THE CAPTAIN



The Shvetsov ASh 21 radial engine clattered and banged lazily as the Anushka waited at the end of the taxiway. The Captain puffed surreptitiously on a cigarette - holding it down below the level of the cockpit window lest some eagle-eye in the tower saw it. He squinted back towards the tower, just visible through the wings and bracing wires.

"What's the hold up?" he asked.

'Mladshiy' Yuri Koscuico pulled the headset from his head and looked across. "They say we are to hold for 'priority traffic'? What bullshit is that?" replied the youngster.

"My boy," the Captain leaned back. "That bullshit is military bullshit. Some big transport coming in or maybe there's an exercise somewhere. They don't tell us shit about stuff like that."

"So, what do we do?"

"Hold. You want to tell the air force to go fuck themselves, that's your funeral. Just leave me out of it."

"I mean, the engine temperature. We sit here much longer in this heat it's going to cook."

"So, switch off? It's starting to bake in here as well with no airflow around the engine. Switch it off and let's wait."

"Three, seven niner to Korosten tower, permission to switch off," Koscuico called through the mike.

"Tell them fuck," grumbled the Captain. "You don't ask permission for shit like that. They control the field, we the aircraft. We cook the engine, who's going before the discipline board, us or those dumb fucks up there? Switch off the damn thing."

"They said to switch off and hold position."

"Huh!" The Captain said, blowing a cloud of blue smoke out the corner of his mouth.

The Captain leaned back and closed his eyes. Yuri carefully took the lighted cigarette from his fingers and stubbed it out in an old tin can riveted below the cockpit fan. The Captain grunted a thank you. He turned the big switch located at the end of a four group on the central panel and the engine wound down, the prop bouncing against the compression stroke until it stopped.

The silence came as a shock and the Captain opened his eyes. He looked around the field as if getting his bearings. Satisfied he was still where he was before his brief nap, he closed his eyes again. Yuri tried to follow his Captain's example, but he was too restless to nap. He took his headset from his head and placed it on the holder beside him. He unbuckled his belt, got up off the seat, and walked back through the open hatch behind him. On an Antonov An-2 'Anushka' there was no cockpit door.

In the cargo space, the mailbags were stacked neatly in rows and covered with rope netting to hold them down during flight. Yuri tugged gently on the hitches to check, again, they were secure. He looked out through one of the starboard, round, cabin ports for a better view of the tower, about 300 metres away. He could dimly make out a standing figure through the plate glass windows, sloped forwards against sunlight interference. He was scanning the field with binoculars, before turning away to talk to someone, unseen, behind him. 'Perhaps the Captain is right,' he thought to himself. 'An important aircraft is expected.' They were small fry - a mail run from one small town to another. In the great scheme of the Soviet Union, they were an insignificant cog in a vast machine. If they were to fall out of it, no-one would be aware, or care. He imagined the Anushka still sitting here in a hundred years time, weeds growing over the fuselage and wings and their bare skeletons still strapped into the cockpit seats - still being told to 'hold' by some future shift of airfield control.

"Three seven niner from Tower, come in, please," the speaker crackled, and Yuri hurried back to his seat. The Captain had woken with a start and, irritated, had grabbed the microphone himself.

"Three, seven niner," the Captain snarled. "Yeah, what is it, Tower?"

"Course change. You're to fly 160 South and refuel at Kiev Central. You will be given further instructions."

"Why?" The Captain demanded. "That'll add about 4 maybe 5 hours. We're behind schedule as it is."

"Priority traffic."

"Don't give me that cack, Tower. What's going on?"

"Hey, get off your high horse, three, seven, niner. I just got orders from Kiev Central. You want to argue, take it up with them."

"I just want information," the Captain replied, raising his voice.

"You got it."

"Bullshit! If Stalin was alive today, you wouldn't be handing me that load of bunk. You give me the situation when I demand it, or you'll be sweeping the Moscow streets. That's how it used to work in the old days."

