“Nova, do you copy, White 1?”
“White 1, we copy.”
He couldn’t contain his excitement. “Nova, we have killed the U-2, 88-30-30 North, 40-30-00 East, White 1.”
Cheering came over the channel as Radar Control congratulated them and confirmed the coordinates.
Ges transmitted, “We are low on fuel. Request visual recovery.”
“Granted!”
They began the descent. “What you got?” Ges asked.
Yefgenii didn’t even need to glance at the gauge. “Not much. You?”
“Vapors,” Ges said.
The MiGs were coming down from altitude, throttled back to conserve fuel, half flying and half gliding.
Ges’s MiG stuttered. It started to drop back and its descent became steeper. He’d flamed out.
Without power the plane was in a glide, its wings still generating lift as they cut through the air, but without any thrust to hold on the approach slope. He was sinking toward the sea. “I’m not going to make it.”
Ges sounded calm but Yefgenii knew what he was facing. He heard the click of Ges keying his transmitter, then an infinitesimal pause, before he heard, “Nova from White 1. Please confirm you’re on tape. I want to record a message for my wife.”
Ges had gotten married only a year ago. He had only a minute or two to tell her everything that was left to say, before he was gone forever.
Yefgenii peered across at Ges. He was already falling behind and below, on his way down.
“We’re recording, White 1. Pass your message.”
Yefgenii closed his throttle and eased back in a descending turn.
Ges spotted the maneuver. “Yeremin? What are you doing?”
He lined up on Ges’s tail. “I’m going to push you. Hold her straight in the glide.”
“You don’t have the fuel, Yeremin. Save yourself.”
Yefgenii had some fuel, maybe enough, maybe not. The way he flew, he was more precise than the other pilots; he wasted less than they did. He said, “We’re too far out. The sea’s too cold. You’ll be dead in the water before the chopper’s halfway here.”
Ges said, “You’re going to waste what little fuel you’ve got. Neither of us will make it. Save yourself. That’s an order.”
“Negative, White Leader. I’m coming in. Just hold her straight.”
Yefgenii closed. He was bobbing a little but in the glide the MiG trailed a forgiving vortex. They were pitched down in a shallow dive, passing through 3,000 metres. Ges’s tailplane was a sail drifting down to the seabed, the rudder a blade jutting behind. This close, Yefgenii could see the rudder quivering on its hinges. His nose nuzzled under Ges’s jet exhaust. One of the aircraft bobbed, it was hard to tell which. Yefgenii’s nose struck the rim of Ges’s exhaust. A clang reverberated along the fuselage. Chips of paint sprang out into the slipsteam and vanished. Yefgenii eased back in again. This time his nose settled into contact with the bottom of Ges’s exhaust. One MiG sat upon another. The tailplane loomed over Yefgenii’s canopy and his head was only a few metres from the black opening of the jet exhaust.
Nagurskoye cut in, “White 1 from Nova. We’re recording. Pass your message.”
“Nova, wait, White 1.”
Yefgenii warned, “Throttling up.”
“I’m ready.”
Yefgenii dabbed the throttle forward. His gauges barely flickered. Ges felt a small kick. His wings created a little more lift and he drew back his stick a fraction. He was still pitched below the horizon with his altimeter winding down through 2,500 metres. In slow increments Yefgenii pushed the aircraft sitting on his nose until it was moving fast enough to support more level flight.
The strips of Nagurskoye remained far ahead, possibly they were beyond reach. His fuel gauge was telling him he’d soon flame out himself.
Yefgenii pushed the throttle. Power surged through both aircraft. Ges’s tail lifted and then fell back. The collision rang through the planes like a bell and gouged dents out of both. Chips of metal pinged off Yefgenii’s wings.
He throttled up harder. Metal groaned in the nose as it reared up into Ges’s rudder. The lower hinge ruptured and a small section snapped off the trailing edge.
Ges glanced down into the sea. That’s where he’d be now, freezing to death, if his wingman wasn’t Yefgenii Yeremin. “I think I can see the airfield.” Ges was surprised Yefgenii hadn’t seen it first.
Yefgenii flamed out. The jets were silent. Now they were gliding with only the rush of air.
“I see it,” Yefgenii said. The strips were blurring into each other. His head throbbed. He thought he was going to vomit, but he could read the geometry now. He was on the glide path behind Ges.
The two MiGs touched down one after the other. Fire trucks were speeding toward them but the pilots were already opening their canopies. Ges stood on his seat, his face red and creased where his mask had been, but showing white teeth in a grin. Yefgenii couldn’t get out of his seat. He managed to unhook his oxygen mask and gasp fresh air. At once his head began to clear.
Ground crew helped him out of his straps. They were trying to congratulate him, to shake his hand, but his awareness of them was dim, he was in so much pain all he could say was, “Get me out,” which they did, helping him down the ladder like an invalid as Ges looked on in concern, but Ges got distracted by congratulations and handshakes. The next time he looked Yefgenii was stretched flat on the hard snow, his face contorted in suffering.
Ges dropped to one knee and clasped Yefgenii’s hand. His eyes glistened. “Thank you. My wife thanks you. Ivan the Terrible.”
Yefgenii smiled through the pain. No one had called him that in such a long time.
THE EYES WERE NO LONGER what they’d been. He told no one, not even the widow. He passed his medical examinations because his sight was no less sharp than any other pilot’s, but it was no longer superior. Age had stolen his hair and drawn lines on his face but worst of all it had taken his eyes.
Another winter decked Graham Bell in snow. The wind drove streams of it across the runways and pushed drifts against the sides of hangars and against the walls of the little redbrick house where Yefgenii had lived with the widow and their two children for eight years now. Yefgenii left the house in darkness and took the bus down to the flight lines that pointed like arrows out into the frozen sea; he flew in darkness and returned home in it.
The new year was 1964. Both the United States and the Soviet Union were planning in earnest spaceflights involving multiple crews that would attempt rendezvous, docking, and extravehicular activity, operations essential for a successful lunar landing.
This time one man travelled to Graham Bell. “My name is Doktor Arman Gevorkian. I come from OKB-1. We’re looking for pilots who are prepared to test some new military hardware. This matter is of the utmost secrecy.”
By now the commanding officer was called Pokryshev. Four had come and gone since Kostilev had completed his tour and progressed to a comfortable administrative post somewhere on the mainland. Pokryshev gave a respectful nod. “Of course, Doktor Gevorkian.”
“I’ve come in connection with one pilot in particular — Kapetan Yefgenii Yeremin. Would he agree to fly with me today?”
Pokryshev’s cheek muscles twitched. “Someone would have to ask him.”
“Is there a problem, polkovnik? I come on the highest authority.”
“Of course, Doktor Gevorkian. I meant no offense. Please forgive me.”
Yefgenii received orders to report to the flight clothing unit. An official from Moscow wanted to interview him.
When he arrived he thought from behind he recognized the man with Pokryshev. His pace quickened toward the diminutive figure looking ill at ease in a life jacket and immersion suit. The man turned and Yefgenii saw that his complexion was olive, his nose was beaky and his thick black eyebrows met in the middle. Yefgenii felt foolish. How could it have been Gnido? Gnido was long dead, so long dead.