“George.” Pelagian shook hands with him. “Where are your people?”
George pulled a map from his blouse pocket and spread it on a flat-topped rock. “We’re here, the California rangers are here, and the paratroopers are here.” His finger stopped moving and he looked up at Pelagian. “And you know where you’re at.”
“This is great; we have them hemmed in on three sides. All they can do is retreat toward Tetlin.”
Magda’s radio beeped and she lifted it to her ear as she keyed a response.
“Magda, this is Jerry. I just flew over a column of armor less than five miles from Delta headed your way—”
“Oh Christ! How are we—”
“Let me finish! It’s an FPN column.”
“FPN?”
“You know, First People’s Nation.”
“I know what the letters mean, but what does it mean that they’re here?”
“We are going with the assumption that they are on our side, even if they did put a few holes in my plane.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Not this time. Don’t worry. What is your tactical situation?”
“Here, talk to Dad.” She handed the radio to Pelagian. “It’s Jerry.”
“Captain Yamato, how good to hear your voice!”
Magda watched her father as he listened. When he frowned she knew he had heard “FPN.”
“What are they doing this far north? Have they declared war on Imperial Russia, too? This changes things drastically here, especially for the Russians. We have them enfiladed on three sides and I believe they are low on artillery shells.”
He listened intently again and began shaking his head. “No, no more air strikes. We’re cheek to jowl with them at this point and I would hate to lose our people to friendly fire. Your squadron has done an exemplary job so far and the Dená Republik will never forget your service and sacrifice.”
He handed the radio back to Magda. She put it to her ear and turned away from her father and Private Hoyt.
“Jerry?”
“Yes, Magda?”
“We’re so close to the end of this. Please be careful.”
“I’m a hell of a lot safer than you are, my love. Please watch your step.”
“I will. Dená Scout out.”
“Yamato out.”
She clicked off her radio and turned back to her father. “So what now?”
79
Battle of Delta
“Where is the colonel?” Kubitski demanded.
The corporal hunching behind a destroyed scout car jerked his head up when the lieutenant yelled. The tears running down the man’s face only steeled Kubitski’s resolve.
The corporal swiped his face with a sleeve and pulled himself together. “Over there, sir. No more than thirty meters. They have a bunker of sorts—rocks and machines in a circle.”
“This is nearly over, soldier.”
The lieutenant peered across the space separating him from the colonel. Very little cover to be seen or utilized. Not good.
The battle seemed to ebb, gunfire slackened to brief bursts here and there, but no mass movement. He allowed himself to think it all might be over. Perhaps Colonel Janeki had regained his senses.
“I want a full assault on that damned mountain! We have traitors to execute!” Janeki’s voice rang across the space between them. Kubitski sprinted across the open area, moving his exhausted legs as fast as he could, feeling his heart bursting from his chest and nearly allowing himself to believe he had made it.
The shock of the bullet spun him in a complete circle and knocked him to the ground. Another bullet buzzed past his head as he rolled over and scrambled to his feet. If he stopped here, he was a dead man.
He knew he owed the absence of debilitating pain to shock, and that he couldn’t function much longer. Another bullet clipped his left arm as he hurled himself at the small opening between two tanks. He stumbled and fell between the two machines. His body didn’t want to move any farther; it demanded rest.
“What! My God, it’s Lieutenant Kubitski!” Janeki shouted. “Help him! Get him a medic!”
Kubitski felt he was peering out of a deep well. Darkness had closed in on his vision and in the cone of remaining clarity stood Colonel Janeki. He forced himself to raise his wounded left arm and beckon his commander closer.
Janeki rushed to his side and bent over. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Deliverance!” Kubitski grated in a sand-filled voice and, lifting the pistol in his right hand, he shot the colonel through the brain. All went dark, but it was a good dark.
80
Battle of Delta
Major Smolst squirmed up beside Colonel Buhrman. “Just got word from Pelagian; blow a loud whistle twice and everybody charges the Russians.”
“Thanks, Heinrich.” He pulled a whistle from his blouse and blew two long blasts, put it back in his pocket and bellowed, “Charge!”
He was on his feet and running as fast as he could toward the Russians. Bullets whined past and he threw himself behind a medium-sized boulder. A quick glance around renewed his confidence; all of the California and Dená troops were advancing and firing like demons.
Colonel Buhrman pushed himself up and continued his headlong charge. He saw people moving down the mountain toward the other Russian flank. The roar of gunfire rose to a crescendo and began to ebb as some units engaged in hand-to-hand fighting. Russians were retreating to the mass of vehicles, some of which were burning brightly.
Smoke, cordite, feces, blood, sap, and diesel exhaust all assailed his nose. He couldn’t remember being in a fight more fierce than this one. He glanced around at his people again.
He watched Lieutenant Colonel Coffey slam into an invisible wall, spin and drop.
Aw damn, not Joe, not now!
Russian fire picked up again: time for a reassessment. He blew the whistle again and bellowed, “Take cover!”
The Californians and Dená went to ground in one fluid movement.
Russian fire slackened and stopped for lack of targets.
He made his way back to where Joe lay writhing on the rocky soil.
“Medic!” Buhrman screamed. “Where you hit, Joe?”
“In the side. What’s in the side right through here?” Lieutenant Colonel Coffey grimaced and let his head drop to the ground. “Shit, that hurts!”
A medic slid in, keeping himself behind the jumble of boulders shielding the two officers from enemy fire. “What’s the situation, Colonel?” he asked Buhrman.
“Joe took a hit in the side, Doc.”
“Let’s have a look at you, Colonel Coffey…” He swiftly cut the uniform around the wound and gently tugged the ragged bits of uniform out of the wound.
“Augh!” Coffey all but shouted. “Why don’t you just rip my whole gawddamned belly open?”
Doc pulled a hypodermic from his bag, carefully loaded it from a small bottle, and then injected Joe with the contents.
“You’ll feel a lot better, right about now.”
“Oh, hey,” Joe said with discovery in his voice. “Where did the pain go?”
“Lay still, Major.”
“Doc, I’m a light colonel now, didn’t you get the word? I thought I told everybody.”
Colonel Buhrman watched Doc explore the wound with his fingers, then feel around the torso to Joe’s back. His eyes widened for a second; then he was pulling something greenish-brown out of his bag and stuffing it into the wound.
“Doc,” Buhrman said softly. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Packing the wound with sphagnum moss, Colonel. The Dená taught me about this stuff. It’s not only sterile, it’s also slightly acidic, and it keeps the wound cleaner longer than anything else we’ve got.”