Ascent by Jed Mercurio (8 page)

He said, “This is a war between great nations. Not the same as a great war. But enjoy it — it’s the best one we’ve got.”

“Just like this vodka!”

Kiriya grinned. “What do you care? You’re a
starshii-leitenant
with two and a half kills!”

“I am, boss!”

The men stayed late. There were more hours of drinking before they drifted back to the barracks.

Out in the darkness, Yefgenii paused. The Moon hung in the east. He breathed. The air carried a smell of pinecones from the forest that divided the base from the airfield.

If he’d been killed yesterday, there’d’ve been only a blank space where his life had run. Now something of substance was forming in the space that some of us fill and others leave empty. He hated men like Glinka who aimed only to survive this tour so they could return to their lives. Glinka’s type didn’t long for battle and that which comes with it: the chance to measure themselves against other men. Perhaps only in sport does a man measure himself against another man in any sense that’s true. The air battles were sport, but they were also more.

Yefgenii’s dream had been born in a sewer and now he could dream of vying with the likes of Jabara for the title of Ace of Aces. He wouldn’t dare announce his ambition to the others. They would only laugh.

As it happened, Jabara wasn’t even in Korea anymore — he’d been sent back to the U.S. on a publicity tour. At this time the leading ace of the war was Major George A. Davis Jr., with fourteen victories, though Davis wasn’t in Korea anymore either. He’d been shot down and killed in February by Kapetan Mikhail Averin of the 148th GvIAP.

“Congratulations, Leitenant.”

He spun around. The widow stood a short distance away but he couldn’t see much of her except that she was smoking a cigarette. A light breeze wafted the smoke toward him. “On what?”

“Your victories.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you smoke? I have only this one, but we can share it.”

He hesitated.

She smiled. He was still only a boy. She walked toward him and offered him the cigarette.

He took a drag, then handed it back. She stood beside him in silence. They breathed the cold night air that smelled of pinecones. He looked at her. Gnido was dead, but he was alive.

THE AIR WAS SPLIT. Metal clashed like the clash of cymbals. An F-86 floated into his crosshairs and he pulled the trigger. Tracers flickered. Smoke ballooned till it enveloped him and then, when he broke out of it, the Sabre was far below and trailing a plume of soot.

Another day burned and from the brown foothills, 5,000 metres down, came a burst of light. Maybe it came from water or from glass. A few seconds later he glimpsed it again a half kilometre farther south and now he knew it to be the glint of metal that was moving at hundreds of kilometres per hour. He tipped his wings over and dropped the nose. The other five pilots in the
zveno
knew not to question. They followed him down knowing soon enough they’d see what he’d seen. It was a Gloster Meteor. As he closed he identified red-white-and-blue roundels on its wingtips and on its fuselage aft of the wing roots. The British pilot didn’t even see the MiGs. He’d never known it was a fight and now it was his death. Yefgenii’s shells struck his fuselage and the Meteor swung into the hillside.

At 10,000 metres four B-29s were sailing toward targets in North Korea. Eight Sabres flew escort. In the first pass the fighters scattered. MiGs and Sabres divided into elements and then it became a free-for-all. He isolated a Sabre and his cannons ripped into its tailplane. The hits went on until smoke burst from its engine, then it stuttered and fell.

He was an ace.

As he thought of medals, a Sabre locked onto his tail. Gunfire peppered his wing. As he pulled round hard he glimpsed splinters leaping off and vanishing into his slipstream. The turn tightened to the buffet. The stick was quaking but the needles held still on their marks as he sucked in short breaths and strained out long ones. Grayness encroached on the rim of his vision and he had to quicken his respiration. He was going at thirty a minute and beginning to feel light-headed. Then the Sabre swam into his gun-sight. He’d outturned it. His finger hammered the trigger and in seconds the American was smoking. Three MiGs were lost but the Sabres had been cut apart and now Yefgenii was climbing up to a B-29. His guns nailed its starboard engines. It was trying to turn but it was big and clumsy and the pilot must’ve been calling for fighter support but those who were left were down among the MiGs fighting for their own lives. Yefgenii’s cannons began to rip the bomber’s port engines. The big gun stuttered out of ammunition so he continued with the 23 mm guns. The B-29’s cowling splintered. Blades and the shaft of the propeller spiraled apart. The bomber plunged and one by one the men began bailing out.

