“Are you sure, Mikki?” Another kiss gave him her answer. “Then yes, I would regret it for the rest of my life if I lost you. If you’ll have me, Mikola, will you be my wife?”
Her tears of joy and her kiss was all the answer he required.
As they got closer to headquarters, which was only a few blocks from the flight line, they could hear the roar of dozens of jet engines. Pavlo could see more planes than normal parked on the ramp. Instead of just MiG-23 fighters and older Sukhoi-17 attack aircraft parked out there, there were a lot of Mikoyan-Gurevich-27 and Sukhoi-24 bombers. Although the MiG-23 had a integral bombing capability and the Su-17 was a capable, proven bomber, the MiG-27 and Su-24 were true high-tech supersonic bombers. The Su-24 was newer, faster, and deadlier than the Su-17 or MiG-27, and could carry up to eight thousand kilograms of ordnance, far more than any aircraft in the Ukrainian inventory, and it was also capable for use as a tanker to aerial-refuel other Sukhoi-24s for long-range bombing missions. Most Su-24s in the Ukraine were based in Odessa and Vinnica, so obviously substantial strike forces were being moved farther north to counter an expected Russian ground advance into the Ukraine. The smell of war was as powerful as the smell of burning jet fuel — and, truthfully, it both sickened and electrified Pavlo Tychina.
The entrance to the air army headquarters building was heavily guarded now. The guards allowed both Tychina and his new fiancée to enter the foyer, but because the base was on a war footing they could not allow Mikola to proceed past the security desk. Before proceeding, Pavlo made a few phone calls from the security desk, then turned to Mikola: “I’ve made an appointment with the wing chaplain,” he said. “He has agreed to marry us later this evening.”
She threw her arms around him, ignoring the guards and staff officers filing around them. “When, Pavlo? When can we go?”
“I’ve got to check in with the command center and speak with the commanding general,” Tychina said. “He’s old-fashioned, and he’d probably expect me to ask permission to marry. The chaplain will marry us in the base chapel in three hours, so you have that long to call your friends and ask them to meet us. I’ll see you at the chapel then.” She kissed him once again and, with her eyes glistening from tears, hurried off to make the wedding arrangements. Tychina checked in with the security guards, then proceeded toward the underground command center — undoubtedly, the air army commander would be down in the deep underground war room rather than up in his fourth-floor office.
A stairway took Tychina three floors down, where his identification was checked once again. Security was extensive, but Tychina was greeted warmly by security and wing staff members alike as he made his way to the command center. A curved, truck-sized ramp led one more floor down, past intelligence, combat planning, and meteorological offices, through another set of steel blast doors, and then into the command center itself. A few of the guards in the security cubicles let themselves out to shake Tychina’s hand, and a few curious ex-flyers wanted him to lift his antiseptic mask up so they could see his scars and lacerations. Tychina was happy to see that no one that he could detect was repulsed by his appearance, and he knew he was fortunate. The Ukrainian Air Force was small, very close-knit, and supportive-unfortunately, he thought as he entered the main command center, it usually took a great disaster such as this to remind himself of how lucky he was to serve with such fine soldiers.
After checking in with the final security unit, Tychina met up with Colonel of Aviation Petr Iosifovich Panchenko, the deputy commander of operations of L’vov Air Base. Panchenko, nearly fifty years old, with a bald head and stone-gray eyes, was one of the few senior officers on base that Tychina really enjoyed working with — probably because Panchenko had risen through the ranks in his thirty years of service from a pneumatics technician, to weapons officer on attack helicopters, to rotary and then fixed-wing pilot, to the third-highest-ranking officer on base. He was a former Communist and very influential in the old Soviet Air Force, and could have been Chief of Staff of the Ukrainian Air Force or even Marshal of Military Forces, the highest-ranking military man in the Ukraine, or even Minister of Defense, had it not been for his past Communist Party affiliation and his formerly close ties to Moscow. Best of all was Panchenko’s pro-flyers attitude — he still wore a flight suit as his standard utility uniform, even in headquarters.
“Captain Tychina?” Panchenko asked with surprise. “Dobri dyen, man, you’re out of the damned hospital? How do you feel? Jesus, come on in here.” Panchenko led Tychina through the communications center, past the battle staff conference room, and into a suite of concrete-walled offices reserved for the wing staff when they were in combat conditions. “I was going to visit you tomorrow, and I expected to see you either in traction or surrounded by beautiful nurses.” He examined the sterile mask, then silently motioned for Pavlo to remove it. Penchenko’s eyes narrowed slightly when he saw the horrible lacerations, but soon he stepped over to Tychina, put his hands on his shoulders, and said in a low, sincere voice, “You look like hell, Pavlo. You really do. But I’m damned glad to see you up and around.”
“I’m reporting for duty, sir.”
“You’re … what? You want to start flying again?” he asked incredulously.
“I’m ready, sir.”
“Did you get your medical degree on your last leave, Pavlo? Are you an expert now? Why don’t you just take it easy for a few days and—”
“The Russians cut me up, sir,” Tychina said in a low voice, “but they didn’t hurt me. I can see, I can walk, I can fly, I can fight. I counted at least thirty new airframes on the ramp — do you have enough pilots to go with them? I should remind you that I’m checked out in every swing-wing fighter in the inventory.”
“I know you are, Pavlo, and yes, for now, I have enough pilots,” Panchenko replied rather uneasily. Obviously unspoken was the fact that if they had to begin a major deployment or, God forbid, an offensive against the Russians, he would run out of fresh pilots in less than twenty-four hours. “Look, Captain, I admire your dedication. I’ll tell the General you were by — oh, hell, he’ll probably be over at the hospital visiting you tonight.”
“I’ll wait here for him,” Tychina said. “I’d like to ask his permission to get married.”
“Married …? Jesus, Pavlo, you’re the most active war casualty I’ve ever seen,” Panchenko said. He smiled, then took Tychina’s hand and shook it. “Congratulations, son. Miss Korneichuk … Mikola, if I’m not mistaken?” Tychina nodded. “Good man. You were wise to seek the old man’s permission, too. He’s from the old school, when officers couldn’t get a hard-on without the commanding general’s permission. But if I know you fast-burning MiG-23 pilots, you already got the chaplain lined up, am I right?”
“He’ll do the ceremony in about two and a half hours, sir.”
“Ha, I knew it,” Panchenko said with a broad smile. “After what you’ve been through, I wouldn’t blame you for not waiting.” He picked up the outer office telephone and told Tychina, “I’ll get the old man to come back to the command center to tell him you’re here. You can ask him for his blessing, then I’ll have a car take you to the chapel. You’ll make it, don’t worry.” He made the phone call to his clerk, then added, “As far as permission to go back on duty, it’s denied — until after the honeymoon. Four days … no, make it a week. May I suggest you spend your honeymoon abroad, as far as your savings can take you — Greece, Italy, even Turkey.”