Major Ben Hurley scanned the horizon, craning his neck up he searched the sky all around his P-61 Eureka fighter, Jenny Love. Nothing. Flying support for the paratroop transports had been a milk run.
He read his gauges and dials. According to his computations the Republic of California aircraft had just crossed the border between British Canada and Russian Amerika. He radioed the lead transport.
“Flight Delta, this is Foxtrot One. We have seen no enemy aircraft. Flight Foxtrot will now go to Plan B.”
“Roger that, Foxtrot One. Thanks for the company and good hunting.”
“Thanks, hope your delivery goes well.”
The fifteen fighters peeled off and flew directly west.
“Okay, guys,” Hurley said, “stay awake, the highway should be about a hundred and fifty miles ahead of us.”
The flight dropped until they were a thousand feet above the terrain and bored onward, their propellers radiant in the Alaskan sunshine.
Tank Kommander Colonel Boris Lazarev breathed a sigh of relief when he received the radio communication from General Myslosovich. Immediately he told his driver to go to full speed. He knew the other tanks and armored personnel carriers behind him would keep up. He once had broken a captain to the ranks for not maintaining pace, after that it had never again been a problem.
Being the lead tank gave him the advantage of not eating any of the dust they threw up in stultifying clouds. They traveled in battle formation, each tank staying within thirty meters of the machine in front of it. Colonel Lazarev glanced at the column behind him as it wound up the series of switchbacks to reach Baranov Pass, the only road pass in the Alaska Range.
Every tank commander stood in his hatch, goggles and helmets facing forward. His command had arrived in Russian Amerika less than forty-eight hours previously. This was quite different than patrolling the China/Russia border. For one thing, the scenery from absolutely striking.
On one side of the road the mountain rose at an angle nearly impossible for a man to traverse, on the other side of the road, below the switchbacks, lay a valley at least four hundred meters deep. Across the valley a long ridge, displaying a variety of hues as if painted by a gargantuan artist, ran for miles. The locals called it Rainbow Ridge.
Abruptly he thought of the transport plane from their small armada that had crashed on takeoff, killing twenty of his men and destroying one tank. He detested waste, and flying.
They sped along at thirty kilometers per hour, steadily climbing toward the summit. He hoped the Indians would hold long enough to insure his men would not be cheated out of combat; they had come a long way for this. He had it on good authority that the Czar used political maneuvering in order to gain time for this buildup. He also understood that the Indian rebels had gone along with it completely.
Colonel Lazarev!” the voice in his headset all but shrieked. Before he could bark an admonition, the voice went on, “Aircraft!”
“Where?”
“East, northeast, coming straight at us.”
“Man your machine guns!” He stared at the incoming planes; so far he counted seven, trying desperately to identify them. Could they be friendly?
The Dená didn’t have aircraft as far as he knew.
He finally recognized the slim profile with the underfuselage air scoop. “Oh, my God, they’re R.O.C. P-61 Eureka fighters. And we’re roosting chickens with a wolf in the henhouse.”
Vainly he looked for options. “All personnel out of the troop carriers, fill the sky with fire!” He glanced back to see men scurrying like ants around the halted column.
No cover, we have no cover.
Major Hurley spread his flight out like a wide wave heading for a distant beach. Intelligence said there were a lot of Russian tanks and APCs headed north out here somewhere, and unless they were stopped the Dená were going to lose their asses. He spied a ribbon undulating across the landscape in the distance.
“Is that it, guys, dead ahead?”
“Negative that, skipper,” Lieutenant Donaldson replied. “That’s the Tanana River.”
“You sure there’s a road out here, Major?” First Lieutenant Christenson said with a laugh.
“Damn sure, we have pictures—”
“Tally ho! This is Foxtrot Nine, the road’s over here to the southwest, just past another river.”
“Good going, Captain Shipley. You heard the man, boys. I want two waves. We should find them under a big dust cloud.”
“I see it, there they are!” Hurley wasn’t sure who the voice belonged to, it didn’t matter anyway.
“My gawd, they’re sitting ducks,” Christenson exclaimed.
“They’re heavily armed ducks, don’t forget that,” Hurley snapped. “Get the troop carriers first, those tanks aren’t going anywhere. Drop your gas.”