"Well if I knew more, I'd tell you," the Tower replied. "I'm only a fucking Lieutenant. They only tell me what they think I need to know and that's next to nothing at all. Even the Captain of the airfield gets told nothing. Some shit's going down somewhere and we don't know shit about it."

"So, give me a clue? Why are we really holding?"

"Look, 'priority traffic'. That's all I've been told."

"160? We're skirting the Pripyat? Why? What's happening up there?"

"You keep this to yourself, okay?" the Tower replied, conspiratorially. "I think there's some kind of accident - a real big one. They've declared this big exclusion zone all around the area. They don't want any traffic in or out unless it's authorized from the highest level."

"How high?"

"The fucking Kremlin, high. That high."

"Shoot, Lieutenant, we been hit with a nuclear bomb or something?"

"Hey, you think I'd be talking to you? I'd be kissing my ass one last time. That's what I'd be doing."

"Yeah, ok," the Captain sighed. "When we get the go, give us 5 or ten to restart and warm up, okay?"

"Will, do, three, seven, niner. Out."

"So?" Yuri asked the Captain. "What do you make of that?"

"Airplane crash. No doubt about it. Probably a military jet - prototype, test aircraft, something like that? One of the Air Force's new super duper jet fighter's gone down and they don't want anyone to know about it. Stalin would've shot the stupid bastard for crashing like that. In my day, everyone did their jobs - and properly."

"You served, Captain? Air Force. Out East, so I heard?" asked the younger man.

"64th Corps," the Captain told him. "Fighters, MiG-15s."

"So, what are you doing flying mail planes? You should've made General or retired to some cosy dacha in Georgia."

"Yeah, well, some guys have all the luck, do the ass licking. Some of us just did our jobs and came home. Me, I'm happy flying these old Anushkas. Best damn plane ever built. It doesn't just fly, but sails in the wind like a Spanish galleon. You can land it on a fly spot if you want, or in a bog. The Anushka doesn't care what. Cut the engine and have a nap - she'll land herself and park in the hangar. It'll be a shame when these old birds finally retire. I'll retire, too, when that happens. Two old buzzards put out to pasture."

"But, you never wanted to fly anything else?" Yuri asked. "I mean, transports or airliners? I'd jump at the chance to see the world. Moscow to Washington? You don't want to see America?"

"I've been there. In any case, there's an embargo on. Aeroflot doesn't do that route anymore. We have to wait until the politicians stop arguing. I should live that long," he shrugged. The Captain looked around the airfield perimeter, before lighting another cigarette. Drawing deep on it, he blew a long stream of blue smoke. "I tell you," he continued to Yuri. "The best thing you can do is find a nice girl, get married, breed a litter, find a cosy job where you go home every night, and worry about the flower garden. You do this before your hair falls out. Girls go for a good head of hair."

"You never married?"

"Left it too late," he said, sighing. The Captain fidgeted with the band of his wristwatch. "It is a big regret. Nothing else means anything. The richest man in the world is the family man. That is what matters." The Captain puffed on his cigarette - his eyes scanning the middle distance through the cockpit windows. "It's all shit. Everything is all shit without kids, grand kids…"

"You never said why you're flying mail planes instead of airliners? You don't have a rating? I mean, at your age…"

"My age is 60, and that's not old. Y'know why? I don't drink vodka. Mark my words, vodka will kill you." The Captain jabbed a nicotine stained finger at the younger man to emphasize the point. "Besides," he said taking another drag. "I have ratings for everything you can name. Choppers, airliners - I've got tickets for the lot. I choose to fly the Anushka. They will soon be unwanted, like me. When they go, so will I."

The atmosphere in the cockpit became suffocating. The smoke, the Captain's mood, the residual heat from the engine, the inaction, all served to crush in on Yuri. He desperately wanted to lighten the conversation. "Captain?" he said, "what is it like flying a MiG in combat?"