The widow stenciled the new red stars on his cockpit. She’d started without even asking his permission. She felt a share in his success.

From the Ops hut Kiriya watched her paint on the stars: he had eight. Skomorokhov watched: he had twelve. Pilipenko watched: he had nine. The hunger drove all three. Each man nurtured a dream of becoming Ace of Aces. Behind the camaraderie, dark thoughts poisoned the brotherhood.

Glinka didn’t look. He couldn’t bear even to meet Yefgenii’s eyes. Resentment ate away at him.

The following week Yefgenii claimed two more and overtook Kiriya. Kiriya offered his congratulations but inside it was agony. The boy stood a realistic chance of making the kind of reputation in this war that would crown him a king among kings. The line of stars after his name on the scoreboard in Ops got a little longer. Now only Pilipenko and Skomorokhov had more. They were going up at least twice a day to get kills, to stay ahead. In secret Skomorokhov had started aligning a pair of mirrors to help him comb over his bald patch.

The land was turning brown. Only the pines remained green. In the mornings frost glistened on the bare trees. The snow line was creeping down from the mountains; a soup of cold air seeped onto the plain. Even at lower altitude, the MiGs laid white trails that lasted half the day, and, below them, the Yalu River appeared no longer steel but darker, like the gray of slate.

Stars sparkled overhead as Yefgenii stood under the black sky. He was the youngest ace in the VVS, the youngest jet ace in history, yet in his chest remained a space to be filled. He’d set himself on the long journey to the heavens, to become celestial himself, but he feared no number of kills would be enough. His eyes drifted over the patterns of the stars. Already it felt too late to learn their names. The race against death would be too swift.

He heard footsteps crunch over the hard ground. They approached from the barrack shacks and stopped at the perimeter where he stood.

“I knew it would be you,” she said.

“How?”

“You want to be alone. I get that from you, when you come back from flying.”

“Now I’m not alone.”

“No.” Her breath formed a thin vapor. It gave her evanescent tusks. “D’you want me to go?”

“I’m not inclined to tell you what to do.”

“What would you say, if you were?”

He appeared not to understand. She smiled at him. She felt so much more experienced than him, and, of course, she was. She had to take his hand to draw him near, and then he understood he had permission.

Soon his palms were gripping the widow’s ribs. Her breasts slapped against the backs of his hands as he thrust in and out of her from behind. The smell of her cunt rose into his nostrils. Her wide buttocks shone like ivory in the moonlight. They were globes.

Yefgenii felt his semen rising and he knew in the next few seconds he’d come. He pulled out of her and with two or three jerks of his hand he spurted into the shrubs around their feet. His come clung to the leaves, where it glistened like some strange kind of resin.

She turned. She blinked at him as she straightened up. Only his eyes had colour. Though they were his only notable feature she didn’t like them. She would have preferred them large and brown but his were animal eyes. He gazed back at her with a look that could have presaged love or murder but in truth was a look that meant he would do nothing and that he felt nothing.

He wondered why he’d acted like this with her. The answer was because it was on the ground. By his actions on the ground he would not be known and therefore they weren’t worth troubling over.

The next morning he and Kiriya scrapped over a kill. A damaged Sabre was struggling south trailing black smoke. The MiGs were scissoring over each other’s wings to launch the fatal shots. Yefgenii got the American in his crosshairs and blew off his tail.

“You jammy bastard, Yeremin, I had him.” They were flying home, crossing the Yalu. Kiriya’s laugh sounded hollow as he clicked off.

“Boss, you know you’ve owed me one for a long time.”

“I suppose I have.”

In the bar they toasted each other but the muscles in Kiriya’s face were twitching. Skomorokhov and Pilipenko raised their glasses too. Every day at the scoreboard the boy’s line of stars lengthened. It was creeping toward theirs like a snake, like a monster. Pilipenko stopped calling him “son.” Skomorokhov would sometimes slip out of a room when he strutted in.

His eyes were always first to the target. A Sabre kill over Sŏnch’ŏn made him a double ace. There were four more F-86s and then a U.S. Navy F9F-2 Panther that swung out into the Sea of Japan but lost power from the damage his guns had done to its engine. It toppled forward toward the sea. The canopy burst open and a moment later the pilot was launched out over the gray waters. A white parachute bloomed. The sea broke the plane’s back and flung up a plume of spray.

