. I thought Scotland was a waste of dirt until I beheld this great sponge.”
“Some of us like it here.”
“Aye, you’ll find the daft nae matter where ye travel. Stand tall, this is as far as I go.” The mercenary was a raw-skinned man with a head of burnt orange hair and muscles that rippled under his shirt. He seemed sure of himself.
“Corporal of the Guard! Visitor at Post Three!”
Two men stepped out of the brush as if they had been waiting for their cue. “Who is this, now? Corporal Harris, Timothy me boy?”
“I’m not your bloody boy, O’Hara. This man says he was here last week, yet he came back for another visit. I’d say he was daft, wouldn’t you?”
O’Hara looked Hepner up and down. O’Hara stood a foot shorter than the sentry, yet looked far more dangerous.
“Who are you and what’s your business?”
“Name’s Hepner. Work with Kurt Bachmann up at Klahotsa. Kurt’s got an offer for your boss.”
“If it’s more than five California dollars, we’ll take it,” O’Hara said with a laugh. Harris and the large black man behind O’Hara laughed with him.
“What?” Hepner said.
“What do you expect?” Harris said. “He already told me he likes it here.”
“I got ’im, Timothy, you go back to your post.”
Harris nodded and disappeared in the brush.
“You visited us about two weeks ago, am I wrong?”
“Yes, I mean no!” Hepner didn’t like people playing with his mind.
“Yes, I was here two weeks ago. You’re probably wrong in some very fundamental ways but I haven’t the time to really help, or care.”
O’Hara grinned. “Yer not as dumb as you look, that’s good. You follow me and Private N’go will take up the rear.”
The black man smiled, revealing brilliant white teeth filed to points. Hepner shuddered despite himself. He followed O’Hara through the mercenary camp, which consisted of dozens of tents, and stopped at a tent three times the size of any other in sight.
A small man emerged. French captaine boards rode his shoulders and he stopped at the sight of O’Hara. “I have explained already there is no whiskey to be had, Corporal O’Hara.”