Aimie Runyan - Daughters of the Night Sky

“Five seconds to target,” I called over the radio as the hand ticked away on my chronometer.

“Banking,” he replied, tipping the plane hard left so I could get a clear view of the painted grass below.

“Steady,” I replied. I opened the flare and aimed. The flare was outfitted with a small white parachute that, when winds were calm, helped it to stay the course as it fell. It would be invaluable in a combat situation where he had to distinguish a strategic building from an unimportant one. When I released this one, it fell true, landing right in the center of the target, leaving a bright-red flame for Solonev. “Marked!”

Without a twitch, he dropped the dummy bomb right on top of my flare.

“Well done,” he acknowledged over the radio.

Two simple words that I’d yet to hear from a pilot or instructor.

Solonev signaled from the front cockpit to acknowledge we’d completed the pass to his satisfaction and were heading back to base. A flawless run with a more-than-capable pilot. I felt tingling in my fingertips and the bottoms of my heels, as though they were preparing to fly of their own accord. Too long since I had felt the joy of being in the cockpit. Karlov waved off another crew as we disembarked our plane. He was never one to waste daylight.

“Excellent, Solonev,” Karlov said with a nod as we rejoined our classmates. It might as well have been an ode in Solonev’s honor, stingy as the captain was with his praise.

“Thank you, Captain. You have a very skilled student in Cadet Ivanova. As talented a navigator as ever I’ve flown with.” My lips turned up in an involuntary smile.

Karlov emitted a grunt, and his eyes returned to the mild-blue April sky to observe the crew taking the same pass we had just completed. The flying was competent, but the navigator missed his mark three times and they kept circling back around. It’s a wonder they didn’t get airsick from the failed attempts. Not a word of censure was uttered on landing. I watched as the men flew their patterns one by one, each receiving praise or criticism. Every student was worthy of an assessment except me. Not for the first time did I have to fight the urge to throttle Karlov with my own bare hands. I watched each flight, paying the utmost attention to every skillful maneuver and every gaffe. I stood with my hands behind my back, my left hand gripping my right wrist so tightly that a painful rush of blood back to my fingers when I loosened my hold reminded me to cool my temper.

We had one hour of rest between practical training and the evening meal, but I had no desire to face the rest of the academy. I unzipped the front of my flight suit to let the sun soak through the thin material of my uniform blouse and tramped off through the fields in my heavy boots.

In less than ten years, Chelyabinsk had become a major center for industry, particularly for the military. It made good sense. It was far from Moscow to the west and a world away from anything that mattered in the east. Defensible. But with growth came a price. I could not go for a ramble off in the hills, see if the wildflowers were emerging, leave behind the bustle of the academy even for one hour. I would have to make do with the expanse of open fields beyond the runways that was the closest thing to nature I could get to without a few hours’ leave.

I lay down in the grass, perpetually dewy until the last weeks of July and into August, but paid no mind to the dampening of my suit. It would dry by the following afternoon, if in fact I had call to wear it again. If Tokarev’s ankle were badly sprained, Karlov would have an excuse for keeping Solonev or any other pilot from flying with me.

For a few minutes, I wasn’t sure how many, I simply took in the crisp air, still tinged with the acrid smell of fuel and oil, and watched the clouds as they floated lazily across the blue canopy over my head. I thought of Mama, still toiling in the laundry day in and day out, now without me to help with meals and tending the cabin. At least now she had laid aside enough money for an old truck that would save her the walk into town every day. Were I the praying sort, I would have included the truck in my nightly vigil. It was perhaps the oldest motor vehicle in all of Chelyabinsk Oblast, and she didn’t have the means to replace it if it broke down beyond repair. If it survived another winter, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

I could go home. With my skills, I could find a job here in town to ease Mama’s burden. No one here would care if I left. I would at least be of use to her.

“He’s just a bitter old man, Ivanova. Ignore him.” Solonev’s voice floated to my ears, so supple I wondered if I had dreamed it.

“It’s Katya, and you’re a mind reader as well as a splendid pilot, Cadet Solonev,” I said, resting up on my elbows and cocking my brow at him as he came to sit beside me. “No wonder you do so well here. How did you know to look for me here?”

“Vanya, if you don’t mind. I’ve seen you wander out here almost every day in fine weather for the past year. And I’m not a mind reader. No one could be around the cold-shoulder treatment he gives you and not be affected. I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long.”

“Thank you,” I said sourly, clutching my knees to my chest. You think I’m weak, too, yet you notice my wanderings.

“That’s not what I meant. He’s unbearable to you. Few of the other women have it as bad.”

I thought he inched closer but convinced myself I had imagined it.

“Or the men,” I agreed. “He’s taken a special liking to me; that much is certain.”

“Because you’re the only woman in his class,” he explained, lighting a cigarette. Not long ago I calculated the cost of each of the half-smoked cigarettes he and the rest of the male cadets left strewn about outside and in the ashtrays near the campus doors. I could easily buy Mama a year’s worth of groceries with what they wasted in a month.

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” I picked at the dewy grass rather than look at him.

“I don’t know, but you shouldn’t take it personally. I meant what I said. You’re a damned fine navigator.” He nudged me companionably with his elbow. I looked up from the blade of grass I twirled between my thumb and forefinger and locked eyes with him for just a moment before fixing my gaze on the tip of my boot.

“I know I am. It would just be nice to be acknowledged.” I chucked the blade of grass back out into the field.

“Are you here to fly to get noticed?”

Fair point, but it’s easy for you to say when your flying is complimented at every turn. “To fly. It’s always been about the flying. I want to pilot my own plane.”

“And you will.” His black eyes shifted from flippant to serious. “A navigator’s skills are even more valuable than a pilot’s. I’m grateful for every minute I sat in the navigator’s seat. It’s made me a far better pilot. Forget the rest. You won’t be grounded again. From what I saw, Tokarev’s ankle isn’t twisted—it’s broken—and he’ll have to take the rest of the year off and finish in the fall. I’ll insist that you fly as my navigator. You’ll get the hours you need to graduate and do whatever it is you want.”

“So I have to rely on your kindness to get my wings,” I said. “I thought Stalin had emancipated us, but I feel just as dependent as ever.” I exhaled and stared out into the vastness of the field. Shouting about the injustice was a waste of precious energy.

“Changes like these can’t happen overnight. Not while stubborn old men like Karlov are in charge. They see women as the bearers of children, the providers of meals, and the scrubbers of floors. Or decoration. But change is happening.”