Prologue
Krasnoarmeysk Airfield
Volgograd, Orussia
January 14th, 1943
A tense restlessness gripped the Officer's Country of Krasnoarmeysk as dawn shed its first light. The murmuring of pilots, aircrew and maintenance workers emerging from their tents and barracks was disturbed intermittently by the grumbling of the engines of planes and strikers returning from their night patrol.
The familiar grumbling that told the young Kapitan that it was time to get up.
Propping himself up on one arm, he glanced at the finely crafted silver timepiece that was bound to his wrist, the leather strap still relatively fresh and firm. Seven minutes past six. On the dot.
Lifting his legs over the edge of his cot, he noticed that his room mate's (or tent mate, rather) bunk was vacant, the grimy grey sheets folded up and laid at the head of the bed. Stretching his arms, he began to search with his left hand in the half-light for his uniform. He buttoned up the light brown shirt, before sliding his feet into his boots.
He drew a tin mug full of water from a pail in the corner of the tent. He downed half of it, relieving his dry throat, before splashing the rest of it across his face. The icy sting quickly slapped any remaining grogginess out of him. Finally, towelling his face and fixing his chestnut coloured hair, he caught his reflection in the still surface of the remaining water in the pail. A pair of bright green eyes looked back into his. He let out a small yawn.
He was three months from his sixteenth birthday.
He opened the tent's entrance flap, letting dim daylight and cold air spill in. He grabbed a dark leather jacket off the post of his bunk, a dark red scarf hanging around the collar, wrapping it around himself.
Captain Ilya Litvyak slung a kit bag around his shoulder, before stepping out into the cold Orussian morning.
He didn't hear the birds singing today. Even they must have been gripped by the apprehension that was taking hold of every person on the base, and most likely every person in the city of Volgograd that was behind the base. He looked up into the sky; grey clouds dominated it, like an endless sheet of damp cotton. Not ideal weather for flying in, he thought. His boots treaded across the grass as he made his way towards the hangars. The 'regular' Air Force housed most of their aircraft in either standard aluminium or canvas shelters, but the Striker hangar that Ilya was heading for was one of the more impressive structures on the base. A shelter that was protected by a full metre of steel and concrete, it was designed to withstand direct artillery and bombing, and housed some of the most vital weapons in the arsenal of the Orussian Air Force.
And he, as well as nearly two dozen other young officers around his age, were the ones using them. It was still a bit absurd whenever he thought of it that way, really.
Walking through the partially opened gate, he caught the smell of oil, petrol and gunpowder.
"Jan," he called out. "You in here?"
"Where else'd I be at this hour, boss?" a voice responded. Ilya looked over to the strikers, to see all six feet and five inches of his Muscovite wingman turning towards him.
"The planes good to go?" he inquired.
"Good as the day they rolled off the production line, sir." Jan answered. Ilya scowled slightly at the title. Being Kapitan of the Wizards was still something he was going to have to get used to.
"Oh, by the way, I managed to test firing the RS-82s from those pylons I rigged to the stabs on my Shturmovik on the patrol yesterday evening."
Ilya raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And? How'd it go?"
"Just like I predicted! The rockets fired and detonated perfectly. You obviously have to keep your arms out of the way and your body straight when you fire, but it worked just as well as it does on the Army planes. What's even better is that we can attach them to pretty much all of our strikers!"
"Good man," Ilya smiled. "Thanks. I'd better get some grub and get the briefing under way."
"Do that." Jan said. "Also, Ilya," he continued, placing a large hand on his smaller superior's shoulder. "Just remember, no matter what happens up there today, just know that I'll always have your back."
Ilya smiled again, returning the gesture. "You always have, mate."
Ilya rounded a block of tents to find the remainder of the 3rd Striker Aviation Squadron hanging around a small campfire. A tan-skinned young man was devoting the majority of his attention to a pot that was cooking over it. He lifted the lid to inspect the contents.
"Alright, soup's up you lot," he announced to the rest of the pilots present. The rest of the boys stopped whatever they were doing and lined up to ladle their breakfast into their tin cups. One of the taller pilots briefly sniffed the contents of his.
