Russian Amerika: Chapter Ten

10 - On the Tanana River Trail

    Muscular Boris Crepov earned the name "Bear" from fellow promyshlenniks, who more closely resembled the ursine race than their own. Shaggy headed, his beard spanning from mid torso nearly to his black, distrustful eyes, he moved quickly through the forest despite his almost two-meter, wide-shouldered bulk. Following the Dena' trail wouldn't have proved challenging to a St. Petersburg courtier.

    The thought made him grin.

    They don't know we're behind them. They think we were all killed in their hellish maskirovka. They have no idea that we were patiently waiting for the word, or how quickly we moved out.

    The mixed force of cossacks, promyshlenniks, and Imperial Army rangers had been chosen for speed and woodcraft. At the last minute the general in charge of the mission had ordered the tank and regular infantry to accompany the ranger force. "Insurance," he said.

    Insured to slow them down! Crepov thought contemptuously.

    The cossacks had wanted to charge into the construction site. Bear Crepov knew better. He'd already been at two such sites in the past. There would be nobody there and the Indians always left a maskirovka - deception.

    When he asked those he guided for a volunteer, six cossacks and two army rangers stepped forward growling. He chose the biggest cossack and instructed him to look in every building, to carefully examine the whole area for fool traps. Through his binoculars he saw the man snatch up the Kalashnikov in the middle of the square and wave triumphantly before he and all the buildings around him were blown to fiery pieces.

    That slowed both the cossacks and rangers down and they no longer questioned Bear as the obvious expert-in-place.

    "Now you see what they are capable of," he told them in his rumbling voice. "The Dena' Separatist Movement are not your normal fish-stinking Indians, not only can they kill, they like it as much as we do."

    The tourist camp burned to the ground. Crepov didn't care about that. There were plenty more convicts at Tetlin Redoubt and villages full of lazy Indians to be inducted into service for the Czar if needed.

    Only twilight stopped their pursuit. Crepov knew they were close but he didn't want to stumble over them in the dark.

    Just before the sky bleeds to gray, his belly clock woke him at the final edge of blackness. He kicked his six men out of their blankets and gave them a few minutes to prepare their departure. Then he went over to where the six cossacks snored and farted. He prodded the foot of their sergeant, Tulubev.

    "There is game to be hunted, my friend."

    The cossack sergeant reared up from his blanket with a knife in his hand.

    "Don't ever touch me without first asking permission. I heard you coming and recognized your lumbering tread, otherwise you would now be holding your guts in your hands."

    "When you are done boasting, wake up your junior scouts here and see if you can find us." Crepov bared his teeth in a wolf's leer and turned back to his men.

    Tulubev barked at his men and scrambled to secure his gear.

    At least, Crepov reflected, he didn't have to deal with the 40 army troopers and two tanks left behind at the burned construction site. Somebody had to clean up that mess, and he didn't want those children in uniform out here alerting the quarry. The rangers had reluctantly stayed at the camp to protect the relief troops in the unlikely event the DSM would return.

    A breeze moved through trees now darkly silhouetted by the slowly lightening sky. He smelled someone out there who hadn't come down the trail with him, and they were close. Stepping next to his closest friend and best tracker, he bent over and whispered in his ear, "Company ahead on the trail. I'll go left."

    Wolverine White wordlessly rolled into the brush and faded like mist. Crepov stepped into the trees and moved swiftly forward. The black spruce, birch, and willow grew far enough apart to allow a man to make good time if he knew how.

    A flicker of movement, dark on dark, caught his eye. He froze, stared off to the side, slightly away from the location. Another ripple of shadow over shadow.

    Crepov gazed intently now, easily smelling the man, wondering if he was alone. A slow deliberate step revealed the clear definition of an arm braced against a tree. The spy peered around the trunk, allowing only his head to show if someone in the Russian camp should glance up.

    Bear unsheathed Claw, his razor-edged skinning knife, and crept forward, silent as death.