by Dale Brown
“Thank you, Captain,” Panchenko said, sensing Tychina’s drifting attention and concluding his briefing for him. Tychina nodded and took his seat. To the staff, Panchenko said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t know what we’ll find up there. We may in fact be down here for quite some time. The main exit appears to be intact but may have suffered damage, and the escape tunnels may be our best option; I have people checking on them now, and they should be reporting in soon. If we can get out, we may take the risk and evacuate to Odessa soon—assuming they can dig us out of here. In any case, I want you all to remember that we are warriors, combatants, and members of the Ukrayina Air Force. We will use whatever weapons we find up there to take up the fight.” He paused, scanning the faces around him, and finally resting on Pavlo Tychina. “Is that clear, Captain?”
“Yes, sir,” Tychina responded firmly.
Panchenko turned to his intelligence officer for a briefing, but before he could begin, a telephone rang somewhere outside the conference room—it was the first telephone ring they had heard in many hours. A communications technician leaped to answer it. He listened for a moment, covered the mouthpiece, then cried, “Sir! A rescue crew is at the outer door! The door is intact and they are requesting permission to enter!”
Panchenko had no sooner opened his mouth to speak than Tychina was on his feet and sprinting for the door. Panchenko yelled, “Captain! Take your seat!” but it did no good. To the communication technician, Panchenko said, “Clear the security area and weather station, and all personnel, including Captain Tychina, will wear exposure suits and respirators before those doors are opened. Everyone else is to be in the communications center or beyond.” He dismissed the staff and hurried off after Tychina.
As he expected, by the time Panchenko reached the security area just inside the blast doors, the doors had been opened, the hallway was filled with anxious people—none of whom were wearing chemical antiexposure suits or respirators—and Tychina was nowhere to be found. “I ordered this area cleared and authorized personnel to wear protective equipment,” Panchenko said to a senior master sergeant. He couldn’t be too angry because he was anxious to get upstairs as well.
“Sorry, sir, they rushed the door as soon as it was opened,” the senior NCO replied. “The Captain—the Phoenix—ordered me aside.”
The Phoenix—Panchenko had heard that name being muttered around the base and the command center. Tychina’s efforts at turning away the first Russian air raid were beginning to take on almost mystical proportions. The quiet, rather introspective young pilot was turning into something of a legend in L’vov. No doubt it would spread throughout Ukrayina before too long—if Tychina survived his anger and thirst for revenge.
“I gave an order, and I expect it to be carried out, Sergeant,” Panchenko said irritably, “no matter what Captain Tychina tells you. Now clear this hallway.”
As the master sergeant complied with his orders, a man in a silver firefighter’s suit—not a proper chemical/nuclear exposure suit, but it would offer limited protection—approached Panchenko. “Are you the commanding officer here, sir?” Panchenko nodded. “Chief Warrant Officer Usenko, Twenty-oh-four Ordnance Battalion, Seventy-second Motorized Rifle Division, from Kiev. I’m very glad to find you, sir.”
“Thank you for digging us out of here,” Panchenko said with relief. “How bad is it up there?”
Usenko shrugged. “Bad? We didn’t have to dig you out, sir. A few structures and aircraft were on fire, and the petrol-tank farm was burning from a bombing attack—that’s why I’m outfitted like this—but otherwise the base is intact.”
“Intact? How is that possible? We were hit, a direct hit … our dosimeters registered very high radiation counts.”
“Dissipated,” Usenko replied. “The Russians attacked with low-yield nuclear weapons, exploded at high altitude over selected targets. They caused only momentary communications blackouts, a few blast damage effects, and—”
“Casualties, Usenko … what about casualties?”
Usenko’s eyes averted to the floor for a moment, then raised to Panchenko with a tortured, haunted expression. “Too early to tell, sir,” he replied. “Each target complex hit with the subatomic weapons had a few initial casualties, mostly from flashblindness, moderate burns, and shock—less than one-half of one percent casualties and injuries, I’d estimate. The weapons produced virtually no extensive damage—no craters, no fires, no fallout. But as you have determined, transient neutron radiation levels were extremely high, and unprotected individuals may have received a fatal dose. Casualties are expected to be very high in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”
“You mean to tell me … you mean, there are still people up there, alive?”