A series of microphone clicks told him his people understood. Two all-but-empty long-range fuel tanks dropped from beneath the wings of each fighter, instantly giving the aircraft less weight and drag. The planes suddenly seemed agile as ballerinas.
“Okay, gentlemen, rank has its privileges. Follow me!”
He put his fighter into a long turn and came up the mountain behind the armored column. As if the stationary vehicles had lost a load of diamonds, the ground suddenly sparkled with muzzle flashes. Hurley grinned and pulled the trigger on the front of his stick, relishing the roar of his six .50 caliber machine guns.
Both of his wingmen opened up as they bored in, passing over the first bend of the long, snaking column. All of the Russian APCs carried twin .30 machine guns mounted over the driving compartment. Immediately the entire column fired at the aircraft.
“Shit, Skipper, I’m taking hits from above me!” Christenson said.
“Pull up,” Hurley ordered. “We’ll come at ’em from a better angle.”
All three aircraft pulled up and twisted away in different directions. One of them trailed smoke.
“Major Hurley, this is Cooper. I’m hit.”
“How bad, Coop?”
“My engine is smoking and my oil pressure is headed for the Spanish border. I think maybe I’ve got five minutes.”
“Head straight north for Dená country, now. If you have to bail out, do it near a road, that’s pretty wild country down there. Kirby, you escort him, try and make the field at Fort Yukon.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry about this.”
“For what, following orders? Good luck, Coop.”
“Same to you, sir. Cooper out.”
“I’ll write often, Skipper, don’t worry,” Kirby said with a laugh.
“You guys be careful and that’s an order.”
Two comm clicks answered and Hurley grinned.
The two aircraft buzzed away.
“Okay, guys, this time let’s hit them from the top of the mountain. There’s thirteen of us now, let’s make that an unlucky number for the Russians.”
Roaring down out of a wide circle, the first three Eurekas screamed down at the leading elements of the column. The side of the mountain blurred a hundred feet below their polished aluminum bellies. Only the Russians on the highest switchback could fire at them without fear of hitting their comrades.
“Plug ’em up, use your rockets on these bastards,” Hurley said with a growl.
The tanks quickly grew in size.
Colonel Boris Lazarev shrieked into his microphone, “What do you mean there are no aircraft in Alaska? I am being attacked by fifteen of them.”
“My apologies, Colonel, I meant to say we have no aircraft in Alaska capable of assisting you at this time,” the man seemed uninterested, lethargic.
“Pass my request on to High Command before resuming your nap!” He slammed the microphone down. “Where are they?”
Sergeant Cermanivich, his gunner, pointed up the mountain. “I predict they will come from there, Colonel.”
“Another five minutes of attacking from below and we’d have killed them all.”
“I don’t know what kept that wounded plane in the air,” Cermanivich spat over the side of the tank and flexed his hands before again grabbing his machine gun. “I think I hit the son of a bitch a hundred times myself.”
“We’re in a bad spot here, Rudi, shoot straight—”
“There!” Sergeant Cermanivich’s twin thirties blasted up at the onrushing aircraft.
“Fire!” Lazarev bellowed. The 150mm cannon fired an antiaircraft shell, which passed the first planes completely before detonating. Bullets splanged off the side of the tank.
The three leading aircraft fired rockets.
“Take cover!” Lazarev shrieked, dropping into the hull.
The tank rocked with the multiple explosions but the terrified crew detected no breach in their armor. More explosions went off and a shower of debris from two directions rang against the tank.
“They keep missing us,” Cermanivich observed.
Lazarev peered through the periscope but could see nothing but scenery.
“To hell with this.” He stood and opened the hatch, cautiously peered over the rim.
The tank behind them burned like a bonfire in autumn. He turned and looked up the mountain, and his heart lurched. A boulder twice the size of his tank had been blasted from the mountainside and tumbled down, coming to rest against the side of the road, less than a meter from the left track.
Who knew how long it would stay there? But for the moment it was a perfect wall against the R.O.C fighters. Abruptly he scrambled out.
“Come on, Rudi, we have work to do. Ivanivich, reload the gun with another antiaircraft shell.”
