Daughters of the Night Sky

Solonev took his place first, stepping onto a reinforced section of wing and swinging himself into the front cockpit. I followed into the rear. When given the signal, Solonev fired up the engine and ascended as high as he dared, not descending until we were within a few hundred meters of the target. This would keep us out of sight of ground troops for as long as possible, giving us a few seconds’ advantage. It was all we would need.

He had to bank fairly hard to the right or left to be able to see the target below, so we had to circle our target like a vulture long enough for me to mark the target with a flare and for Solonev to make a direct pass to drop his dummy bomb.

“Five seconds to target,” I called over the radio as the hand ticked away on my chronometer.

“Banking,” he replied, tipping the plane hard left so I could get a clear view of the painted grass below.

“Steady,” I replied. I opened the flare and aimed. The flare was outfitted with a small white parachute that, when winds were calm, helped it to stay the course as it fell. It would be invaluable in a combat situation where he had to distinguish a strategic building from an unimportant one. When I released this one, it fell true, landing right in the center of the target, leaving a bright-red flame for Solonev. “Marked!”

Without a twitch, he dropped the dummy bomb right on top of my flare.

“Well done,” he acknowledged over the radio.

Two simple words that I’d yet to hear from a pilot or instructor.

Solonev signaled from the front cockpit to acknowledge we’d completed the pass to his satisfaction and were heading back to base. A flawless run with a more-than-capable pilot. I felt tingling in my fingertips and the bottoms of my heels, as though they were preparing to fly of their own accord. Too long since I had felt the joy of being in the cockpit. Karlov waved off another crew as we disembarked our plane. He was never one to waste daylight.

“Excellent, Solonev,” Karlov said with a nod as we rejoined our classmates. It might as well have been an ode in Solonev’s honor, stingy as the captain was with his praise.

“Thank you, Captain. You have a very skilled student in Cadet Ivanova. As talented a navigator as ever I’ve flown with.” My lips turned up in an involuntary smile.

Karlov emitted a grunt, and his eyes returned to the mild-blue April sky to observe the crew taking the same pass we had just completed. The flying was competent, but the navigator missed his mark three times and they kept circling back around. It’s a wonder they didn’t get airsick from the failed attempts. Not a word of censure was uttered on landing. I watched as the men flew their patterns one by one, each receiving praise or criticism. Every student was worthy of an assessment except me. Not for the first time did I have to fight the urge to throttle Karlov with my own bare hands. I watched each flight, paying the utmost attention to every skillful maneuver and every gaffe. I stood with my hands behind my back, my left hand gripping my right wrist so tightly that a painful rush of blood back to my fingers when I loosened my hold reminded me to cool my temper.

We had one hour of rest between practical training and the evening meal, but I had no desire to face the rest of the academy. I unzipped the front of my flight suit to let the sun soak through the thin material of my uniform blouse and tramped off through the fields in my heavy boots.

In less than ten years, Chelyabinsk had become a major center for industry, particularly for the military. It made good sense. It was far from Moscow to the west and a world away from anything that mattered in the east. Defensible. But with growth came a price. I could not go for a ramble off in the hills, see if the wildflowers were emerging, leave behind the bustle of the academy even for one hour. I would have to make do with the expanse of open fields beyond the runways that was the closest thing to nature I could get to without a few hours’ leave.

I lay down in the grass, perpetually dewy until the last weeks of July and into August, but paid no mind to the dampening of my suit. It would dry by the following afternoon, if in fact I had call to wear it again. If Tokarev’s ankle were badly sprained, Karlov would have an excuse for keeping Solonev or any other pilot from flying with me.