Russian Amerika: Chapter Sixty

60 - Russia-Canada Highway

    The ride west to Tanana proved wearisome and tedious. Blue retreated into herself and spoke only when addressed. Grisha quickly tired of initiating one-sided conversation and lapsed into moody silence.

    A new fortification bristled with armament on the near bank of the Yukon River.

    "If the gate is breached, the bridge blows up," Blue said. "All the people on this side are volunteers."

    "Is there anyone in this army who isn't a volunteer?" Grisha asked. The truck rumbled across the bridge and he stared at the rotten ice on the Yukon. "When will the ice go out?"

    "Any day now," Blue said, clearly pleased to dwell on a safe subject. "We have a lottery going for the day and hour it goes. The engineers built a little box that's hooked to a clock on the shore. When the cable pulls on the clock it stops running - the ice has officially gone out and we know the winning time."

    Grisha laughed. "Sounds like morale is high on the Yukon."

    "It is. And let me tell you, Colonel Grigoriy Grigorievich is a hero to the Athabascan People. It pains me to be part of this dogshit political posturing. But it's all for the Republik, right?"

    "Right." Grisha felt embarrassed at her effusiveness. Blue remained in the scout car when Grisha got out.

    "Good luck, Grisha," she called.

    A matte-black twin-engined bomber with three gold stars triangulated on its tail waited on the runway built on the ridge behind the village, props ticking at idle. Two fighters roared in wide circles above. An entrenched anti-aircraft battery manned by Republic of California troops bristled near the taxi strip.

    Grisha entered the aircraft and a handsome, smiling woman took his bag and led him to a plush seat next to a bubble window. "My name is Anita, Colonel Grigorievich. Please sit here and fasten your seat belt. As soon as we are in the air I'll get you something to eat and drink." She disappeared from the small cabin and Grisha wondered what the rest of the aircraft held.

    The plane turned sharply and a muted roar filled the cabin. He stared out the window as they raced past the small fires outlining the field, and wondered if they were going as fast as he thought.

    Then they tilted back and roared upward.

    Once airborne, Grisha had his first beer in eight months. His last had been in T'angass the day he and Karpov picked up Valari Kominskiya for the trip north to New Archangel. Despite the memories the beer was excellent.

    Anita walked toward him carrying a steaming tray. Suddenly the plane nosed downward without warning. She and the tray slammed into the overhead and hung there as the plane arced in a dive.

    "Are we going to crash?" Grisha yelled.

    Abruptly the plane pulled up and went into a steep climb. Anita crashed to the floor and steaming food rained across the cabin. The flash of an explosion above them pulled his attention briefly to the window.

    "We're being attacked," he said to himself.

    A fighter flashed upward and a rocket ignited under its wing as both streaked out of sight.

    Grisha unbelted himself and hurried to Anita who sprawled moaning on the floor, grasping at seat legs. He picked the woman up, put her in a seat, sat beside her and strapped them both in. He intently examined her for injuries.

    A voice came from above their seats. "This is the pilot speaking. My apologies for that unannounced dive. We were under rocket attack from a bogey and I had to take evasive action. The two attacking aircraft have been destroyed. Would the stewardess please report to the flight deck? Once again, my apologies."

    Grisha unstrapped and moved through the cabin to the fight deck. He rapped on the door and then pushed it open. A man wearing a headset sitting at a console of switches and gauges looked up and his eyes widened in alarm. Beyond him were the pilot and co-pilot.

    "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.