He led six MiGs after a pair of Sabres. The Americans fought with courage but they were outnumbered. The first struck trees. He damaged the second but before he could finish him off the pilot made it over the Nan and then ejected. So now he’d overtaken Pilipenko. In the 221st IAP, only Major Skomorokhov had scored more kills. The moment Skomorokhov heard the news he marched into Kiriya’s office and demanded to go up on the next wave. They both went up, Kiriya and Skomorokhov, but for them the sky had emptied. Kiriya contained his emotions but it felt like dying inside. Skomorokhov hit the runway so hard he burst a tire.

On Yefgenii’s twentieth birthday there were drinks in the bar. Kiriya led the toasts. Despite his own pain, he could admire Yefgenii’s triumphs: it was white envy. He kissed him on both cheeks. “Congratulations,
Kapetan
Yeremin.” Pilipenko threw an arm round his shoulders. Yefgenii Yeremin had become the youngest
kapetan
in the VVS.

Glinka was still a
starshii-leitenant.
His eyes drifted to Skomorokhov’s. Both men had the same look of a gap in them that’d never be filled.

The next day, once airborne, they tested their guns as usual and then Yefgenii led them over the Yalu. From 15,000 metres they swooped into a squadron of Sabres. In the first pass he got one but his wingman was killed.
“Glinka, get on my wing!”
Yefgenii’s head swept round the cockpit.
“Glinka!”

Glinka was climbing out of the battle. Yefgenii saw him crossing above. Two more MiGs were battling a Sabre pair. Glinka looked down and saw Sabres converging on his leader. It was a simple move to tilt in their direction and open fire but instead he turned away and kept on climbing.

Yefgenii was alone and vulnerable. A pair of Sabres had seen him and were swooping in behind. He jerked his aircraft into a sharp evasive turn and in doing so he spotted Skomorokhov turning in from the edge of the battle.
“Sko! Get the fuckers off me! Sko!”

Skomorokhov watched Yefgenii’s MiG curve along the horizon. Two Sabres were banking round behind him. Cloud matted the sky and the land. Against white, the aircraft stood out in isolation. Their dance was the only living thing in creation. They were cut off from the world.

The leading Sabre opened fire on Yefgenii.
“Sko!”

Skomorokhov tilted away. He watched over his shoulder. His heart was pounding. Sweat chilled on his skin. To desert a comrade was unthinkable but so was losing his place at the top of the mountain.

Yefgenii pulled round. Tracers were flashing past his cockpit. He saw a Sabre climbing onto Glinka’s tail.
“Glinka, check six!”

Glinka snapped his MiG into a turn. The move was so sudden and violent that the airflow ripped away. Yefgenii glimpsed Glinka’s wings glinting in the sun. They were tilting up to the vertical. For a split second the MiG hung in perfect stillness on its side. Then the wings shuddered and it stalled. Glinka plunged straight down and struck one of the Sabre pair that was closing on Yefgenii. The Sabre’s wing sheared clean off. It spun away and on the second or third rotation its fuel tank ruptured. Glinka’s MiG divided into a thousand nuggets and Yefgenii could even imagine them tinkling as they sprinkled into the air.

Someone shouted
“Taran!”
It might’ve been Skomorokhov but Yefgenii couldn’t be sure.
Taran,
the ramming maneuver — on any other day he’d’ve laughed at the suggestion. The
zveno
was scattered and disorganized and Yefgenii ordered them to run for home.

“Taran!”
Skomorokhov repeated in the crew hut. He wore a strange expression as if he found the whole thing hilarious. His heart was still drumming from his betrayal. He hated himself for it but wasn’t glad that Yefgenii had survived. He felt he’d learned that his competitive drive knew no moral limit and that this was a thing to be proud of.

Kiriya turned to Yefgenii. “Yeremin?”

“It wasn’t a ramming maneuver, sir. It was a fuck-up. I’d call it a midair collision.”

In his office Kiriya considered his report to Moscow. The officials there would know nothing of the sortie apart from his dispatch. His account would enter the records. It would become history; it would become the truth.

With one act, Glinka’s life would be defined, and it was up to Kiriya to choose the definition. He began to write. Cornered by the Americans, Glinka committed the supreme self-sacrifice, the ramming maneuver. He took one with him rather than surrender. This was the stuff of comic books. Kiriya was recommending Glinka for a posthumous Order of Lenin. He’d be remembered as a great hero and a great pilot.