"Ah, the MiG went like a rocket. Climbed, turned like nothing on Earth. They were a good little fighter. The Americans copied it in their F-86. Biggest compliment, to rip off someone's ideas."

"You were in combat?"

"Lots of times. 319th Regiment. Part of the 64th Corps. We lost 9 pilots, but I think we got more of them. We were stationed just across the border in China. We flew missions over the Yalu."

"So, what was it like?"

"At those speeds, you have no time to think. Everything happens very fast. You must develop a fighter's instinct or you're chop-suey. Someone on your six, you roll over and dive for the deck as quick as you can. The F-86 can't follow, see? Unless the guy's a real pro. You get underneath where he can't see you. We learned all this the hard way. All of us, were just learning how to fly a jet fighter, see? At first, the Americans were no better at flying them as us. We were all students even though most of us flew in the great war. That experience was like going from biplanes to space ships in one hop. You must short out your brain. Too much thinking and the enemy's got you. The best pilots do this by instinct."

"You never got shot down?"

"I have the fighter's instinct. Roll over, down to the deck. We all trained for it, but it's not the same when it comes to the real thing. Roll over and dive, and you'll be all right." The Captain stubbed out his cigarette in the tin. "Anything on your six, roll and dive."

"Okay," Yuri nodded slowly.

"Even if it means leaving your leader. They should understand you can't protect your leader's can with a load of cannon shells up your butt. A shadow in your mirror, you have to dive away. You have no time to figure who's on your six. Dive, dive, dive…" A tear appeared in the corner of the Captain's eye. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and reached for another cigarette. "Fuck all difference between a hero and a coward. You do your best, follow your orders, do what you're trained to do, and they treat you like shit. That's the fucking military for you. It's what others say about you afterwards. Big shots, all flying desks, weren't even there. Fuckers who couldn't fly a kite on a string. And, your so-called comrades, huh! Drop you in the shit if it'd get them a promotion and a medal. I could tell you some stories about those brass hats in Frontal Aviation right now? So-called heroes, as shit scared as everyone else, who got where they are by crawling up asses, telling lies about others. It's all fucked."

"So, what happened, Captain?" asked Yuri.

The Captain wiped his eyes again, snatched at his lighted cigarette rolling away on the shelf under the window and threatening to fall onto his leg. He took another drag, before stubbing it out in the can. "It was 51, sometime in August, I think. We were flying operations over the Yalu down to the 38th parallel. A couple of Yaks flew on ahead as bait - we were top cover, maybe 3000 meters above and back about 4, maybe 5 kilometers. The plan was to draw up the Americans, then we'd bounce them from above. We did this lots of times - maybe too often. You do things too many times your enemy figures your tactics. The Americans came up, all right, but in two sections. One section was waiting above us, while the other chased the Yaks. We didn't know they were there - they were in the sun and high. So, we dived down on the first section then these other guys came down on us - screaming down out of the sun vector. We were in our four section, two and two. Each leader had a wingman who flew slightly back and below his leader so he didn't block his view. The leader makes the kill and his wingman guards his ass. That's how it worked. Great war tactics. I was wingman behind Shapalaev. He was a good pilot - very popular among the boys. Pulled all the ladies - handsome guy, good sharpshooter."

"And?"

"Suddenly, I see a shadow in my mirror. If I had a thought, it was, 'an American on my six'. What are you supposed to do? I shouted to my leader, then rolled away down to the deck. Shapalaev was hit - shot down and killed. They blamed me."

"Why? You only did what you're trained to do?"

"Ah, but, you see? Afterwards, they said it wasn't an enemy on my tail but one of our guys behind us. Tell, me, what the fuck was he doing on my six? What stupid ass gets on the six of one of his own guys in combat? They said I should've known where the back pair were. I tell you, with F-86's coming down on you, you don't give a flying fuck where everyone else is. You're on your own - do your best to stay alive and maybe, just maybe, you can take a shot at the enemy. That's the reality these chair borne idiots don't understand. They were all back in the Great war flying piston aircraft. With jet aircraft, it's a whole new set of rules."