Usenko looked as if he’d been slapped in the face. He shuffled uneasily, then nodded his head: “Uh … sir, most everyone that was indoors during the attack, those not affected by flashblindness or overpressure, survived. Persons outdoors but protected from the flash and overpressure also survived or were only injured. But they all would have received tremendous doses of radiation, far above lethal levels. Personnel here in the command center and in other underground or shielded facilities are probably safe, but the others … there may be nothing we can do for them.”
“My God … is there any danger of fallout or exposure now? Is it safe to let my command post personnel outside?”
“Russian fighter planes have been patrolling the area, reconnaissance planes mostly, so we’re safe from any more air attacks for now, and as far as the radiation threat, it’s safe, yes, sir,” Usenko responded. “There is no danger of radiation poisoning, and no fallout. It is probably best that your people be briefed on what they are to expect up there, though. We will be asking all available personnel to assist with medical and mortuary services.” Usenko paused, then motioned toward the corridor leading to the surface and asked, “Sir, was that Captain Tychina—the Phoenix? I was hoping he was still alive. I knew he could not die. I wanted to shake that man’s hand.”
Panchenko stared into the darkness beyond the blast doors of his command center, silently praying for his young pilot. Tychina, and all of them, were going to need all the strength they could muster to get through this disaster.
Tychina was determined to sprint the entire one and a half kilometers to the chapel, but the horror of what he saw was like a vacuum that sucked all the energy from his body. Several buildings and structures were burned down, mostly older wooden structures and the ugly billboards with “inspirational” messages on them that were so common to ex-Soviet military bases, and it seemed that every window in sight was gone—not just broken or shattered, but completely blown away. What he then noticed was the flatbed trucks—dozens of them, lined up outside the headquarters building, the central base personnel office, and other administrative buildings. His eyes were drawn to the trucks’ cargo. At first it seemed as if they were unloading tables or medical supplies to set up a triage detail, but when he looked closer he discovered they were loading bodies onto the truck. The bottom rows of bodies were in dark plastic body bags, but they obviously ran out of body bags very quickly because the middle stacks of corpses were covered in sheets, and the stacks above them were covered in clothing, and a few were not covered at all. Each flatbed truck was stacked four or five rows high with bodies, well over two hundred on each flatbed.
But even worse than that sight were the sounds of hundreds of people in agony. For every corpse in those flatbeds, there appeared to be a dozen men and women who were not dead, but horribly injured or maimed from the attack. The sidewalks, the snowy lawns, the entry-ways and hallways of every building had been converted into makeshift field hospitals, where the dying were crying out for help. It was difficult to fully comprehend—the damage to the base itself was not that extensive, yet the casualties were probably in the thousands. Did the Russian nuclear attack miss its target? Did they use some sort of chemical or biological weapon? Tychina saw a few chemical exposure suits
, but most of the relief workers had no protective gear at all. Weren’t chemical weapons more persistent than this?
“Look! It’s the Phoenix!” someone shouted. “Phoenix!”
“Where were you when the bombs hit, Captain Phoenix?” someone else shouted. “Why couldn’t you stop this?”
“Shut up!” an officer interjected. “He’s alive and he’s with us! He’s our best pilot—he won’t let us down!”
Tychina nearly stumbled in his hurry to get away. An argument between some of the men in the mortuary detail broke out, some on the side of Tychina and those who were safe in the command center, others who thought that Tychina was on his way to the flight line and cheered him on. Panic seized the young pilot, and he hobbled down the vehicle-clogged street as fast as he could.
