General Taras Myslosovich pulled idly on his white mustache until the scout finished his report. His jowls shook as he turned to Bear Crepov sitting next to him in the command car. “They only shoot from concealment, like the brigands back home?”
“Yes, they are animals without courage. They cannot stand up to the might of the Imperial Army, so they attack like coyotes in the night.” Bear kept his eyes in constant movement as the column clanked up the RustyCan. The Dená could be anywhere.
His loathing for the Indians barely eclipsed his hatred of the Russians. Fate had dealt him a deadly hand. The Russians didn’t trust him and the Indians had put the price of five hundred California dollars on his head.
The Dená bounty was the only thing that kept the Russians from shooting him outright for leaving Valari behind at Chena Redoubt. They thought he should have died to save her, the two-faced bastards, after they had bombed the place flat! He spat out the window of the command car.
“Perhaps war is not to your taste, woodsman,” the fat old general said, barely concealing a sneer.
“The way you wage war is not to my liking,” Crepov said. “The Indians have already proven they can destroy your fancy machines, whether they fly or crawl. We should be advancing quietly through the forest to surprise them in their beds.”
“Reconnaissance shows they have fortified the road at Chena Redoubt as well as the bridge over the Yukon. Infantry, no matter how brave or skilled, cannot take positions like that without armor or air support.” General Myslosovich pulled on his walrus mustache again. Squinting at Bear, he continued with an air of condescension.
“When you have fought as many battles for the Motherland as I have, understanding tactics will become as instinctual as mating with a woman.” He broke into hoarse laughter. “And it can be a damn sight more fulfilling!”
Bear watched the old man crumple into a coughing fit. He felt doomed. This fool was like all the others.
Bear didn’t think the Imperial Army had won a major engagement since the Great War. As far as he knew the troops had spent the past forty years balanced on the backs of the people of Russian Amerika.
Can it be I’m on the wrong side?
A vein of ice pulsed through his head as he considered his past decisions and present limited options.
I wish I had a bottle of vodka.
A dirt encrusted motorcycle, its engine sounding like an army of flatulent men, came up next to the car and the rider handed something to the guard in the front seat. After a quick glance at the paper, he passed it back to General Myslosovich.
“Excellent. The rabble are moving up behind their fortifications in front of Chena Redoubt. We finally have them in a position where we can smash them!”
“You will pardon me for saying so, General, but I’ve heard that before.” Bear spat out the window again.
“If you continue to spout defeatist sentiments, I will have you shot in front of the troops as an object lesson.”
Bear bit his tongue to keep silent. He had no doubt the old bastard would do it.
Time to cut my losses, disappear into British Canada for a few years.
Bear glanced at the General. “I feel boxed up in here. It’s not to my liking. I’m a man of the forest.”
“You’re here to interpret anything I do not understand at first glance. If I allow you to leave you will instantly disappear like a jinni.” He patted the holstered pistol on his hip. “I want you where I can get a good aim at you.”
Bear estimated the time it would take to kill the guard in front of him. Could he get to the general before the fat bastard shot him? His fingertips caressed the haft of Claw in its oiled boot sheath; he thought about the razor-sharp edge.
Perhaps something would pull their attention outside the car. Bear knew patience—he was a hunter.