Russian Amerika (44 page)

One man limped among them using a rifle for a crutch, directing, shouting orders, and firing at the Russians with a pistol. The man stumbled and fell and two soldiers who had been waiting for his injury to take over produced a litter and rolled him onto it. They carried him back toward Chena Redoubt from where a number of auxiliary vehicles emerged and roared toward the battle zone.

The last unscathed Russian tank reversed up the far bank-onto an antitank mine. The explosion ripped open the bottom and set off ammunition inside. It went up like fireworks on the Czar's birthday.

Two soldiers in khaki jumped into her firing pit. The charging grizzlyinsignia of the Republic of California Army adorned their left shoulders.

"You okay, buddy?" one asked. He stopped and took a harder look.

"Sorry, ma'am, didn't expect to find a woman out here."

"Water," she pleaded.

He gave her a plastic canteen and she gulped down a third of it.

"I'm Major Wing Demoski, D.R.A., who is your leader?"

"Some Dená colonel, what's his name, Ernie?"

The other soldier thought for a moment. "Griz-something, I think. I don't know, they never introduce me to the senior officers anymore."

"Hell of a guy, though," the first one said.

But Wing was already running toward the distant litter as tears threatened her vision.

85

Rainbow Valley

Yamato, drenched with sweat, stopped his drive for the canyon wall and carefully rolled over onto his back behind a large rock. Muffling the sound with his fingers and thumb, he unzipped his flight suit all the way to his navel. Never, he decided, had he been hotter than this, ever.

He briefly closed his eyes and willed his heartbeat to slow closer to normal. Being in superb physical condition, his heart rate dropped to normal after two and a half minutes. He edged up and peeked over the rock.

Not fifty feet away a man sat on a rock with a rifle across his lap, staring fixedly at the tank turret where he had almost nailed himself a lieutenant. Fifty feet was at the edge of accurate range for a .45. Jerry wondered if he could hit the man before he could return fire with the rifle.

At fifty feet the rifle wouldn't miss, not that one anyway. He eased back down and rested, weighing his options. The guy looked like crap, all beat up and bloody.

Hell, if I just take a nap,
he
thought
, when I wake up the guy would
probably be dead.

It was the "probably" that kicked doubt loose in his mind. He couldn't afford to take the chance, not if he wanted to try and win Andrea back. The vision of his ex-fiancé’s naked body undulated through his mind for a moment before resentment kicked in and he refocused on his current situation.

His shoulder ached and he realized this was an excellent opportunity to void his bladder. Easing over onto his uninjured side, he unzipped and quietly pissed into a windblown depression under a rock. He groaned with pleasure, figuring the constant breeze would whip the sound away from the stonelike sentinel.

They hadn't covered this situation in flight school or survival school. If the guy was charging from a hundred meters away, or attacking him with a knife at close quarters, Jerry would know what action to take. But when your opponent is at the extreme range of your only weapon and possesses a weapon of superior range, what the hell do you do?

Woodcraft didn't work here, so he had to think with the military part of his brain. Was it possible to get another fifteen feet closer to him? He knew at thirty-five feet he could hit his target.

The soldier looked next to death. But was he? What had he ever heard about Russians?

Alcoholic peasants with a penchant for exhibitionist self-pity. But he realized he was basing his opinion on Elena, an old girlfriend from the Ukraine, and was probably mentally slandering a lot of fine Russians. His friend John had married her.

He couldn't worry about John, he had to look out for himself. What had they said in the briefing? He hadn't been paying attention to the usually boring preflight facts. Once they identified the mission and gave the pilots the weather forecast, Jerry usually allowed his attention to wander because most of the rest of it was for flight commanders and superior officers. First lieutenants performed as ordered.

He knew he had heard it, could he remember what he heard?

Oh, yeah. They said "seasoned combat troops."

So was this guy sufficiently handicapped that he wouldn't hear a clunky pilot squirming up behind him? Options being limited, he was going to find out the hard way. He felt rested and hungry, time for dinner.

He rolled onto his knees and elbows and began squirming toward the soldier.

