Then each carcass was heaved into the river. Rolling and turning in the swift
current, they were carried away across the plain, toward where the rest of
Uchitel’s band had found their last resting place.
“My turn, Major,” said Ryan, ready to execute Uchitel. But the chief of the
butchers was not quite done yet.
With a curse he pushed Ryan into Hennings and Finnegan, then produced a battered
9 mm Makarov PM pistol from inside his coat and levelled it at Zimyanin. Time
held still, like a bubble of air in a frozen lake. The officer’s face whitened,
his hands rising in a futile gesture of protection.
The crack of the handgun was almost swallowed by the rushing noise of the river.
Uchitel’s almond-shaped golden eyes opened wide in disbelief, and he looked over
his shoulder at the flame-haired Krysty Wroth and at the small gleaming H & K
pistol smoking in her right hand. Blood appeared on his chest as he dropped his
own gun in the dirt, sank to his knees, then toppled, his silver headband with
its great ruby clinking against the stones.
“Earth Mother forgive me,” whispered the girl.
“She will, lover. She will,” said Ryan.
The Americans did nothing to stop the soldiers from mutilating the corpses of
the woman and Uchitel, though Hennings pushed them aside to retrieve the fallen
piece of jewelry.
“Take it, girl,” urged the tall black, handing the ruby to Krysty. “Better you
than them. You fuckin’ earned it.”
The two corpses bobbed downriver, ending the short and bloody history of the
Narodniki.
Zimyanin had been diligently studying his phrase book again. Ryan had thumbed
through the brown paperback that had belonged to Uchitel. The Russian spoke
first.
“I thank you for your assistance. Now we take all your country for party.”
“What? No fuckin’ way, friend.” Ryan’s gesture and tone needed no translation.
The officer indicated his overwhelmingly superior forces with a wave of his
hand. “Your country is not strong. We take. You not veto us.”
It was the moment that Ryan Cawdor had suspected was coming from the time the
Russians first appeared over the ridge. They must have ridden across many miles
of Alaska and seen no opposition. Now only three men and a girl seemed to stand
between them and all of America.
“Let ’em go. We can make the redoubt and get the fuck out of here.”
Finn’s argument was unanswerable. To fight here was to die. If they stood aside,
it was better than fifty-fifty that the Russians wouldn’t provoke a fire-fight,
and the gateway would carry them far from here. This bitter northern land with
its freezing residue of the nuclear winter wasn’t their concern. There surely
wasn’t any profit in trying to defend it.
Ryan hesitated only a moment.
“No,” he said.
“Nyet?” asked Zimyanin in disbelief.
“No. This is our land. You get back to Russia and your party. Go.”
“You fight?”
“Damned right we do.” He drew the G-12 again, emphasizing his point.
The Russian thumbed through his book frantically. Eventually he seemed to find
what he wanted. “You will die all. Why?”
“Friend of mine back in Deathlands once took off all his gear and jumped in a
tar pit. I got him out, cleaned him down and asked him the same question—asked
him why. He said it seemed a fuckin’ good idea at the time.”
Zimyanin looked at Ryan, finding him utterly beyond comprehension. Behind Ryan,
Henn and Fin-negan laughed at his story.
“Ready,” said Ryan. “Here it comes.”
There was a sudden burst of automatic-weapons fire, faint and distant, high up
the valley, toward the ghost town. Everyone looked around, seeing three figures
grouped around something: a pointed object about as tall as a man.
“It’s the fuckin’ dummy missile,” gasped Hennings.
“Shut up,” snarled Ryan.
Zimyanin took his precious Zeiss binoculars from their leather case and raised
them to his eyes, adjusting the focus. He held them there for a long time,
finally lowering them.
Silently, ignoring the whispers from his troops, he swung off his horse and
stood holding the reins. The book open in his gloved right hand, the Russian
beckoned to Ryan, then gestured at the missile.