The Huntress. Кейт Куинн

Raskova said the same to me.” A hand grasped Nina’s elbow. “Welcome, sestra.”

      It was the same word for “sister” that Nina had grown up speaking, but the Moscow tang in the girl’s voice made it different, a new kind of sister. That’s good, Nina reflected, since I didn’t like any of my blood sisters. She let herself be helped up, and the shadow resolved itself into a girl a year or two younger than Nina but half a head taller, porcelain skinned and smiling, ink-dark hair in a plait past her waist. “Yelena Vassilovna Vetsina,” she said. “From Ukraine, but I came to Moscow at twelve. Glider school when I was sixteen, then air club. I was studying at the Moscow Aviation Institute when the call went up for the regiments.” She rattled off a very impressive number of flying hours.

      A pedigreed candidate, Nina thought. Educated, polished, impeccable record, probably a model Komsomol member. The kind whose application would have been stamped and moved to the top of the pile. A little warily, Nina nodded back. “Nina Borisovna Markova, from Baikal. Flight instructor at the Irkutsk air club.”

      A dimple appeared in Yelena’s chin. “How many flying hours did you tell Raskova you had?”

      “Three hundred more than I actually do.”

      “I improved mine by two hundred. I felt so guilty, but then I met the other girls here and realized we all embellished our records. A regiment of liars, that’s what Raskova’s getting. Good thing we can all fly like eagles.” The dimple blossomed into an outright grin. “Did you faint, meeting Raskova? I swear I nearly swooned. She’s been my hero since I was seventeen.”

      Nina couldn’t help smiling back. “Mine too.”

      “Where are you classed for training, pilot, navigator, mechanic, or armorer?”

      “Navigator.” Nina had hoped for a pilot classification, but Raskova had explained that there were enough pilots already. Nina was disappointed, but she wasn’t going to quibble. It was enough just to be here.

      “Pilot for me. I can’t wait to get my hands on the new Pe-2s.” Yelena looked at Nina’s old coat. “Have you got your uniform yet?”

      “No—”

      “I’ll show you where. It’s horrible, the same standard issue they give the men. The bigger girls are all right, but little ones like you are swimming. And we’re all clumping around in the boots, even my new roommate who has feet like pontoons.”

      Nina’s uniform came in a bulky packet, and she began to swear the minute she unfolded it. “Even men’s underwear?” Unfolding a pair of vast blue briefs.

      “Even men’s underwear.” Yelena laughed. “Wait till you’ve worn it for a few hours—”

      “Or walked a runway in it in zero degrees,” grumped another woman’s voice. “You would not believe the chafing.” Several more trainee pilots had gathered, looking interested. To a chorus of “Go on, get suited up!” Nina went into an empty storeroom and shuffled out shortly afterward. Even more girls had clustered in her absence, and they all went into a unison gale of laughter at the sight of Nina’s massive trousers puddling over huge clumping boots.

      For a moment Nina bristled. Normally when she heard female laughter it was unkind or it was uncomprehending: girls like Tania mocking her flyaway hair or provincial accent. But this laughter was merry, and looking around, Nina saw that a good many of the girls looked every bit as ridiculous in their own enormous uniforms.

      “We can cuff and stitch the hems, but you are out of luck on the boots.” Yelena shook her head. “Have you got some cloth to stuff into the toes?” Nina’s scarf went into the right boot, as Yelena unwound her own.

      “I can’t take yours.”

      “Nonsense! What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine, Ninochka.”

      Another reflexive bristle—Nina never heard fond nicknames except from men trying to get her into bed. But Yelena had finished stuffing Nina’s boots and was making introductions, and everyone seemed to be on a first name basis. “Lidia Litvyak, we call her Lilia … Serafima here is from Siberia like you—”

      “Not as far off as the Old Man, though!” came the friendly reply. Cautiously, Nina smiled back. Yelena kept rattling off names, and Nina knew she would hardly remember any of them, but there was a similar look to these women Raskova had recruited, no matter how different they seemed on the surface. Some looked barely eighteen and some approached thirty; some were little like Nina, others tall and strapping; some had city accents and some had provincial burrs … But they all looked like they were used to the feel of engine grease under their nails, Nina thought as they crowded around her bright-eyed and friendly, welcoming her to the ranks.

      Questions were pelting now, as they asked Nina how she had come to flying. “I saw my first plane, and I fell in love with it.” Heads nodded.

      “My father was furious when I went to pilot school in Kherson,” one girl said. “The women in our family all work in the steel factory—”

      “I told my mother I’d fly someday,” another said. “She asked me ‘Where, from the kitchen stove to the floor?’”

      Something in Nina’s chest expanded. Sestra, she thought, giving the plain word the twist that had made it something unique when she heard it in Yelena’s voice. Nina had not felt this burgeoning warmth since the day she walked singing with Vladimir and the other pilots to enlist—the warm feeling of belonging. Only these women would not leave her behind.

      Nina’s fellow pilots hauled her off to find a meal then, talking away, and they were still talking three days later on the train platform, on their way out of Moscow. To some unknown airdrome for training, where the first female pilots of the Red Air Force would learn to be lethal.

       Chapter 13

       JORDAN

      October 1946

      Selkie Lake

      The end of October meant autumn leaves and duck-hunting season, and Anneliese seemed enthusiastic when Jordan’s father proposed a day at the cabin. Now Jordan watched her stepmother look at the red and gold trees reflecting in the surface of Selkie Lake, exclaiming, “Beautiful!”

      “Our first time here as a family.” Dan McBride fished out the big square key that locked the cabin. “I thought you’d like it.”

      “Don’t count on me to bag anything,” Anneliese warned. “I can’t hit a target to save my life.”

      “Now, I don’t believe that—”

      “Would I lie?” She made a rueful face. “Kurt tried over and over to teach me, but I’m hopeless. You’ll get far more ducks without me.”

      “Ducks?” Ruth’s brows furrowed as she climbed out of the car after Taro. “Dead ducks?”

      “You don’t need to see them, Ruthie,” Jordan reassured. “They can take the guns out to the far side of the lake, and you’ll stay with me. The only thing we’ll shoot is pictures.”

      Ruth looked relieved. Still too quiet for a little girl, Jordan thought, but after a summer’s worth of diner sundaes and trips to the movies, at least she was talking and smiling at the dinner table.

      “How lovely!” Anneliese was enthusing as her husband unlocked the hunting cabin his father had built on the shore. She went inside, looking at the stock of firewood, the narrow cots and blankets, the kerosene lamps. “Everything necessary if one needed to hide.”

      “Who needs to hide?” Jordan asked, following her inside.

      A shrug. “It’s the way someone who has been