86

Second Battle of Chena

Grisha's leg radiated agony throughout his body. When it snapped during landing, shock and adrenaline walled off the pain. But now that they insisted on bouncing him around on a litter his adrenaline had ebbed and the shock didn't dissipate anything.

"Ouch, dammit! Can you people slow down?"

"Sorry, Colonel," the one in back puffed. "But there's lots more people need picked up back there."

Immediately chagrined, Grisha said, "I'm sorry, soldier. Halt, both of you!"

They stopped and stared at him.

"There's an ambulance coming, or what serves for one. I'm away from the fighting. Leave me here. Go take care of someone who really needs help."

They sat the litter down and gently lifted him onto the moss and flowers. Both men stood and saluted. "We'll follow you anywhere, Colonel," the corporal said. They raced away toward the carnage where a few bursts still stuttered.

Grisha lifted his binoculars and viewed the Russian line on the far side of the Chena. Smoke poured from shattered tanks. Russian soldiers ran toward the rear, only a few pockets here and there retreated in an orderly fashion. For the moment, the Dená Republik Army held the field.

He wondered how much time the Russians would need to regroup before hitting them again, and how long they had before the full column arrived. Could they stop that much armor? Even the lowest private could see they had already given their all.

Four P-61s roared over the battlefield followed by three more, flying wingtip to wingtip. The Dená and R.O.C. soldiers cheered. The Russian retreat picked up speed. Grisha felt the tide of battle shift to their side despite the imminent threat of more Russian armor. Owning the sky made a hell of a difference.

He heard the ambulance close behind him. Somebody ran toward him from the battle zone. Grisha peered through the binoculars again.

At that point the figure threw off her helmet and the deep black hair fanned out in her wake.

"Wing!"

Something in his chest released and tears of joy ran down his cheeks. He had been so careful not to think about her, not to worry, not to dwell. And the whole time he'd kept her locked carefully in his heart, knowing he really didn't want to live without her.

The ambulance skidded to a stop next to him and two U.S. Army medics jumped out. "Where ya hit, Mac?"

Grisha spared them a glance. "Left leg broke when I hit the ground." He turned his attention back to Wing.

They slit his pants leg open. One made a small sound in his throat.

"Simple fracture, but this is still gonna hurt a bit."

Wing waved urgently, wanting to be seen. He waved in response and she slowed to a trot. His eyes searched her as she approached, looking for harm, fearing damage.

Sweat ran through the streaked gunpowder on her face. One of the epaulets on her field jacket flapped, cut by a bullet. Dirt and moss matted her hair.

Grisha had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.

She panted as she came up to him, stopped, and saluted.

"Good . . . to . . . see you, Colonel." She smiled, the scar on her cheek wishboned together. "Christ, I've missed you, Grisha."

The medics pulled back and watched in astonishment.

He spread his arms and she knelt and hugged him close.

"Hell, Sarge," one of the medics said. "Maybe we're in the wrong outfit."

"Officers!" Sarge snorted.

Grisha pulled her face to his and kissed her.

"You want us to come back later, Colonel?" Sarge said with heavy sarcasm.

Grisha and Wing pulled away from each other, laughing.

"No, Sergeant, I'll be right with you. I just have to ask the lieutenant colonel something." Grisha stared into Wing's face. "I know the war isn't over yet. But, will you marry me anyway?"

"Yes." She kissed him again and broke away. "Okay, guys, fix him up. I need him in good shape for the honeymoon."

"Not to mention the war," Grisha said.

The corporal grabbed him around the chest and the sergeant gripped his ankle and expertly pulled his leg straight.

Spots danced in his vision, thickened, grayed out everything around him.

"I'm so very tired," he said. Then he slipped away from them.

87

Rainbow Valley

Sergeant Cermanivich began to wonder if he had actually hit the pilot. Most people would have moved by now. He had seen nothing.

Anxiety abruptly surged through him. Could he see anyone moving if they stayed on the ground? How to know?

He stretched his leg out, setting off the waves of pain.
Some soldier
you are,
he
thought
, can't even get off your fat ass
. He stopped moving, waiting for the sharp pain to subside.

