The Russian scout car stopped to see what he was going to do. He zoomed over the car and bored toward the main column at full speed. At 500 meters, he began firing.
42
RustyCan near Delta
“We are being attacked by an antique?” Lieutenant Colonel Samedi Janeki shrieked at his driver. “Order them to shoot that damned thing down!”
“Yes, Colonel.” As the driver radioed back to the main column, heavy fire erupted behind the car.
“Good. They didn’t wait.”
The Grigorovich finished its strafing run and roared back up into the sky. It didn’t seem to be hit, nor did it return.
“I want an officers’ meeting in ten minutes. Have an appropriate space created.”
The driver snapped orders into his microphone, passing coronaries on down the chain of command. He pulled the car over to the side of the road and parked.
“Would the colonel prefer tea or vodka at the meeting?”
“Provide both, let them choose. Leave me be now; you make the decisions for ten minutes.”
The driver grinned and slid the thick glass window shut, sealing off the passenger compartment from the driver. Two trucks screeched to a stop beside them and men boiled out with equipment and began chopping down trees and clearing ground.
Lieutenant Colonel Janeki flipped through the sheaf of papers from his dispatch case.
“There,” he muttered. His finger ran smoothly down the page and stopped near the bottom. “St. Anthony Redoubt is garrisoned by fifteen officers and ninety lower ranks. Minimal artillery, three tanks, and support vehicles.”
He raised his face to the glass and peered through it. “But they have an aircraft.” His soft voice aided his train of thought. “So what else might they have which St. Nicholas Redoubt doesn’t know about?”
His mind didn’t register the tent being erected by twelve silent, sweating men. Personnel swarmed around the car like crazed hornets, but none touched its polished metal sides.
Lieutenant Colonel Janeki glanced at his watch, straightened his tie, and rapped on the window with his swagger stick.
The driver immediately got out, came around the car, and opened the door closest to the now complete tent. Three enlisted men stood at attention behind the two tables laden with meat, cheese, vodka bottles, cups, and a samovar already emitting the aroma of steaming tea. Seven officers stood in a precise rank on the other side of the tent.
The lieutenant colonel walked to the table and picked up a slice of ham but, before putting it into his mouth, said, “Gentlemen, please join me.”
The officers crowded around the table filling plates, grabbing and filling cups. By the time they were ready to eat, the lieutenant colonel had strolled to the far end of the tent and rapped his swagger stick on a large-scale map of the area.
“This is the situation. The garrison at St. Anthony has mutinied and gone over to the Dená rabble. According to the roster forwarded from St. Nicholas Redoubt, we are talking about a hundred men. They have three tanks and assorted support vehicles.”
“Then the aircraft was not from the redoubt, Colonel?” Major Brodski asked.
“It had to be, who else would attack us?”
“Did the Third Armored have any aircraft, Colonel?” Major Chenkov asked.
“No.”
“So if they have an aircraft, no matter how antiquated, what else might they have that the high command does not know about?” Major Brodski’s tone edged into the rhetorical.
“You’ve asked the same question I had earlier, Leonid,” Colonel Janeki said, slapping the crop against his thigh. “I think we should prepare to assault a heavily armed and well-entrenched foe. The Indians are probably under Russian command.”
He stopped and thought for a moment. “Pyotr, request St. Nicholas to send me the personnel file on the commander of St. Anthony, soonest.”
“Yes, Colonel,” a stocky major yelped. He saluted and left the tent at a run.
“Leonid, leave one tank at the rear, move the others up to the front rank. Nothing makes the enemy piss his pants faster than seeing a wall of Russian armor advancing toward them, guns blazing.”
“Yes, Colonel.” The major turned to a lieutenant and spoke quickly. The lieutenant left the tent at a run, stuffing a last bite of sausage into his mouth.
“Did that damned plane do any damage?”
“Twelve men dead, another eighteen wounded. One lorry totaled and bits and pieces shot off the tanks and APCs here and there.” Major Brodski took another sip of vodka.
“So all they did was slap our face.” The lieutenant colonel’s facial muscles tightened and he stared at his officers through slitted eyes. “Before this is over, I want that pilot in front of me.”
43
3 miles south of Delta
Major Timothy Riordan felt tense enough to shatter. His scouts had warned of a large Russian redoubt ahead of them, so they had taken the first northbound secondary road they found. After much twisting and turning, reconnoitering of other side roads and many dead ends, they had at last found the Russia-Canada Highway.
Knowing they still were not beyond discovery by a Russian patrol, Riordan didn’t allow himself any elation over the successful evasion. Now one of the scouts was tearing back to the column on his motorcycle.
“Stop the column!” Riordan snapped. He stepped out of the command car as the scout slid to a stop beside him.
“Major, there’s a Russian column coming toward us. There’s something odd about them—they don’t have any scouts out. I damn near ran into them.”
“From the north? How big of a column?”
“Bigger’n we are, Major.”
“Damn. Well, I guess we have to try diplomacy.” Riordan turned to his command sergeant major. “Rig me a white flag, John. We’re going to make some new friends.”
Captain René Flérs, still sitting in the command car, said, “Do you think we shall ever arrive at Klahotsa, Majeur?”
“René, if you can’t say something positive, just shut the hell up.”
A white flag was tied to the radio aerial on the command car. Riordan swung into the seat next to the driver. “Let’s go meet some nice Russians. Oldre,” he said to the scout, “get up there and stop in the middle of the road when you see them. Wave a white flag. We’re right behind you.”
“Somebody have a spare white flag?” Oldre asked in a petulant tone.
“Here, Tom, just wave this.” Sergeant Major Douglas handed him a dirty pillowcase. “It’s close enough.”
Oldre motored away.
“Okay,” Riordan said to the driver. “Keep up with him. Sergeant Major, keep the column here; put out pickets.”
The car accelerated after the motorcycle. Oldre stopped in the middle of the road less than half a mile from the Freekorps column. He parked the motorcycle in the middle of the crude road and waved the cloth over his head.
The command car pulled up behind the motorcycle.
“Do not show a weapon unless we’re fired on,” Riordan ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the driver said, frowning at the advancing Russian scout car.
Riordan slipped out and, holding both hands over his head, walked up the road toward the Russians. The scout car slowed and stopped fifty meters away. Two soldiers with rifles jumped out and aimed at Riordan.
“Hold your fire,” he yelled. “I am not your enemy.”
A lieutenant followed the soldiers. He kept his pistol holstered, but his right hand firmly rested on the butt. He hesitated for a moment, and then walked toward Riordan.
“You wear a uniform I do not recognize. Who are you?”
“I am Major Riordan, commanding officer of the International Freekorps.” He lowered his arms.