Ascent by Jed Mercurio Read Online Free Page B

too. They awaited the click and hiss over the radio and Kiriya’s voice ordering them home. Instead they heard only the rumble of their jets and the rush of air.
    Yefgenii sighted a dot on the horizon. It was laying a trail like a fine cotton thread, so small that when he blinked the image skipped with the tidal flow of his tears. He waited a moment, but over the radio no one called it out. Only he had acquired the target. He could let it sail on and the others would never know.
    He transmitted. “Contact, Red Six.”
    “Where?”
    “Three o’clock, on the horizon, moving right to left.”
    “I’m not visual. Anyone else visual?”
    “Negative.”
    “Negative.”
    “Neg—”
    “Red Six, none of us are visual. Are you sure?”
    “Yes, boss. In our three, on the hor—”
    “I can’t see shit.”
    “Me neither.”
    “Red Six, is it closing?”
    “Negative. Looks like it’s moving in parallel, maybe even receding.”
    “Well, that’s no fucking use. I’m under min. If there’s anyone out there, he’s 50 kilometres away or more.”
    “I’m ten litres under.”
    “Five.”
    “No way could we chase him down and still make it back over the Yalu.”
    “Shit.” That was Kiriya again.
    The seconds stretched. Yefgenii tracked the tiny gray point as it crept along the horizon. It was getting smaller.
    Still Kiriya didn’t give the order. He was contemplating burning what fuel he had left to hunt down a target he couldn’t even see. He knew Yeremin had sharp eyes. If only he had sharp eyes. If only he’d seen it half an hour ago. He’d been stuck on four so long now. “Fuck it. We’ve got to go home.” He clicked off. “Shit.”
    The MiGs turned north. Yefgenii glanced out past his wingtip at the contact. It was shrinking to nothing, a Sabre of the 16th Fighter Intercept Squadron flown by a Second Lieutenant named Buzz Aldrin. A few moments later the aircraft had gone, leaving only a bare patch of sky. Even the cotton filament of its contrail had vanished. The air was clear, empty and silent. Yefgenii felt the hunger for the first time. It reached down into his gut. It filled the gap between earth and sky.
    THEN, AS IF BY CASTING A SPELL, things changed. The Sun rose like glory. Intelligence had reported a wave of B-29 raids on North Korean hydroelectric plants. PLAAF pilots had engaged the B-29s’ fighter escort over Panghyon. Both sides had suffered losses. Sightings were coming in thick and fast. As fighters clamored to join the action, dust erupted from the runways north of the Yalu.
    Pilipenko scribbled duties onto the board with flourishes of a black marker. The pilots crowded round. Yefgenii read he’d fly with Kiriya once again. It was because of his eyes — Kiriya wanted them picking out targets for him and not for anyone else.
    They sat in their cockpits for an hour. Kiriya called the tower every five minutes. His voice turned shrill. He wanted to know why their orders hadn’t come through yet. He had to get into the fight even if it was only to scavenge for scraps. Just as he was beginning to lose hope, the fighter controller’s voice broke through from the tower: “Clear to taxi.”
    Kiriya had them test-firing their guns almost the second they left the circuit, but when they crossed the Yalu the battle appeared over. The blue was empty. Kiriya could’ve wept. For some men there’d been a sky filled with glorious sport, but for him now there was nothing.
    Yefgenii clicked the button on his stick to transmit a word of Korean: “Contact.”
    “Good boy!” In Russian, Kiriya was almost squeaking.
    No one else replied. Apart from Kiriya they were Kubarev, Baturin, Dolgikh and Glinka. None of them could see it yet. On the ground civilized men could get by without sharp eyes. They had evolved beyond natural selection and were free of it. The men who fought in the sky were not.
    “No contact,” said Kubarev in Korean.
    Yefgenii said, “One o’clock.”
    Each pilot alone in his