The compartment was small, but the bunk was adequate for both of them as long as they liked one another. Wing stared at the curtain that served as the only door.
“The entire crew treats that like it was made of three-inch oak, Colonel,” Captain Vandenberg said. “Including me.”
“I truly appreciate that,” she said. “Thank you for your hospitality, Captain. Now I need to sleep.” She slid the curtain closed.
37
St. Anthony Redoubt
“Lieutenant Yamato, this is Vzvodnyi Unterofitser Yuri Suslov.”
Yamato looked at Colonel Romanov. “I apologize, my Russian is barely existent.”
“No apologies needed, except mine. This is Sergeant Yuri Suslov, chief aviation mechanic for St. Anthony Redoubt. The Grigorovich is his pride and joy.”
Sergeant Suslov, having popped to attention when Romanov entered the immaculate hangar, saluted Jerry.
Jerry returned the salute. “Sergeant, may I please see your aircraft?”
“The aircraft belongs to the Czar, it has been my honor to keep it mechanically fit. Of course you may see her, Poruchik.”
“Our guest has no Russian, Yuri, please keep it all in English.”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant, I meant no—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Jerry waved. “Where’s your bird?”
The sergeant gave him a gap-toothed grin and led the way. The hangar was huge, even for Californian sensibilities. A large tarp hanging from the rafters made an effective wall across the end of the building. After edging around one end of the rank, heavy material, Jerry beheld a jewel.
The deep blue cowling blended into a polished aluminum fuselage. The three-blade propeller promised power. The windscreen spotlessly protected the cockpit, waiting for a pilot. Prominently displayed on the fuselage was the imperial twin-headed eagle, looking freshly painted in black, red, and gold.
“My God, Sergeant,” Jerry’s voice had gone husky. “She’s beautiful.”
“Thank you, sir. My men and I have put many hours into this machine.”
“May I take her up?”
“You are the flying officer shot down a few days ago, yes?”
“Yes, that’s true. I fly P-61 Eurekas.”
“Please to bring her back in the same shape?”
“I have to do a recon mission. I will do my best, I promise you.”
“I can ask no more than that.” Sergeant Suslov shouted at his men and they pushed open the great door in the front of the hangar. Others pushed the aircraft out into the sunshine resulting in reflections painful to the eyes.
Romanov thrust a map into Jerry’s hands. “This has the areas we spoke of earlier all marked for your reference. Be careful, just look around, and do not get aggressive.”
“Are the guns loaded?”
“Of course they are, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Suslov said. “If they weren’t, she wouldn’t be a war plane.” He waved Jerry toward the ladder hung over the edge of the cockpit.
“I am acutely aware that I am not wearing a parachute.” He mounted the ladder and dropped into the seat. On the other side of the cockpit a corporal helped him into his straps, tightening them firmly.
Jerry surveyed the abbreviated instrument panel, and glanced around.
The corporal gave him a sad smile. “I’m sorry about the lack of parachute, Lieutenant, there isn’t enough space; you’ll just have to bring her back.”
“I must admit, that’s a very strong incentive. What’s her top speed?”
Sergeant Suslov, standing on the ladder Jerry had used, handed him a leather helmet and a pair of goggles, and double-checked all the straps. “Approximately 410 kilometers per hour, sir.”
“What’s that in miles?”
The sergeant looked thoughtful, then said, “About 255, I think.”
“What’s her ceiling?”
“About 7,500 meters and she has a range of 600 kilometers before refueling.”
“So that’s around 25,000 feet and 370 miles, nyet?”
“I was led to believe you had no Russian,” Suslov said with a laugh as he slid to the ground and removed the ladder.
Jerry flipped the ignition and nodded to Sergeant Suslov who waved at the men in front of the huge engine. They immediately began walking the prop to turn the engine over. Jerry switched on the magneto and the engine coughed, sending the prop into a brief spin before stopping.
He increased the throttle and the men resumed turning the prop, displaying more skittishness than previously.
The engine popped and the prop spun lazily as the men leapt away. Jerry grinned and opened the throttle, running the engine up until the aircraft rocked in its chocks. He pulled the leather helmet tightly onto his head and eased the goggles up to his forehead. After he tightened the chinstrap, he held his fisted hands butt to butt with thumbs sticking out in opposite directions, made eye contact with the sergeant and jerked his hands apart.
Suslov repeated the gesture to his men and they simultaneously pulled the chocks away from the wheels. The plane danced forward slightly as Jerry ran the engine up to maximum revolutions.
The roar of the engine filled him and he breathed deeply, intoxicated by the power at his fingertips. After moving the rudder back and forth and his flaps up and down, he released the brakes.
The Grigorovich abruptly sped down the packed-gravel taxi strip and onto the macadam runway. Jerry slowed to turn into the wind before fully opening the throttle and releasing the brakes. The fighter hurled itself down the runway in a satisfying blaze of speed.
He grinned and pulled back on the stick. The Grigorovich roared into the air and Jerry laughed.
Damn, I’m home again!
38
20 miles east-northeast of St. Anthony Redoubt
General Taras Myslosovich felt empty. His armored column retreated east at a steady 7 km per hour. Less than a third of his original force rolled down the road with him.
Wounded soldiers lay on every flat surface of the tanks and APCs, some being held by unwounded but exhausted friends. The rear guards had to trot in order to keep pace and therefore had no idea what was behind them. Most didn’t care.
“It’s unthinkable,” he repeated. “How can the Czar allow foreign military adventurers to interfere with internal Russian matters like this?”
Lieutenant Colonel Bodanovich, his adjutant, fighting shock, hovered near complete collapse. His ruined right arm had stained the bottom of his field dressing a dark red. Myslosovich felt it his duty to keep the colonel distracted and alert.
“I think the Czar sent us to dissuade them, General,” Bodanovich said with an air of abstract discovery, “…and we failed.”
“How dare you speak to me like that?”
Bodanovich worked to focus on the old man, finally giving up. “Because you need to hear the truth or completely lose what army you have left, and the men don’t deserve that. And it no longer matters what I say because I know I am dying.”
“Don’t be absurd. You are wounded in the arm; that’s not fatal.”
“The bleeding has yet to stop, I need medical attention, and all of our combat surgeons are lying dead back there by that little stream. I’m not stupid, merely terminally flawed.”
“You make no sense whatsoever!”
The command car slowed and stopped.
Myslosovich slapped his baton on the back of the driver’s seat. “I did not order you to stop.”
“The scout car has stopped, General,” the driver said over his shoulder. “The lieutenant is walking back toward us.”