"Christ, it smells like something died in here, what the hell did you put in this, Padre?"
"Nothing you ain't gonna eat, Bershanski!" The cook retorted. "And for fuck's sake, don't use the lord's name in vain when I'm around! I'm probably destined for a millennium in Purgatory just from hanging around you damned heathens."
"I think your attitude's already seen you halfway there," A red-haired pilot muttered, as he tested a spoonful, grimacing slightly. Padre's culinary skills weren't particularly stellar, but the squad would much rather take his dishes instead of forcing through the slop served in the mess hall.
"Cut him a break, you can't exactly expect fine dining when the only ingredients you have access to are on the threshold of expiration," Ilya said, causing the rest of the boys to notice him.
"Dobroye utro, tovarischii."
"Dobroye utro, Kapitan." They greeted as Ilya sat himself on one of the canvas chairs.
Bershanski moaned. "Can't we just get Khan to hunt us some rabbits or something? I can't remember the last thing I ate that didn't come out of a can."
"Oh yeah, just catch some rabbits. It's not like we're on an airbase on the outskirts of an industrial city with planes coming and going every five seconds," Khan himself responded.
"Heh, they really make 'em special over in the Ukraine, don't they Bershanski?" The redhead sneered.
"Fuck you, Kuznetsov."
"Yevgheny, Tolya, cool it!" Ilya barked at Bershanski and Kuznetsov, respectively.
"The last thing we all need is to be bitching at each other at a time like this. I know the nerves are dancing right now, but we've gotta keep a cool head if we want to do well here."
"Sorry, boss," Bershanski apologised. Tolya kept quiet.
"Remember gents, briefing's at 0700. We're only going to go through it once, so you all better be there."
The briefing room would have been dead silent if not for the voice of Major Kozhedub addressing her squadron.
"…Finally, B flight will run a combat air patrol over the western sector to keep the airspace sanitised. Any questions?"
None.
"Good. Now, if I could ask Captain Litvyak to step up and brief us on 3rd squadron's role in the operation."
Ilya rose from his seat and separated from the seven other boys he was seated with. He stepped up to the front of the room.
"Thank you Major," he said, sliding a pair of wire-framed glasses onto his face. He found that he was needing them less and less, recently.
"Good day everyone. Today, 3rd Squad is being tasked with aerial reconnaissance and spotting for the 7th and 12th Battalions in the northern sector."
He gestured to the map showing the land to the west of the city of Volgograd. He heard shuffling and slight mumbling from the direction his team were sitting in.
"Seriously? That's what we're getting stuck with today?" Padre whispered to Vasili, the Squadron's sniper. The stick-thin marksman simply shrugged his shoulders in response.
"Eh? I figured you'd be relieved that we're not getting dropped in the thick of it." Mik, the squad's youngest member, inquired.
"I am. I'm just not exactly flattered that this is all that the brass thinks we're capable of."
"Padre, you listening back there?" Ilya snapped.
"Uh… da, Kapitan."
"As I was saying; orders are to observe any and all Neuroi threats in the northern and eastern areas, and call them out to the ground troops. Now the 7th and 12th have about 400 cannons between 'em ready to turn the area west of the Volga into the surface of the moon if they have to. We shall also be redirecting air assets as the situation requires. Now, and I must stress this, we are not to engage any of the ground targets unless it is absolutely necessary… Tolya, you listening?"
"Why ya singling me out?"
"No reason." There was. "However," he continued, "although 2nd Squadron's C flight will be helping to achieve air superiority, we are allowed to engage any aerial targets that may be posing an imminent threat to either us or the ground forces."
"Now, we will be adopting our regular two flight formation. I'll be leading D flight, while Lieutenant Budanov," he gestured to Jan, "will be commanding E flight. Bershanski, you'll be flying on my wing. Kuznetsov, Beliaev, you two will be forming No. 2 element of D flight."
Tolya looked like he had an objection to make, however, he kept his mouth shut.
"Budanov and Khan will be No. 1 element, E flight, while Padre and Pavlichenko will be taking up the rear. Any questions?"
