Colonel Grigorievich.” The headset provided incredibly clear communications. “Would you come up to the flight deck, please?”
“Certainly.” Grisha pulled off the headset, unsnapped his harness, and picked his way between the rows of paratroopers who constantly examined and reexamined their equipment. The tension in the aircraft felt tangible. The sergeant major opened the hatch to the flight deck, waving him through, his black face impassive.
After days of total isolation Grisha was exultant to be heading north again. Colonel Buhrman flew in the lead plane, and Major Coffey flew in the second transport. Grisha had been more than happy to fly as senior officer in the third aircraft.
He wasn’t sure where Benny Jackson and his Special Forces were, but it really didn’t matter as long as they were in the fight.
“Over here, Colonel.” The navigator, Major McDaniel, waved him to a seat in a bubble in the side of the aircraft. “Colonel Buhrman asked us to show you this. Here—” binoculars were pushed into his hands “—take a look down there and tell us what you think it is.”
Grisha estimated their height at five kilometers. He saw two other transports, each with huge propellers on their four engines reflecting perfect circles, droning along in formation with them. A P-61 Eureka fighter passed in the distance. He peered down at the ground.
The RustyCan wound across the ground like an indolent reptile—whose scales glistened as he watched.
“What the hell?” Grisha sharpened the focus and tapped the enhancer control. The ground quickly swam up at him and he could clearly see an extensive armored column moving north up the highway.
“Those aren’t Russian,” he said. “Where are we?”
“Over northern British Canada.” Major McDaniel lowered his binoculars and studied Grisha. “At first we thought they were Canadian, but look at the insignia.”
Grisha strained his eyes to pierce the distance and dust. He anticipated the Union Jack and felt amazement when he saw the stylized Cheyenne war shield. “They’re from the First People’s Nation. What the hell are they doing this far north?”
The major grinned. “It looks like they’re going to hit the Russkies in the ass. This war is beginning to get interesting.”
“But their fight is with the British, not the Russians.”
“Perhaps, Colonel, they’re coming to help their fellow Indians,” Major McDaniel said.
“But how did they get past the British?”
“The word we got says they went through the British. The Brits’re fighting two battles as we speak. They sent too much of their army south and now they’re paying for the blunder.”
“If the F.P.N. hits the Russians at Tetlin, the only forces we’d have to worry about are the ones at St. Nicholas and St. Anthony.” Grisha felt his excitement grow.
“If they hit the Russians soon enough.” The major peered down through the fleecy cloud cover. “But I’d bet a month’s pay the Russians know they’re coming.”
Grisha chuckled. “If we got paid I’d be willing to take that wager. The Russians are incredibly arrogant. If they weren’t so mule-headed they would have defeated us by now.”
“I’ve wondered about that,” the major said. “We know you guys are hell on wheels, but you’re outnumbered by at least five to one.”
“More like seven or eight to one. But the Dená Republik isn’t nice, flat farmland like Canada back there.” He nodded his head. “Russia depends on her air force and her armor. Our antiaircraft have pulled her aviation teeth and her armor is confined to the RustyCan.”
“You can hold the highway?”
“That remains to be seen, Major. Perhaps if we arrive in time.”