“Yeremin!”
The blue waters blackened as the seabed dropped away from the shelf of land. White gulls scattered. A shoal of fish glided under the waves as if one beast. Yefgenii pressed on.
Gnido refused to contravene regulations by overflying the sea and so he swung back toward land.
Yefgenii closed in on the Corsair and after only the opening burst from his 23 mm cannons it stuttered in midair. Its nose tipped forward, and propeller first the aircraft plunged into the sea. Under a plume of spray the Corsair stood for a fleeting moment on its nose then toppled onto its back.
The aircraft rocked on the waves. One wing broke loose and floated free. Fronds of spray mixed into the gray rolls of water. A gull perched on an up-pointing wreck of undercarriage. The Corsair’s inlets funneled in water till at last it slipped under and the gull took flight. The sea frothed for a time before it flattened, then it rolled over like a great gray slab.
Yefgenii pulled up and inland. Pain bit the bridge of his nose so he untoggled his mask. His shoulders stung. The harness straps had lifted the scabs on his shoulders. He felt blood leaking from the wounds.
The two MiGs regrouped and headed home. No crowd gathered for them on the dispersal, but the widow noticed black powdering around Yefgenii’s cannons, so she signaled to the Starshina, excited on behalf of the boyish blond Leitenant.
She gazed up at him as he perched on the ladder. He was vast and drab and seemed to blot out half the sky. He appeared colourless except for the blue blaze of his eyes. “Is it congratulations, sir?”
Gnido perched on the neighboring ladder. He and Yefgenii exchanged a look.
The widow held a smile on Yefgenii. Her face was round, her nose a bobble. “Any luck, Leitenant?”
“No,” he said. “No luck.”
On the walk back to Ops, Gnido diverted him. “Claim it, Yeremin.” A jet was starting up. No one could hear them. They could barely hear each other. “Say it was on the Yalu. I’ll back you up.”
“It wasn’t on the Yalu.”
Pilipenko awaited them in the crew hut. He gave them a short sharp nod as they came through the door. Glinka, Skomorokhov, Kubarev and some others lounged on seats. Pilipenko watched Yefgenii pour himself a cup of water from the near-empty jug with the plate over it to keep out the flies. He studied the quick accurate movements of the boy’s big hands. He wanted to warn him but it was too late.
Kiriya entered. “Yeremin. Gnido.”
Yefgenii glanced round but already Kiriya had retreated into his office with the door half closed behind him. Yefgenii gulped down the cup of water and followed. Gnido picked up his beret from the hooks. Pilipenko tossed Yefgenii his — it bore no rank insignia.
Kiriya’s office was bare except for a wooden desk, chair and cabinet. Flies buzzed at the open window. Yefgenii and Gnido saluted then removed their berets and held them in their hands as they remained at attention. Yefgenii felt a trickle of blood inside his flying suit.
The Starshina’s report had come straight to Kiriya. Aircraft 529 and 648 had returned low on fuel and 529 had blackened guns. “You’re aware of the regulations regarding minimum fuel.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Yes, boss.”
“How do you account for your aircraft’s fuel levels?”
“Sir, I had a rough-running engine. It must’ve overconsumed.”
“Sir, I was flying at low speed to escort Leitenant Yeremin home. My aircraft’s performance was suboptimal.”
“Yeremin, how do you account for the condition of your aircraft’s guns?”
“Sir, I engaged an enemy aircraft.”
“You had a rough-running engine.”
“Sir, it corrected itself.”
“It corrected itself?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Gnido?”
“Yes, boss, it corrected itself.”
“I’ve been flying these lumps of metal for three years. Not one ‘corrected itself.’”
Through the window they heard tow trucks revving up. They were starting to return MiGs to the hangars.
“You engaged what?”
“Sir, an F-4U Corsair of the United States Marine Corps, I believe.”
“You believe?”
“It was distant.”
“Gnido?”
“We were returning to base, sir, when we made visual contact.”
“Then what happened, Yeremin?”
“It passed out to sea. I shot from a distance. I was hoping for a lucky strike.”
“You didn’t follow it over the sea?”
“No, sir.”
“Gnido?”
“Yes, sir, that’s how it happened.”
“If there were an accident, if the Americans recovered one of us from the water, it wouldn’t be the pilot alone who’d suffer.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Yes, boss.”
“It’d be his family. There would be reprisals.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Did you get it?”
“Sir?”
“The Corsair — did you get it?”
“I, er, I’m not sure, sir.”
“You’re not sure? Gnido?”
“I, er, I’m not sure either, sir.”
Kiriya studied them for what seemed like minutes. “Gnido, you will never again fail to observe fuel minima. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Gnido put his beret back on, saluted and exited.
Kiriya turned his gaze on Yefgenii. “Of course, if there’s more… If you want to claim it… but if the gun camera suggested a violation… that’s not something I’d be minded to overlook. I have to consider how it would reflect on the Polk.”
Inside he was distraught but Yefgenii didn’t break eye contact. “Yes, sir.”
“And? So?”
“I’m not making a claim, sir.”
Kiriya nodded and looked away. Agony flashed in Yefgenii’s face. “You want glory. Of course. There’s nothing else for us in this shitty war. We’re not defending our cities. We’re not winning new lands. The war’s nothing but the chance of glory.” Through the window the two men watched the tow trucks hauling MiGs into the hangars. “I want glory as much as any man does.” He shot Yefgenii a sideways glance. He was awkward. An apology was beyond him, an apology for stealing Yefgenii’s kill all those weeks ago. “I believe, Yeremin, on one occasion I wanted it too much.”
Yefgenii hesitated. He didn’t know how to answer.
Kiriya nodded. “Dismissed, Yeremin.”
Yefgenii replaced Pilipenko’s beret, saluted and left. There was blood on his chest and through his T-shirt it bloomed like a rose.
In the crew hut, Glinka was recounting his kill to anyone who’d listen. He must’ve been telling it for the twentieth time.
Yefgenii expected to feel changed in some way, but he didn’t at all. The victory in itself wasn’t enough. What was required was that other men treat him as different, as changed. He slumped in the corner, wearing the same drab overalls as the other men, without name, rank or insignia. They were meant to look the same, yet the celestial ones like Skomorokhov and Pilipenko owned a quality that dazzled. But they weren’t stars or comets; they were like the Moon: they glowed with reflected light. The painted red stars on their cockpits weren’t the source, nor the gold stars of their decorations. The light was cast by the adoration of their peers.
He wanted to beat his chest. He wanted to scream that he was a killer. He wanted the eyes of other men to turn toward him and recognize his achievement, so that he could blaze in their adulation like the Moon blazes with the light of the Sun.
Later the Starshina found him and asked him about the film from the gun camera. The widow stood beside him, holding the reel in its small metal capsule.