CHAPTER 69

The front door of Sly’s General Store on Main Street in Gambell, Alaska, on the island of St. Lawrence, opens, and Tom Sly, a stocky man of around 40, average height for a half Inuit, powerful build, wearing blue jeans, boots, wool jean jacket and a US Army baseball cap, steps outside with a mug of coffee in his thick hand.

His brown eyes peer at the crown of the sun to the east as he takes a sip from the steaming mug. The air is brisk, the sky a deep morning blue that’s almost purple. Other than a low rise to the west, the landscape is flat, picturesque, and blanketed with a fresh dusting of powdered snow.

At the sound of a thunderous droning of large aircraft coming from behind him, Tom turns in the direction of the Bering Sea and sees a squadron of military bombers cresting the rise. He stops sipping, peers at the planes, which all have red stars on their wings and tail.

His eyes are suddenly drawn down Main Street to the edge of town, where he now sees, bobbing above the rise, a row of white helmets on the heads of eight soldiers in snow camo, trotting fast in tight formation toward him.

Their chests appear, with rifles at port arms.

Then waists… legs… white boots pounding icy pavement, the rising sun lighting them up.

“What the hell?” he mumbles. “Ain’t nothing but ocean behind them.”

Immediately behind the first row of eight soldiers, another row of eight appears on the rise. Heads first, chests, and so forth.

Then another row. And another.

Tom’s breath quickens as he stoops, sets his steaming mug on the sidewalk, pulls an ACP Colt .45 automatic pistol from a hip holster beneath his jacket, briefly exposing a badge on his belt. He treads to the middle of the street and, with his other hand pulls a radio from his belt.

He keys the radio, holds it to his mouth. “Billy, come in. This is Tom. Over.”

Radio squawks a second, then, “This is Billy. What’s up, chief? Over.”

Tom tucks the radio under his chin, checks the clip in the .45 as he talks.

“Something’s going on over here, west side, front of the general store. Get everyone up and ready—traffic, detectives, vice, narcotics, everyone—armed, extra ammo, vests—asap.”

“Jim’s on vacation down in Savoonga til next week, sir. Not much happening in traffic anyway. And narcotics, hell, Danny’s huntin moose outside Nome.”

As Billy talks, the soldiers are close enough that Tom can make out a small red star on the front center of each helmet.

“Billy, shut up and listen. Tell Dave to fire up the turret tank from the Guard Armory and load it with extra rounds, and tell Mark to round up the reserve guys from Nome, full gear. Now, Billy, double-time it, dammit. We got Rusky interlopers. Over’n out.”

“Ten four that, sir!”

“Oh, Billy—you still there?”

“Sir?”

“Call my wife at the school and tell her I might be late for lunch.”

“Ten four that, Sheriff.”

Tom slips the radio back into its holster, pulls the badge from his belt with his left hand, holds it aloft toward the swiftly approaching rows of what he estimates are a couple hundred white-clad soldiers, now less than two hundred yards away and closing steady.

He straight-arms the .45 just behind and angled away from his right leg, aimed at the ground, and mumbles, “The hell’s goin’ on?”

* * *

At that moment, in Moscow, at the National Defense Control Centre, a mile south of the Kremlin on the Moskva River, the Russian Premier is conducting another meeting in the massive three-floor War Room.

He leans to his microphone and peers solemnly at the dozens of generals, admirals and Polit-bureau members seated in a wide semicircle before him in the auditorium.

He taps the mic once to hear the feedback over the monitors, then says in a deep voice heavy with restrained triumph: “Segodnya my nachali vozdushnoye, morskoye i nazemnoye napadeniye na Ameriku.”

Today, we launched an air, sea and land assault against America.

The members stand to their feet in unison and begin clapping as the premier raises his voice over them and continues, now with a smile on his broad, moustached face.

“Kak my govorim, tri polnykh eskadril’i istrebitelya-bombardirovshchika, soprovozhdayushchiye voyenno-morskiye otryady, priblizhayutsya k Nomu za samoletom Antonova 24LR Toro…”

As we speak, three full fighter-bomber squadrons escorting navy troop transports are approaching Nome behind Antonov 24LR Toro recon aircraft…

Clapping becomes louder. He continues, raising his voice to match the crowd.

“I my vysadili morskikh pekhotintsev v zapadnom poberezh’ye goroda Gambell, na yuzhnom ostrove Beringova proliva Svyatogo Lavrentiya…Ameriku!”

And we have landed marines in the west coast town of Gambell, in the south Bering Strait island of St. Lawrence…America!

Shouts and cheers join in. The crowd breaks and wades into one another, bear hugging and slapping each other on shoulders, congratulating each other as the Premier finishes, his voice now nearly hoarse as he yells over the cacophony.

“Prishlo vremya vernut’ Alyasku, teper’, kogda Amerikantsy snova sporyat mezhdu soboy!”

It is time to take back Alaska, now that the Americans are bickering amongst themselves all over again!

The applause is thunderous.