He felt now that his entire life had been a masquerade. The brooding, serious officer. It had been all right as long as there wasn’t a real war. He had not even had to go to Afghanistan. Instead, he had been shipped off to Cuba, under the protection of General Starukhin, the senior Soviet military representative in Havana. Starukhin was an abusive drunkard, clever and talented enough to survive, and indebted to Anton’s father. He had treated Anton carefully. And Cuba had been a good assignment. Anton had run the motorized rifle troops and several special training programs. But life had been slower in the tropics, and there had always been a little time to live, and he had even been able to take Zena with him. The Cubans had had no interest in socializing with Russians beyond the requirements of official functions. But he and Zena had lived in a world all their own, going down to the beach together when a bit of free time could be scavenged, or spending a rare weekend in Havana, in the splendid, run-down aftermath of decadence. “What fine little capitalists we might have made, darling,” Zena had teased him. “Wicked rum and the stars on the water, a casino perhaps, and my Anton in that dreaded capitalist uniform, a dinner jacket.”
Now he was here, in Germany, in the mud, and everything was painfully real. The war was real. And he did not know if he could accomplish his assigned tasks, if he could really be his father’s son. He knew all of the phrases and the drills, all of the wisdom of the classroom and the training range. But would he be able to lead men into battle? Would he be able to manage the complexity? Would he be able to do it right when it really mattered? In his heart, he doubted his adequacy.
Perhaps the hard men of the Revolution had been correct. Perhaps the old families were no more than parasites. Useless. Perhaps the Bolsheviks should not have stopped until they had purged every last man, woman, and child.
Anton thought of his father again, and the theory fell apart. His father would pay the Soviets in full for what little they had given him; he would overpay them. But he was not a Soviet man, no matter what he said and no matter what they said. His wonderful Russian father, as great as the low hills and the endless steppes. As great as summer and winter. Anton smiled. Surely, the old man was in his glory now, as strong as his son was weak. Perhaps this time the plaudits would outstrip those gained at the gates of Plevna. Or the entry into Paris.
Yes. Paris. And Zena. One of their many fantastic dreams. But he had pictured it all a bit differently than this.
His driver came around the trees, plopping through the mud, struggling to balance two steaming cups. Tea. And Chopin. And Zena.
Anton shook his head in wordless sorrow.
“Flight Leader, I have you on my screen. You are cleared for auxiliary runway number two. Don’t screw around. We have more hostiles on the way.”
“This is Zero-Five-Eight. Roger. Auxiliary number two. Coming straight in.”
“Watch for the smoke, Flight Leader. We have burning fuel.”
“With me, Fifty-nine?” Sobelev called to his wingman.
“Roger, Fifty-eight.”
“You’re in first. Number two’s longer than it looks, but it comes up suddenly behind the trees. Don’t flare early. You’ll be just fine.”
But Sobelev himself was unprepared for the sight of the airfield. Fuel fires raged, and black smoke rose thickly against the gray sky. Vehicles with warning lights ran along the apron, and planes lifted through what appeared to be great hoops of fire. From several kilometers out, the litter NATO raids had left behind challenged the pilot’s confidence.
“Flight Leader, this is Control. I have you visual.”
“I’m rolling out. My wingman’s coming in first.”
“Roger. Do you need assistance on the ground?”
“Negative. Not unless we bugger it up.”
“Your runway.”
The lieutenant, Sobelev’s wingman, took his aircraft in cleanly. Sobelev remained surprised that they had made it this far, that they were still alive. For at least one more mission. He came around and followed his wingman in, bouncing on the runway.
“Talk to me, Control. Where am I going?”
“Proceed onto taxiway four. Move out. Hard hangars, crescent B.”
“Numbers?”
“Just take the first open bay. This is war, my distinguished Comrade Aviator.”
Sobelev guided his plane through the trailing smoke and the wreckage of planes that had been caught on the ground. It struck him that all of this was an incredible waste, but now that he was on the ground, he realized that the focus of his life was to get to a latrine.
Sobelev’s legs quivered as he stood on the concrete of the hangar floor, and his thighs felt spongy as he walked to the tunnel and collected his wingman. After a latrine stop, they reported to the mission room, deep underground. Muffled blasts sounded through the layers of earth, steel, and concrete. The enemy aircraft had returned.
As Sobelev and his wingman entered the mission room, the occupants went silent, and each face turned to see who had made it back. Several men offered greetings, but their voices were hollow with the knowledge that their survival might only be a temporary affair. Sobelev drew himself a cup of dark, steaming tea from the samovar. Conversations resumed, but the mood was serious, almost somber, unlike the swaggering tone of peacetime exercises. Now there was no question about who had passed and who had failed. Sobelev took a chair, listening to the patchwork dialogues of the other men and trying to calm his insides. His lieutenant took a seat close by, as though they were still in the air and he still required shepherding. There was one basic subject to which all of the talk returned.
“Sasha’s down over Guetersloh. I couldn’t see a chute.”
“It’s hard to see anything in this weather.”
“Has anybody seen Profirov?”
“Profirov went deep.”
“Vasaryan got clean, though. Good canopy opening.”
“He’ll come out all right. Luck of the Armenians.”
“Couldn’t even see what was shooting at us. The visibility was some of the worst I’ve ever flown in.”
“And this forward air controller was absolutely worthless. Couldn’t locate the enemy, couldn’t get a fix on me…”
Sobelev began to grow conscious of less dramatic physical sensations now. His flight suit felt greasy and cold on his skin, stinking with the sweat of fear. The strong tea burned his empty stomach.
“How many more sorties do you think we’ll run today?”
“They’re not going to try to do this at night, are they? With these planes? In this weather?”
“Is there anything to eat around here? Any biscuits?”
The entrance of a staff officer interrupted the pilots’ conversations. The outsider strode to the blackboard, positioned himself for authority, and began to call names. Several times, the selected names met no response, and Sobelev realized that the staff did not have a firm grasp on which pilots were available at this point.
At the end of the grim roll call, Sobelev, his wingman, and six other pilots were ordered to report to a special top-security briefing room. The major could not tell them anything about their mission, only that their aircraft were being prepared with the correct ordnance packages.
Sobelev led the way down the grimy corridor. He was seriously worried about his ability to keep going without making deadly mistakes. He could accept the fact that the enemy might get him even if he performed perfectly. But he did not want to die because of an error.
He looked at his wingman. The boy looked as though he had been sick for a week. “Feeling all right?”