Metal scraped rock behind him and he twisted, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder. Trying unsuccessfully to ignore his sudden, debilitating agony and to see through fresh blood, he hesitated. A weapon fired and his rifle burst out of his hands, nearly taking his trigger finger with it.

The impact slammed him sideways and he felt his butt slide off the edge of the rock. He fell onto the rock-riddled ground. Magnified pain shot through him and he screamed his way into darkness.

"C'mon, wake up."

Something stung his cheek.

"C'mon, Ivan, wake up."

Again the stinging. Rudi Cermanivich tried to open his eyes, but they would not obey him.

"C'mon-"

"Do not strike me again," Cermanivich said in English, the language in which he was being addressed. "I am injured all over, my body does not respond as it should."

"I have a pistol. If you make any sudden moves I will hurt you."

Cermanivich barked a laugh that turned into a painful cough. "If I make sudden move
I
will hurt me." He slowly raised his hand to his face and rubbed at the bloody crust around his eyes.

"Do you have water? I need some on my face."

A moment later a dollop splashed in his eyes. He rubbed briskly and felt his eyelids tug open. The light blinded him and he squinted. The throbbing in his head intensified.

"What's your name, Sergeant?"

Rudi blinked up at the man, realizing for the first time his opponent was an Asian. "Sergeant Rudi Cermanivich, Imperial Tank Korps, Flash Division. Do you wish my service number also?"

The pilot smiled for a moment. "No, that's enough. This battle is over for us, why are you still trying to kill me?"

"For you, perhaps the battle is over. For me, never. Who are you and why are you on Russian soil?"

"First Lieutenant Gerald Yamato, 117th Fighter Squadron, Republic of California Air Force. I'm not on Russian soil, I'm in the Dená Republic, I think."

"Kalifornia? For what reason do you make war on us?"

"Ask the politicians, I'm just following orders."

"Who do you fight for, and against?" Rudi demanded.

"We're aiding the Dená Republic and fighting against you, the Russian Empire."

"There is no Dená Republik, how can you aid what does not exist?"

"The Dená Republik has been a recognized country for a week, at least. Are you guys supposed to be pretty hot in combat, or what?"

"We are-were crack tank group. Four days ago we disembark from ship which picked us up near Chinese border week before. We did not anticipate aircraft nor any other opposition."

"You're in a war zone, it isn't like 'San Diego-Day of Infamy' or anything like that."

"We were surprised, but nothing on the scale of your 1931 defeat, no." Rudi grinned, which hurt. "But I was not aware of your country's role in this insurrection."

"This is our third day at war, so don't feel bad about not getting the word. Where are you hurt?"

"Shorter list if you ask where I am not hurt."

"Can you stand?"

"I don't know. Will try."

He pushed himself up and the pain level rose with him. Rudi leaned against the rock he had fallen from and tried to breathe without hurting. Never before in his life had he endured this much pain.

Am I going to die here
? he wondered. His heart slowed from a stampede to mere gallop and the pain receded. Slowly he turned and faced the rock, put his hands at shoulder level, and tried to stand.

Stars danced through his head and blurred his vision. Sensation deserted him as darkness charged.

"Just what I need, an injured prisoner." Jerry Yamato spat on a rock and finished adjusting the sergeant's comatose form on the litter he had fashioned from the plentiful willows along the river.

His stomach growled and, as if in response, so did the sergeant's. Food needed to be found, and soon. Jerry worked his eyes slowly over the terrain, hoping to see movement.

They had been relatively quiet for some time now. Perhaps game might be available.

And I will get it how
?

The sergeant's rifle was junk. The .45 slug had smashed the receiver and trigger mechanism. At the time, he had been aiming for the Russian's head.

The man was probably going to die long before he could get him any medical help. The temptation to just shoot him and put him out of his misery passed through Jerry's mind. He shuddered in revulsion, disgusted with himself.

"I've got to at least try and help him."

He figured he was about a half mile from his parachute and harness. Dragging the sergeant that far shouldn't be too much of a problem. Then the harness and chute would be of immeasurable help.