Ascent by Jed Mercurio by Ascent (com v4.0) Page A

a mutual reflection of celestial glory. He’d taken to calling him “Yo-Yo”. Kiriya chose to believe that he was the Sun to Yefgenii’s Moon; the boy shone with a brightness he supplied.
    Anyone who got a kill wanted to report it first to Yefgenii. His approval had begun to count more than Kiriya’s. He couldn’t go anywhere on the base without someone calling out a greeting. At dinner, the rookies would keep a place for him at their table, and be crestfallen if he gravitated to a rival clique. If he approached, their hearts would race, like teenagers with a crush.
    Pilipenko had accepted him as his equal in the air despite his junior rank, but, now that Yefgenii had surpassed them all, Pilipenko was at a loss to relate to his status. The best approach was not to consider him a man at all but a myth. His gifts were inscrutable, his achievements imaginary and his name could only be whispered, never said aloud.
    When with swooping hands they’d recount their stories in the bar, it was Yefgenii’s everyone wanted to hear. Skomorokhov would follow with one of his own — the day he became an ace, how he became a double — but it was never enough. At one time he’d been a prince; unburdened by Kiriya’s responsibilities to command, he’d been in a position to dispense grand favors. A word of praise to a young pilot would be greeted with fawning appreciation. A stinging put-down to a runt would win laughter.
    To a group of rookies Skomorokhov recounted how he was bounced by a pair of Sabres and ended up with smoke in the cockpit but still made it home. He received no looks of wonder. Instead the rookies turned to Yefgenii for his reaction. Skomorokhov flushed with resentment. “Yeremin, ever flown with worse viz inside the cockpit than out?” No one laughed at the joke.
    Yefgenii hadn’t called him “sir” or “Major” for weeks. “You know, Sko, I think the superior pilot uses his superior judgment to stay out of situations that test his superior ability.”
    Skomorokhov flung his vodka glass into the fire.
    Now, as Yefgenii climbed into the east, a dusting of snow lay across the fields below. The peaks of the Changbai Range were shrouded in fog, but the Yalu remained clear, the dividing line between the offices of mortals and the arena of those who wore wings. His sharp eyes hunted two more kills and a share in another and when he landed back at Antung the runway was hard as stone with bands of frost fringing its shoulders.
    The widow had instructed the other women not to return to their barracks until at least an hour after dinner. They knew it was so he could visit her but no one dared object. He was the glory of the 221st encapsulated in one man. To deny him would bring misfortune.
    They had sex in her bunk and as usual he withdrew before the end. Her fingers inched down his body, teasing him; she laughed; then she took him in hand and in mouth and in a few seconds he came.
    Afterwards she smoked a cigarette. “You’ve never told me how long you’re here for.”
    “I don’t know. It could all end tomorrow.”
    She passed him the cigarette. He drew in a breath. The tobacco was stale.
    “I know. I meant how long’s your tour?”
    “I’m here as long as I’m needed.”
    “But don’t you get homesick?”
    “This is my home.”
    The next day he claimed his twentieth victory. As the MiGs returned Skomorokhov’s hand strangled the control stick. He’d gone from being ace of the 221st to picking up Yefgenii Yeremin’s scraps. He let the boy’s MiG float into his crosshairs. He crooked his finger round the trigger. MiG 529 ’s exhaust hung behind the cross. “Dugh- dugh-dugh-dugh-DUGH!” Skomorokhov shouted as he released the trigger. His mouth was laughing but his eyes weren’t.
    By the time the jets were being towed to the hangars, snow was falling in flurries, yet the whole base must’ve been on the dispersal to greet him. They carried him on their shoulders. At twenty years of age Yefgenii