"You were tried for cowardice? That's unfair."

"No," the Captain chuckled. "It never went that far. I followed the rules, see? There was a debrief after, an enquiry. I was exonerated, of course, but the worse thing was the other guys. I was a disgrace in their eyes. They had to transfer me out. No-one wanted to fly with me. I was not trusted. They thought me a coward who left a comrade to die. Maybe they were right? I have thought about this these past 35 years. You so want to forget, but it keeps coming back - that shadow, Shapalev above on my ten. The jungle spinning below like a top. I looked back up, but couldn't see a thing - didn't see Shapalev go down. Back at the airfield, the guys said they got one of the Americans. I don't know, didn't see that either. They could all be lying like flatfish. Their cameras said they did, so I suppose they did. Everyone exaggerates their own skill and courage. The truth is, we were all scared to death. Maybe I didn't want to find the battle afterwards? I don't remember what went through my mind at the time."

"So, what happened after you left the regiment?"

"I was posted to a fighter school as an instructor. That didn't last - word got out about what happened in the East, and I had to leave. Next, I trained on helicopters, later multi engines, all turned to crap. Some guy would start blabbing about my 'cowardice.' Rumours, would filter back with the guys coming home. Most of them knew shit, but heard from so and so who heard it from another. The tale grew in the telling. Everyone putting in their piece to make a better story. I found a job where no-one gives a shit who you are. Even a coward can fly and Anushka."

"Captain, I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing, son. No-one who hasn't been in aerial combat can possibly know what it's like. Just go and get an airliner rating and fly to Washington. Maybe go to Central Park and find yourself an American girl, if they let you. Is Central Park in Washington?"

"New York, I think."

"Never mind. They'll have parks in Washington. I'm sure of it."

"Three, seven, niner, from Tower," the speaker burst forth. "You there, Captain?"

The Captain grabbed the mike. "I've gone South to the Black Sea on holiday, Lieutenant. You got any other dumb questions?"

"There's a Colonel from the Air Force coming out to see you. You'd better stub out your cigarette."

"What? What the hell does the Air Force want with me?" The Captain said, aghast.

"Don't ask me. I'm only a Lieutenant, remember."

"Shit!" The Captain spat. "It never fucking ends, does it? C'mon, Yuri, we'd better straighten up. These assholes like everything correct. We haven't left anything loose around the cockpit?"

"The cigarette can?"

"Crap! Where's the asshole coming from?"

"Starboard."

"Drop it out the port window before he sees it."

"Okay."

"Open the door for him and stand at attention."

"Okay."

"You remember how to do all that shit?"

"I've seen the movie," Yuri replied, hurrying through the hatch. The Captain followed Yuri as he opened the cargo door and jumped down to the ground. The pair then stood to attention as the car pulled to a halt. A large officer got out of the car wearing military camouflage fatigues as if he'd just arrived back from Afghanistan and hadn't changed. "Relax, men," the Colonel told them. "I haven't time for protocol and it's been a while since you were in the Military. That right, Captain?"

"Yes, sir!"

"I see by your record you have a rating for helicopters. What experience do you have on the Mil 8?"

"Four years flying agriculture." The Captain replied, crisply, military fashion.

"Good. And you're unmarried? No kids, no little lady waiting for you at home?"

"No, sir!"

"Are you happy flying Anushkas, carrying letters and parcels? A man of your experience should be doing better for himself, no?"

"I'm happy enough, sir. I'll retire soon. Just like this old bird."

"Still, it's a waste, don't you think? How would you like to perform one last mission for the Air Force? We could re-enlist you at a grade higher for the duration. Then, when the mission's over, you'll be on a Colonel's pension.  Would that interest you?"

"A Colonel, sir? Surely you mean Major?"

"We can make you a Colonel, no problem." The Colonel dismissed the issue as if of no consequence. The Captain was astounded.