“Yes, Colonel,” the burly Georgian bellowed, grabbing a shell.
“Rudi, I’ll tell you when they’re almost on top of us. Blow them out of the air when they go over.” Lazarev stood on the turret and peered over the top of the boulder. “Get ready, here they come.”
Major Hurley whipped his P-61 down to hug the mountainside again. Only eleven of them were still in the fight. Barton, in the second wave of fighters down the mountain, had run right into an anti-aircraft shell. He crashed into the mountain and his plane exploded, blowing a huge boulder down the steep slope. At first Hurley thought the lieutenant was going to score a posthumous kill, the boulder tumbled straight at the leading tank—and stopped at the slightly elevated edge of the road, creating a perfect barrier for the Russian.
The fight was not one-sided. Four of the tanks behind the leader had become incinerators for crew members who hadn’t moved quickly enough. Sixteen tanks still fought for their lives.
Seven of the fifteen armored personnel carriers would never operate again and all but one of the ten troop carriers burned brightly. The valley provided a natural draft, pulling the smoke away from the battle site, thereby awarding the fighters a clear view of their targets.
Two bullet holes in the Plexiglas of Hurley’s canopy and the absence of part of his left wing flap attested to the skill of the Russian gunners. He didn’t want to know what the rest of his bird looked like. Not that it mattered, he was still in the air.
“We have to stop these guys,” he grated over his radio, “or our Indian buddies are so much meat.”
Christenson now flew on his left wing and had accelerated to pull twenty feet ahead of Hurley. They both fired their cannons at the huge rock but it absorbed their efforts. They zoomed over the protected tank and fire laced the entire length of Christenson’s Eureka.
“Oh, shit, Ben! That son of a bitch got me!” Fire suddenly engulfed the aircraft and, as Hurley watched in horror, it exploded.
Tears abruptly pooled in his goggles and he tore them off to dry his eyes with his sleeve. They had flown together for seven years. Mike had been his best man when he married Jenny, and ended up bedding her best friend, the maid of honor, the same evening. You never knew what he was going to do next. He’d made captain twice and was busted back to lieutenant both times for crazy stunts, mostly involving women and alcohol.
He took a deep breath. No time for this now. They had a battle to win.
He went into a tight turn and came back at the road from the valley side. Two tank turrets turned and fired flak shells at him. Ten machine guns clawed after him and he thought this might be his last pass.
He wanted the leader, whose turret now swiveled to fire point blank. One of the flak rounds exploded directly under Jenny Love. The controls instantly went mushy and he knew there wasn’t much time left.
Then he saw it; the mammoth boulder supporting the road with the lead tank right there on top of it. A scree field gave mute testimony that the roadbed wasn’t solid here, but built up. The plane dropped slightly, not his doing.
The lead tank fired and the shell burst ahead and above him, shredding his cockpit, and him, with burning bits of razor-sharp metal. His last act aimed the plane at the base of the mammoth boulder.
“Jenny, I’m so sorry.” She smiled at him and opened her arms.
“Beautiful shot, Ivanivich!” Lazarev screamed. “You got him, he’s going down. Save your ammo, Rudi, he’s going to hit the side of the mountain.” Lazarev stood to peer over the rock again and heard the enemy plane explode downslope behind him.
The turret suddenly dipped beneath him and he fell onto the machine gun. “What the hell—”
“The road is collapsing,” Rudi blurted.
Before they could react, the road dropped away under them. The tank fell, tumbling over, crushing Lazarev and throwing Rudi into the void before continuing its roll, crushing the three screaming crew members to death with their own ammunition. The huge protective boulder obligingly rolled after them.
Men and equipment filled two of the five switchbacks below them. The growing avalanche picked up speed and widened, taking out six operational tanks on the first switchback and everything on the second. Only on the tight curves were there still living Russians, and their machines would stay there until the road was rebuilt at some point in the future; the men would have to walk out—if they could.
Captain Shipley surveyed the devastation and took notes on his knee pad. Ben Hurley had been a personal friend and he wanted the recommendation for his Medal of Honor to be as complete as possible. Then he and the remaining seven fighters headed north.