Again, none.
"Alright then. Major."
"Thank you for that Captain, dismissed."
Ilya stepped off to the side, before Kozhedub started addressing the eleven other witches and seven wizards in front of her.
"That's settled then. We are all expected in the air by 0815, so get your gear ready and prepare to roll out. You all know what to do. Good hunting ladies and gentlemen."
"What I don't get is why they can't simply get the regular Air Force to deal with this crap. Haven't they got entire squadrons specifically for that purpose?"
"C'mon Padre, ya never know, if we do this job well we might be allocated to something closer to the action," Mik replied.
"I'm just saying it's a bit of a waste of resources, especially since the friggin' witches got all the big tasks for this one."
Chatter and the growling of Striker engines starting up echoed through the hangar. Ilya was finishing inspecting his Yak when he felt someone tap his shoulder. He twisted his head to see Tolya with a deep frown on his face.
"Something the matter Red?" Well, I'm sure I already know, anyway.
"Yeah, there is. My wingman." Yep, knew it. "What's the deal chief? Why'd you pair me with Mik? The kid can barely hold his gun straight."
"Give him a chance, he can keep up with the rest of us and has no problems keeping his wits-"
"He's twelve, Ilya," Tolya cut him off. "You know that he's only gonna end up holding me back."
"And that is exactly what your problem is!" Ilya stood up, adopting a firmer tone. "You think that you're the only person in the air at times; just because you have the highest kill count, you think that you don't need anybody else." Tolya opened his mouth to say something, but Ilya cut him off.
"Well guess what; that attitude will get you killed. I know you're good, Red, but you're not a one-man air force. Tell me, do you honestly think you can take an entire swarm of cherniy by yourself?" Tolya was lost for words.
"Besides," he continued, looking him in one of the icy blue eyes that contrasted with his fiery red hair, "you can consider this your test."
"Test?" Tolya's eyebrow shot up. "What do you mean?"
"You want to make flight leader, don't you? You take care of Mik, show me you can handle responsibility, and I'll recommend you for promotion."
Tolya seemed surprised. "But wait," he replied, "How's that gonna work? Three flight leaders and only two flights?"
"You've been hearing about all the new wizards, guys like us, that have been popping up recently? No reason our team isn't going to get bigger in a few months. Once we get enough members to warrant having a third flight, you'll be the first on my list."
His eyes lit up slightly. "Alright then," he shrugged his shoulders, playing it cool. "I'll take care of little Miki. I'll do my best chief."
"Good," Ilya replied. "Alright, I've got a few things to take care of," he said, grabbing a small toolbox that was sitting next to his Striker. He walked off to the other side of the hangar, where the witches' equipment was. One of them, a tall blonde girl wearing a hair band, waved to him.
"Hi Aleks," he greeted her, before passing her the toolbox, "thanks for the lend, I owe ya one."
"You owe me ten already," she smirked. "So, were you adjusting your engine controls like I was telling you about?"
"Yeah, I tried it out the other day. Not much of a difference flying straight and level, but I can certainly feel the boost in a climb."
"Good to know." Aleksandra was an engineering prodigy. With the amount of adjustments she'd made to her own P-39, it could probably run circles around the Liberion ones that had just gotten off the production line.
"Oh, congratulations on making Captain, by the way," he said, pointing at the new rank insignia on her shoulder. "When did that come about?"
"Just last night," she answered. "The Major approached me and told me she wanted me to head up C Flight. Told me that I 'seem to command their admiration and respect.'" She smiled sheepishly.
"Excellent, now you'll know what it feels like staying up 'til one in the morning typing up after action reports!"
"Pft, I can just get Paula to do that for me." They both laughed.
"Listen, stay alive up there alright," he told her.
"Same to you, I'll be watching your back anyways."
Ilya unsung his DP-28 from his back, checking for the umpteenth time that its firing mechanism was clear.
"You still doing that?" She remarked. "You were always really overbearing when it came to weapon maintenance, even back in basic."
"Yeah, not a lot has changed in two years, has it?"
Aleks smiled again. "Two years already, eh?"