Free Ascent by Jed Mercurio by Ascent (com v4.0)

promoting you to starshii-leitenant. ”
    Yefgenii looked stunned.
    “How about ‘Thanks, boss’?”
    “Thanks, boss.”
    Kiriya clinked glasses with him. “Enjoy it while you can.” He studied this gauche boy standing before him more than a head taller with hair so blond it looked white and eyes that burned blue, and round his chin and neck acne that stippled his creamy skin. He wondered if he might be one of those few whose names the brotherhood would one day incant as if casting a spell.
    He said, “This is a war between great nations. Not the same as a great war. But enjoy it — it’s the best one we’ve got.”
    “Just like this vodka!”
    Kiriya grinned. “What do you care? You’re a starshii-leitenant with two and a half kills!”
    “I am, boss!”
    The men stayed late. There were more hours of drinking before they drifted back to the barracks.
    Out in the darkness, Yefgenii paused. The Moon hung in the east. He breathed. The air carried a smell of pinecones from the forest that divided the base from the airfield.
    If he’d been killed yesterday, there’d’ve been only a blank space where his life had run. Now something of substance was forming in the space that some of us fill and others leave empty. He hated men like Glinka who aimed only to survive this tour so they could return to their lives. Glinka’s type didn’t long for battle and that which comes with it: the chance to measure themselves against other men. Perhaps only in sport does a man measure himself against another man in any sense that’s true. The air battles were sport, but they were also more.
    Yefgenii’s dream had been born in a sewer and now he could dream of vying with the likes of Jabara for the title of Ace of Aces. He wouldn’t dare announce his ambition to the others. They would only laugh.
    As it happened, Jabara wasn’t even in Korea anymore — he’d been sent back to the U.S. on a publicity tour. At this time the leading ace of the war was Major George A. Davis Jr., with fourteen victories, though Davis wasn’t in Korea anymore either. He’d been shot down and killed in February by Kapetan Mikhail Averin of the 148th GvIAP.
    “Congratulations, Leitenant.”
    He spun around. The widow stood a short distance away but he couldn’t see much of her except that she was smoking a cigarette. A light breeze wafted the smoke toward him. “On what?”
    “Your victories.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Do you smoke? I have only this one, but we can share it.”
    He hesitated.
    She smiled. He was still only a boy. She walked toward him and offered him the cigarette.
    He took a drag, then handed it back. She stood beside him in silence. They breathed the cold night air that smelled of pinecones. He looked at her. Gnido was dead, but he was alive.
    THE AIR WAS SPLIT. Metal clashed like the clash of cymbals. An F-86 floated into his crosshairs and he pulled the trigger. Tracers flickered. Smoke ballooned till it enveloped him and then, when he broke out of it, the Sabre was far below and trailing a plume of soot.
    Another day burned and from the brown foothills, 5,000 metres down, came a burst of light. Maybe it came from water or from glass. A few seconds later he glimpsed it again a half kilometre farther south and now he knew it to be the glint of metal that was moving at hundreds of kilometres per hour. He tipped his wings over and dropped the nose. The other five pilots in the zveno knew not to question. They followed him down knowing soon enough they’d see what he’d seen. It was a Gloster Meteor. As he closed he identified red-white-and-blue roundels on its wingtips and on its fuselage aft of the wing roots. The British pilot didn’t even see the MiGs. He’d never known it was a fight and now it was his death. Yefgenii’s shells struck his fuselage and the Meteor swung into the hillside.
    At 10,000 metres four B-29s were sailing toward targets in North Korea. Eight Sabres flew escort. In the first pass the fighters