Able to check their course, altitude and airspeed, Yakalov had learned to mentally visualize the scenery that stretched out down below.
Efficiently scanning the instruments, his gaze halted on a wallet-sized photograph he had taped to the bulkhead wall. Staring back at him were the figures of his mother, father, and teenage sister as they stood in the fields — the wheat up to their waists. Like looking back at a past life, he pondered the great change in not only his lifestyle, but his entire world outlook.
Farming was an important, noble occupation, but it offered nothing like the opportunities presented to a naval aviator. Already he had seen more of the Motherland than his forefathers had seen in their collective lifetimes. He would never forget the moment that he first set eyes on the Black Sea. Until then, the largest body of water he had seen was the lake where he and his father used to go carp fishing.
Once at the Nahkimov Institute, he had begun meeting lads his own age, the likes of which he never knew existed. Many were from Moscow itself, the sons of high-placed Party bureaucrats. Sophisticated and sure of themselves, they represented an alien world, far removed from the innocent milieu of the wheat fields. What Yakalov lacked in world lines he more than made up for in studious application. An avid reader since early childhood, he studied with a zeal that brought him to the upper tenth of his class.
After the completion of his second year of classes, he was given the choice of either duty aboard a ship or one of the new IL-38 flying platforms. Without hesitation, he picked air duty.
His memories of home all but faded as his mind filled with visions of assignments in foreign ports. Rumor had it that crews would soon be chosen for basing in Viet Nam’s Cam Rahn Bay facility. Tropical duty was considered the best, not only for the mild weather, but Asia’s gorgeous, exotic women. Other scuttlebutt mentioned that Cuba was to be the home of a large IL-38 contingent. That would even be more exciting!
To achieve such an assignment, Yakalov’s record had to be spotless.
Ever mindful of his still relatively low rank, he was the first to volunteer for unwanted assignments. He made certain that he could be known for his thorough, conscientious work. His effort was paying off, for this flight was his first without a supervisor. He had achieved this level of competency in an unprecedented six months time after arriving in Vladivostok the previous spring. He was proud of this fact, and surprised when the pilot congratulated him for his achievement during the morning’s briefing.
Yakalov had flown with Captain Gregor Silkin on his last dozen missions. The grayhaired aviator was something of a legend to the younger officers, for he had been the first pilot to land a Yak-36 VTOL (Vertical Take-Off and Landing) jet fighter on the pitching deck of the carrier Kiev, in 1976. That Silkin had noticed him was a very good sign, indeed.
Unfortunately, Yakalov had trouble relating to the aircraft’s other two occupants. The copilot. Senior Lieutenant Martyn Pilyar, seemed cold and distant.
The communications specialist. Lieutenant Georgi Romanov, was downright hostile. The man hardly met his glance, as it he were embarrassed to know him.
In Sevastopol, Yakalov had encountered several individuals who seemed most disturbed with his humble origins. His advisor cautioned him that such antagonism would be present throughout his career, for discrimination abounded even in the Soviet Union.
This was merely because his parents had not been Great Russian. Thus, he would have to work harder to make up in competence for his lack of the proper ancestors.
If this was the cause of Lieutenant Romanov’s iciness, Yakalov knew that he’d have to proceed cautiously. Alienating the man would only lead to getting written up. This was something he had to avoid at all costs. He would keep his relations with the communication’s specialist to a minimum and speak only when spoken to.
Again the plane shook in a pocket of gentle turbulence, and Yakalov’s eyes went to the digital clock.
The return point of their patrol radius was rapidly approaching. In fact, the junior lieutenant anticipated feeling the angled bank of the homeward turn any second now. To occupy his time until the moment came, he decided to have some lunch. A piece of crusty black bread, some fragrant goat cheese and a crispy, green apple comprised his feast. After washing it down with a cup of thermos-hot sweet tea, he burped and once more scanned the instruments.
Amazingly enough, he found they were still headed in a northeasterly direction. Checking their flight time, he calculated that even if they turned around right now, chances were slim that they’d have enough fuel to reach Vladivostok. Perhaps Captain Silkin had an alternative destination not on their original flight plan. To doublecheck this possibility, he decided to chance a call to the cockpit.
Yakalov reached forward to trigger the intercom and, much to his surprise, he found it dead. This discovery disturbed him, and he decided that it would now be appropriate to make his way to the cockpit.
After unbuckling his seat belt, he stood and made his way to the sealed hatch leading to the communications compartment. Not looking forward to an encounter with Lieutenant Romanov, Yakalov took a deep breath and pushed open the doorway. He found the radio expert hunched over the very-low-frequency transmitter. So intense was his concentration that he didn’t notice his new visitor until Yakalov had nearly crossed the room’s length.
“Get back to your section. Comrade!” Romanov snapped tensely.
“You have no business in these parts.”
Halted by the stern words, Yakalov stuttered.
“I–I — I want to talk to the Captain, and my intercom’s not working.”
Romanov exploded.
“You fool! Don’t you realize that we’re in the midst of a Red Flag alert? The Captain has no time for your foolish small talk. Now, return to where you belong!”
Yakalov, not used to being spoken to with such rudeness, stood his ground.
“Why wasn’t I notified of the receipt of such an alert? I still think it’s important that I have a word with Captain Silkin.”
Impressed with his own bravado, the junior lieutenant resumed walking, oblivious to the radio officer’s threats.
“Comrade Yakalov — I’m warning you to halt this insubordination at once!”
His heart pounding, Yakalov boldly opened the hatch leading to the flight deck. He would never forget the sight that awaited him there.
Sitting stiffly in his padded leather chair was Captain Gregor Silkin.
Staring outward, eyes unblinking, it was obvious that the pilot was dead. Yakalov’s glance went from the bloody welt across the captain’s right temple to the figure of the copilot, sitting calmly beside him.
A gloating sneer painted Martin Pilyar’s face as a pair of iron hands grabbed Yakalov tightly from behind.
“I told you to mind your own business,” Romanov spat.
“Now look what your peasant curiosity has led you to.”
Ineffectively, Yakalov attempted to break the lieutenant’s grasp.
“What the hell is going on up here?”
Ignoring him, Pilyar reached forward and switched on the autopilot.
“We’ll dispose of this fool back in the radio room, Comrade Romanov.
Hurry now, we are rapidly reaching the rendezvous coordinates.”
Yakalov felt himself being dragged backward. As they reached the communications compartment, a high-pitched squeal sounded from the VLF receiver.