But the horrors never ceased. Many were dead in their cars, still behind the wheel or slumped over onto the seat, with a sheen of frost under their nostrils and around their eyes where their dying breath had frozen—they had obviously been there a long time. Most corpses were lying outside, some carrying food or medical supplies, a few carrying other dead souls, probably for medical treatment when they succumbed to the effects of the nuclear weapon the Russians unleashed on the base. Bodies were lining the sidewalks as teams of investigators identified each corpse, tagged it with a baggage tag, moved it clear of the sidewalks and driveways, covered it the best they could with an article of clothing or a sheet, then moved on to the next. Tychina was so transfixed by one body, the corpse of a member of his own squadron, that he nearly tripped over another corpse sprawled in his path. It was like some horrible science-fiction movie about the end of the world.
The base chapel was being used as a mortuary. He asked the sergeant in charge about Mikola Korneichuk, a civilian, and after finding her name not among those who had been identified, was led over to two long rows of corpses of those who had not been identified lined up outside in the snow. The nuclear device set off by the Russians had obviously injected a lot of radiation into these victims, because most had substantial hair loss, huge blisters and lesions all over their faces, bloated skin, and horribly swollen tongues and eyeballs. But Mikki was not among the dead.
“You are Captain Tychina?” the mortuary officer asked him. “You are the pilot that drove the first Russian attack away?” Tychina tried to leave, but the man persisted. “Promise me you’ll destroy the Russians for what they’ve done here, Captain. Promise you’ll avenge the dead.” Pavlo got out of there as fast as he could.
It was easy to commandeer a vehicle—keys were left in the ignitions, and the dead owners were not about to complain. Security patrols were everywhere. Regular patrols allowed Tychina to pass freely after recognizing who he was, but some roadblocks to the officers’ housing area were set up by the local militia, and although he was recognized and his identification was in order, he was told to return to the main base immediately. Tychina wasn’t about to put up with any local weekend warriors with shotguns, so he sped through the roadblock. None of the militiamen bothered to pursue him.
The bachelor officers’ quarters were about three kilometers outside the main base area in one of the base’s many satellite housing areas, a typical bland Soviet-style settlement with many dormitory-style buildings, a park with a few scraggly trees, an exercise area, a small shopette, and an elementary school for the children of young soldiers. Tychina’s dorm was a huge, ugly concrete structure in which each unmarried officer was assigned an efficiency apartment, sharing a kitchen and bathroom with the person next door. The entire building, which housed almost five hundred officers, appeared deserted. He took the stairs two at a time to his fourth-floor room and found the door unlocked.
“Mikki!” He had been braced for the worst, but he never expected this: his fiancée was lying on his opened sleeper sofa, head seductively pillowed by an arm, her hair draped across a pillow as if arranged by a fashion designer. She was wearing a long, heavy flannel nightgown against the chill in the room—power had only recently been restored. She looked beautiful… even in … Pavlo was so overwhelmed that he burst into tears.
Mikola sleepily opened her eyes and smiled at him, the familiar, warm smile he had longed to see. “Hi, baby,” she said sleepily.
She was alive! Thank God Almighty!
“I waited up as long as I could. Give me a moment and I’ll be ready to go with you to the chapel.”
“God, Mikki … !” He rushed to her side and hugged her close, unabashed in his joy, his tears. “I’m so glad you’re safe … dear God, I thought you were in the chapel,” he moaned, burying his face in her hair. “Are you all right? Were you hurt in the attack?”
“No, I wasn’t hurt—scared, but not hurt. I’m still a little tired.” She yawned. “It got so cold in here when the power went off, but the loudspeakers said stay in the room, so I wrapped up in blankets and fell asleep, but I’ll be better, just give me a few minutes, just let me get out of bed and I’ll freshen up and I’ll be ready to go. Oh, I love you so much, Pavlo, I love you so much.…”
Her voice was trailing away, down to a barely audible whisper, as if she were walking away from him. Tychina noticed that she did not return his embrace, but her arms hung loosely at her sides …
… and when he lifted her head off his shoulders to look into her face, her hair dropped off her head like clumps of brittle needles from a long-dead Christmas tree. “Jesus Christ, Mikki … !”
