Ascent by Jed Mercurio Read Online Free

landmarks. He studied the shapes of the hills, which way their slopes pointed, the turns of the river itself, its bridges.
    “This side is Manchuria, the other is Korea,” Pilipenko said. “We’re safe on this side — they’re forbidden to cross. The other is the theater of war. There they’re fair game — but, the moment you cross, so are you.”
    They flew upstream, keeping the river off their starboard wings. In the far north a mountain range was pushing up at them. Its peaks wore caps of white snow. The horizon was sharp. Sparse white cumuli were heaped below, looking like coral. A little cirrus drifted above, not thick enough to be white, only blue-white.
    “The Suiho Dam.”
    Pilipenko orbited to give him a good look and then they turned back downriver. Roads and railway lines hatched the land. Yefgenii noted bridges and villages. A sector map lay in his thigh pocket visible through a cover of clear plastic. When he picked out a feature he related it to the map. Soon the river was opening into an enormous bay.
    “The Yellow Sea. Korea Bay. Do not overfly.”
    Pilipenko pulled round, hard and tight. Yefgenii’s g-needle flicked as he followed. Pilipenko didn’t roll out. He kept in the turn past 360 degrees. The games had begun.
    Pilipenko opened the throttle all the way to the stop. He pitched up the nose and rolled hard over to select the attitude for a max-rate turn in the opposite direction. Yefgenii matched the maneuver. The two MiGs circled in an MRT, pulling 6 g. Pilipenko was guessing that, because Yefgenii was big, he’d have problems at high acceleration. It was the easy way to break him before the sortie even got interesting. Yefgenii sucked in short sharp breaths and strained during expirations like shitting a brick. The planes cut up the air. Vortices hung and swirled. When the planes struck them on the next orbit, it came as a kick in the seat of their pants. Yefgenii was still holding tight on Pilipenko’s tail. The formation was no looser now than when they’d been in a gentle climb.
    Pilipenko grinned; it was going to get interesting after all; he rolled out and pulled up. They tilted almost to the vertical. Their wingtips cut the horizon. The altimeter wound up to 12,000. Speed bled away. Soon the stubby white needle was barely moving, the longer thinner one making only a slow creep round the clock. The aircraft trembled. They were on the buffet. A stall threatened. Yefgenii saw Pilipenko’s plane tip over and vanish under his nose. He pushed hard over, minusing 2 g.
    Pilipenko reappeared. They were plunging straight down. The wide green earth was swallowing them. The altimeter spun down, the airspeed built. With Pilipenko still on his nose, a hurricane of air rushed over Yefgenii’s canopy. Soon he was bouncing in Pilipenko’s slipstream. The planes burst through layers of cloud. In split seconds sunlight flashed off then back on. Yefgenii saw Pilipenko’s wings rotate through 90 degrees and the elevators on his tailplane waggle up. He reacted at once. Pilipenko glanced over his shoulder expecting to see clear sky. The nozzle of Yefgenii’s intake loomed in his five o’clock position.
    “Fuck.”
    Pilipenko levelled out at 5,000 metres and stirred the control stick out and back. As his nose tilted it began to describe a circle. His wings slashed the horizon and he rolled through the inverted. Again Yefgenii had reacted at once and matched the speed and angle of the maneuver. Pilipenko was corkscrewing round in a barrel roll hoping to loop onto his tail. Yefgenii made his roll wide enough and slow enough to hold formation. Pilipenko’s head twisted round again and again the nose of Yefgenii’s MiG was right behind.
    “Fuck.”
    Pilipenko snapped into a hard turn to the left, then to the right. He climbed and fell, rolled and looped. He couldn’t shake loose. Under his vest sweat was gushing over his skin. It was trickling out of his helmet and down the back of his neck. He could