Daughters of the Night Sky(4)
“What was that, Ekaterina?” The teacher turned around, slowly, giving me time to retract my words.
“I disagree, Comrade Dokorov. With respect.” I had found my voice—a reedier version of my father’s baritone—and it did not waver. I stood straighter and jutted my chin in his direction.
He walked back to my desk, took the primer, and fixed me with his black eyes. “Very well, young lady. But if you waste my time on a whim, I will be sorely disappointed.” He took the book, placed it on a shelf with dozens of other dusty volumes, and began his lesson.
I pulled my notebook and my father’s favorite fountain pen—simple and sturdy, like him—from the worn leather bag he had used for carrying students’ papers to and from the university each day. The pen was handcrafted from wood—rosewood, he had guessed. It was a gift from one of his professor friends, and a token he was quite fond of. I loved using it and had even had one of the craftsmen in town teach me how to fashion new nibs from steel scraps in exchange for running a few errands.
I sat ramrod straight in my chair and used my father’s pen to write down every word pertinent to the lesson. When it came time for mathematics, the other girls and I were allowed to participate with the boys. The figures confused me at first, as I had little instruction beyond basic arithmetic, but I took copious notes. If the teacher would not help me with my questions after class, I would ask Mama. If Mama couldn’t help me, I would find someone who could. There were always floors to scrub or marketing to be done in exchange for knowledge.
Deep within me I knew my work had to begin that very moment if I was to have wings of my own.
CHAPTER 2
April 1941, Chelyabinsk Military Aviation School of Fast Bombardiers
The sun beat down on me in the rear cockpit of the small training craft, and my stomach lurched as Tokarev dove the trainer in the final approach toward the painted patch of grass that was our target. I leaned over the edge of the cockpit to get a glance of the terrain below. Until Tokarev banked, the only things I could see were the back of his head and the terrain past either side of the wing. Nothing ahead or directly below. I verified we were on course for the coordinates the instructor had given me and checked my chronometer.
“Five seconds to target,” I said, speaking clearly into the radio so my pilot could hear each syllable. I opened the top of the metal flare. “Three seconds. Mark! ” I tossed the flare over the edge to illuminate the target for him.
When he circled back around to drop his dummy bomb, Tokarev hesitated just a few moments too long before he released. As he banked right to set course for the airstrip, I saw he’d missed the bright painted X by a wide margin. If we’d been aiming for a military outpost, we’d have hit the school next door.
My hands shook as Tokarev landed the plane on the edge of the academy’s airstrip, and it was just as well. If they had been steady, I might have throttled the clumsy dolt. He had completed the passes with adequate technique but still managed to miss two of the seven practice targets.
My job was to get us to the target and mark it so the pilot could focus on keeping the plane aloft. I was armed with nothing other than coordinates, a chronometer, and compass, flares, and my own eyes. I hadn’t missed a single mark that run, nor had I missed more than I could count on my fingers since Captain Karlov had reluctantly let me in the rear cockpit to begin practical training as a navigator toward the end of my first year. I could see Karlov’s distaste for women in uniform every time I came into his view, but my performance record gave him no choice but to advance me through the three-year program. Women were beginning to make names for themselves in aviation, setting records and joining flight schools and civil aviation clubs in droves, but it had taken the looming jackal at our western gates to encourage our leaders to take women’s emancipation to heart.
Honestly, I hadn’t wanted to fly for the military, but the cauldron of war that boiled on every Russian border had afforded me the opportunity to earn my wings. I hadn’t particularly wanted to serve as a navigator, either. I wanted training as a pilot, but the rear cockpit was the place I was given. It was better than staying on the ground, at least.
“A decent run, Tokarev,” Karlov said when we rejoined our classmates at the edge of the airfield, “but Cadet Ivanova could have left you a wider margin for error with your targets.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Tokarev replied to the lukewarm praise.
This was nonsense, but I remained silent, as I did so often in Karlov’s presence. Opening my mouth was rarely worth the resultant flare of temper. When Karlov looked away, Tokarev shrugged and turned a Golly gee, that stinks for you smirk my way.
“He should have been able to hit those targets, Captain,” another third-year spoke up. Ivan Solonev had transferred into our division a few weeks prior. Karlov had been thrilled, as Solonev was a military legacy of sorts. His father was a hero of the European War and a brilliant strategist. My father had been decorated in the war as well, but Papa wasn’t a local man, so his reputation wasn’t known here like Solonev’s father’s, and I didn’t crow about it to ensure it was.
Karlov had whirled his way. “What was that, Cadet?” he asked, the ends of his walrus-bristled mustache twitching in annoyance. Almost anyone else questioning his appraisal would have been launched halfway back to the barracks by now from the sheer volume of his tirade. A bead of sweat trickled down the nape of my neck as I wondered what Solonev would say and how Karlov would blame me for it.