“Pavlo?” Her voice was as faint as the buzz of a hummingbird, even though she was only inches away. “Pavlo, please help me to the chapel, I’m so tired …”
He got off the couch in a near-panic. He had to get her out of here. Had to get her help. She must have gotten a large dose of radiation, Pavlo thought, while she was waiting for him at the chapel. But she survived and somehow made her way back to the dorm room. Except for her hair, it seemed—he prayed—she didn’t receive a fatal dose. Perhaps she could be saved.…
But when he lifted her into his arms to take her downstairs for help, the skin from her left thigh sloughed off like wet tissue paper, exposing muscle caked with dried, blackened blood. Tychina swallowed hard to hold back the tears, laid her back on the bed, and covered her with blankets. “I’ll get help, Mikki,” he whispered. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.” But when he dared look into her eyes, he found them dry and lifeless, clouding up, her perfect mouth slightly open as she tried to draw in her last breath that never came.
“No … Mikki!” he sobbed, thinking perhaps she’d just gone back to sleep. Yes, that was it … she’d need her rest … while he went to get help. He held her close to his chest, his sobs growing harder, the tears falling down on her thin hair. He knew she wasn’t asleep, it’d been a desperate hope, a fantasy. He tried to bargain with God: Just take me, let her live, just take me. She’s too beautiful, too sweet and wonderful and innocent to die. He thought she was dead, had prepared himself for it, tried to muster enough strength to face it when he knew, ultimately, that he would. And yet, finding her alive, seeing her come awake, now … now only to die.
This is too cruel for any man! he raged silently at the heavens. Why? He sobbed even harder, clutching her to him, feeling as if his whole world were collapsing. Not caring whether he lived or died, but only praying for God—for anyone—to bring her back to life.
Mikola seemed so thin, so tiny, to Pavlo as he stapled her identification card to her nightgown and wrapped the body in a blanket. He was about to pick her up and take her down to the car when he heard, “Don’t worry about her, Pavlo. We’ll take good care of her.”
Tychina turned and saw Colonel Panchenko and several members of the command center staff enter the room. A security officer took the body from Tychina’s arms, promising to take personal charge of her until he could make proper arrangements. Tychina was going to follow the security officer out, but Panchenko stopped him with a firm, positive grip on his arm. “Not now, Pavlo. You have work to do.”
The young pilot shrugged out of the
senior officer’s grasp and said, “Excuse me, Colonel, but—”
“It’s ‘general’ now, Pavlo,” Panchenko said. “I am the new commander of tactical air warfare for the entire Republic. The national military headquarters was destroyed by Russian air attacks. The chief of staff and the service chiefs escaped, but most of the senior staff was killed. I am transferring command to Turkey.”
“What? What did you say?” This was all too much. His eyes were swollen, and he felt as if his head were spinning. Mikki … Panchenko … what was he saying?
“A Ukrainian government-in-exile has been formed in Istanbul,” Panchenko said. “The Turks have accepted our pleas for help, and the West is promising assistance. All Ukrainian aircraft that have survived the Russian air raids are deploying to a Turkish training air base near the city of Kayseri. I am organizing the Free Ukrainian Air Force there, and you are coming with me … Colonel.”
Tychina looked at Panchenko, and although he could see only the young pilot’s eyes, he knew that Tychina wore a completely stunned expression. “It turns out that not only are you the senior surviving MiG-23 pilot, Pavlo, but you are one of the most experienced Ukrainian pilots alive. I need you to command the provisional fighter wing, and I can’t very well have a captain do it. The promotion is effective immediately. As soon as possible, we will launch whatever aircraft can make the trip and fly to Turkey. Turkish fighter planes are waiting to escort us.”
Pavlo tried to clear his head, concentrate on what Panchenko was saying. He tried to look out the window to see Mikki, but Panchenko’s size blocked his view. He had to let her go … they would try to give her dignity … he refocused, as difficult as it was, as tumultuous as the wave of emotions sweeping over him felt … and forced himself to listen to what Panchenko was saying.