Wing inspected the fortifications carefully. This was where the Russians would hit first. Both banks of the Chena bristled with mines.
The Dená weapons could traverse the minefields with impunity by lining up on the bright swatches of cloth tacked to trees on the far side. Even if the Russians noticed them, they wouldn’t know how to interpret the markers.
Behind the minefield stood a reinforced log-and-rock wall spanning the highway and stretching into the muskeg on both sides. The muskeg itself aided defense, consisting of meter-wide pods of lichen, called pingos, rearing up to a half meter in height, where a hastily placed foot sinking between the thousands of pingos could easily break a leg. Beneath the muskeg was a watery gruel of soil and gravel, below that lay the implacable permafrost, frozen to a depth of fifty meters or more.
After fording the river the first few tanks might make it through the muskeg but the rest would bog down. Six newly imported artillery pieces from the United States had the area zeroed in, complete with range markers.
“Placing those markers is something we learned in the Great War,” Captain Lauesen told her. “The advancing troops rarely notice them and it tells us their exact distance.”
The initial assault would be horrendously costly for the Russians. Wing almost felt sorry for them. A Russian-built command car roared up. The Imperial two-headed eagle had been painted out and what looked like an eightpointed star replaced it.
Malagni jumped out of the car and slammed the door.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wing pointed.
“The North Star, of course! Made from dentalium shells. It’s the insignia of the Dená Republik.” He glanced around. A huge axe hung from a loop on his belt. “Are we ready for them?”
“God willing and the creek don’t rise,” Captain Lauesen said.
“Which God, white or Indian?” Malagni asked. Sometimes, Wing thought, he sounded as balanced as anyone else. But it never lasted long. “It could make a difference, you know.” Malagni darted off down the fortification, talking to the heavily armed Dená who watched the distant tree line with flinty eyes.
“Is he always that, ah, exuberant?” Captain Lauesen asked.
“Malagni is a madman. But a very crafty madman. He has absolutely no fear. I don’t think he will live through this war—I don’t think he wants to.”
“What did he do before the war?”
“There’s always been a war here. It just took some of us longer than others to realize it.”
Captain Lauesen stared at her frankly. “How about you, are you going to survive the war?”
“Only if the man I love does.” She turned and walked back toward the command car. Her feet hurt and she worried about Grisha.