Bear Crepov cradled his Kalashnikov and trotted behind the ranger unit along the bank of the Chena. The Siberian Tigers had thrown a “hurry-up” bridge across the water a half kilometer upstream from the highway. These troopers seemed to know what they were doing. Not a Cossack among them.
They arrived at the bridge and a guard waved them across the three-tree bridge. No chatter vied with the brutal cacophony of the artillery.
Across the river without incident and into the trees, the rangers kept up the pace and Bear began to feel his years and habits weighing on him. He gritted his teeth and maintained speed.
He wasn’t going to let these kids show him up.
The barrage ceased. The silence felt unnatural. The ranger captain pumped his right arm twice and they increased speed.
Bear’s breath came in hard gasps now. He couldn’t do this much longer. Small-arms fire broke out ahead of them.
Bullets whined past, thwacked into trees. One punched into the man ahead of Bear. The ranger whuffed and fell to his knees.
Bear stopped beside him, not to help or out of concern, but because it gave him an excuse to rest for a moment.
The soldier turned his camouflage-painted face to Bear, tried to speak. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell on his face. More bullets ricocheted through the forest and Bear sat down next to the soldier and leaned against a tree.
What I’d give for a shot of vodka, he thought.
The firefight heated up. Bear waited until his breathing returned to normal; then pushed himself to his feet.
Hope they saved some Indians for me.
He trotted toward the sound of battle.