"What sort of mission is it, Colonel? I mean, flying a Mil 8? There must be lots of guys all over the Ukraine who can fly one of those."

"I must be frank, Captain. This mission is dangerous. We don't want family men. The men who fly this mission must be… ah,"

"Expendable?"

"To be blunt, yes. They must be volunteers. There will be honors, medals, promotions. The men who fly these missions will be heroes."

"Heroes, sir? You want to make me a hero? After all these years?"

"Yes, Captain, after all these years."

The Captain understood immediately the Colonel knew precisely who he was, of his record and disgrace in Korea all those years ago. Bracing his shoulders, he asked, "what do I have to do?"

"Two days ago," The Colonel said, gravely, "at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant near Pripyat, there was a bad explosion and fire. Radiation levels are off the scale. Many, many people in the Ukraine, Byelorussia are at risk. Captain, fire fighters, workers, are sacrificing their lives as we speak for their fellow citizens. Many will die from radiation sickness. We need helicopter pilots willing to drop a mixture of sand, lead and boric acid on the reactor itself to contain it. Scientists tell me there are high levels of radiation been given off by the graphite and debris. You need to come in low, maybe, only a few metres above the reactor building, to be sure of doing a good drop. We can give you NBC suits, but, frankly, Captain, the guys tell me you can't fly wearing those things. You need to have your eyeballs out of the cockpit and, frankly, Captain, you can't see shit out of the face shields. 40 seconds, Captain, forty seconds is the longest time you can spend over the target. Any longer and you get a lethal dose. You have to fly in, hover, dump the stuff precisely on the target, then clear out all in 40 seconds. You may have as many as three other choppers maneuvering around you at the same time. You have to do this, Captain, as well as avoiding other helicopters, debris sticking up over the target, flying through smoke and ash. You understand I would not ask a family man to do this."

"Of, course, Colonel."

"So, will you do it?"

"Many people will die?"

"We are evacuating as many people as we can in the time available. If this plume continues, it will drift away all over the Ukraine and Byelorussia. There's no telling how many people will be affected."

"Stalin would not have allowed this," the Captain said, distractedly. "In my day, such screw ups would not happen."

"Captain, Stalin is dead and there were no nuclear power plants in the early 50s. Whether we like it or not, things are not as they were in Stalin's time. In Stalin's day, I would not be asking you to volunteer and I would not care whether you had 4 wives and 15 children. Captain, you followed orders and were shot by the enemy, or refused them and were shot by the NKVD. I'm giving you a chance to redeem yourself in the hearts of your comrades. It doesn't matter what you did, didn't do, or should've done all those years ago. I flew throughout the Great war and out East. I know a great deal about air combat and the decisions you sometimes have to make at the spur of the moment. I know how harsh the opinion of one's comrades can be - how it can affect your life. I understand how galling it is when some slippery ass kid gets to command a regiment over your head, jus because they're better at sucking butt than you. I know all this shit and I don't judge you. But, I tell you this. Anyone who puts their ass on the line in the service of their country deserves praise, not criticism, from the very assholes they're protecting. Those people up there need your protection, Captain because they don't have the means to protect themselves. I don't know what asshole caused this explosion, but it falls on us to clean up after them."

"If I say no, then what?"

"If you say no, Captain, no-one will be the wiser. Life will go on, you'll retire along with your precious Anuskas, and smoke yourself to death. We will find another pilot, somewhere, and he will go in your stead."

"Yes," the Captain sighed. "Someone else will take my place. In that case, Colonel, I will do it. Take me up there and show me my ship. You have yourself a Colonel, ah, Colonel."

"Good, man, Captain!" The Colonel pumped the Captains hand. "We'll arrange your posting. Jump in the car. We'll have a shot of vodka before you leave, no?"

"Thank you, no, Colonel," replied the Captain, getting into the car. "Vodka is no good for the body. It will kill you in the end."

THE END