Chapter Text
TERUEL, SPAIN
FEBUARY 1939
The sky was bruised with twilight, a patchwork of purples and reds as Basil Antonvych Korolenko adjusted the straps on his flight goggles. His breath fogged the glass in the chill air, and the distant hum of enemy bombers grew louder by the second. Below him, the Republican airfield was a hive of chaos with mechanics frantically refueling planes, soldiers shouting orders and smoke from the last sortie rising in ominous tendrils.
Basil's Polikarpov I-16, affectionately called the "Mosca" gleamed with fresh oil stains and hastily patched bullet holes. It wasn't much—slower and outclassed by the Condor Legion's Messerschmitts—but it was his. He ran a gloved hand along its fuselage as though reassuring a skittish horse.
"Antonovych! They're coming!"
The shout came from Santiago, a wiry Spanish mechanic with perpetually greasy hands and a cigarette perpetually dangling from his lips. Basil nodded curtly, climbing into the cockpit. He could feel the tremor in his own hands, the weight of exhaustion and dread pressing against his ribs.
The Republican forces were losing. Everyone knew it. Madrid was on the verge of falling, an Teruel, once a symbol of their resistance, had been turned into a graveyard. For weeks, Basil had flown mission after mission, watching comrades fall from the sky like broken birds. But today felt Different... Today felt final.
The Engine roared to life with a sputtering growl, its vibrations rattling Basil's chest. He checked his instruments—a ritual he performed with quiet reverence—before pushing the throttle forward. The Mosca rolled down the uneven strip of dirt, the nose lifting as it clawed into the darkening sky.
Five other planes rose alongside him, a ragged formation of men who had once been strangers but were now bonded by shared scars and desperation. Over the radio, their squadron leader, Joaquín, called out.
"Formation tight! Protect the bombers at all costs. If the Messers come, we hold them off."
Basil glanced to his right, where Joaquín's plane dipped slightly in a friendly salute. Joaquín was a veteran, a man with a booming laugh and a knack for staying alive. They'd shared a bottle of stolen whiskey just the night bfore, their toasts bittersweet and wordless.
The first wave of German Heinkel bombers came into view like black shadows against the dim sky. Behind them, glinting in the last rays of sunlight, were the Messerschmitt escorts. Basil tightened his grip on the controls, his jaw set. The radio crackled with Joaquín's voice:
"Antonovych, you're my wing. Let's make them bleed."
They dove together just as the first burst of anti-aircraft fire lit up the horizon, red tracers arching like fireflies. Basil felt the pull of gravity as he banked hard, his Mosca shuddering in protest. A Heinkel loomed ahead, its engines droning like an angry wasp. Basil lined up his shot, the crosshairs wobbling as turbulence buffeted his plane. He squeezed the trigger.
The Mosca's guns spat fire, riddling the Heinkel's wing with holes. Smoke billowed from the bomber, and Basil watched as it wavered, then tilted downward in a slow, angonizing spiral.
"One down!" Joaquín's voice was triumphant, but it was quickly drowned out by a warning.
"Messers incoming! Six o'clock!"
Basil craned his neck just in time to see the sleek shapes of Messerschmitts diving toward their formation. Machine guns roared, and Joaquín's plane jerked violently before exploding in a ball of flame. The shockwave rattled Basil's cockpit, and he bit back a curse.
The dogfight devolved into chaos afterwards. Basil rolled sharply, narrowly avoiding a burst of gunfire that chewed through the clouds where he had just been. He pulled into a tight loop, coming around behind one of the Messers. It danced through the air like a predator, its pilot clearly experienced, but Basil was relentless.
When his bullets finally connected, the Messer's engine sputtered and died, the plane veering off course before slamming into a hillside. Basil exhaled sharply, but the relief was short-lived. The radio was silent now—his comrades either dead or too busy fighting to respond.
The airfield below was in flames. The bombers had done their job, and the Messerschmitts were circling like vultures, picking off survivors. Basil's Mosca was running low on fuel, the gauges screamed warnings of engine trouble. He scanned the horizon, his heart sinking as he realized he was alone.
"Not today." he muttered, a mix of defiance and desperation.
He turned east, toward the mountains. The Mosca sputtered but held, its engine groaning with every mile. By some miracle, the Messers didn't pursue him; perhaps they thought him dead or simply weren't interested in a lone fleeing plane.
Hours later, however, Basil landed on a remote strip of farmland, the Mosca's engine dying with a final, pitiful wheeze. He stumbled out of the cockpit, his legs weak and his lungs burning from the cold air. The farmer who found him—a sympathetic man with calloused hands—offered him food, water and a place to rest.
The next day, disguised in civilian clothes and carrying only what he could fit in a small satchel, Basil began the long journey out of Spain. He crossed the Pyrenees on foot, narrowly avoiding patrols and border guards, eventually reaching France. By the time he boarded a ship back to North America, the Republic had fallen.
DAYTON, OHIO
JUNE 1939
Basil sat in the cramped apartment he'd rented above a mechanic's shop, the scent of grease and gasoline wafting through the open window. It was a far cry from the skies of Spain, but it was quiet. Too quiet.
He spent his days fixing engines and his evenings tending to a small garden on the fire escape. The world outside buzzed with news of war—Germany rearming, Japan expanding—but Basil tried to ignore it. He was tired. Broken, in some ways. The faces of fallen comrades haunted his dreams.
One humid afternoon however, as he wiped his hands on a rag, there was a knock at the door. A uniformed courier handed him a telegram.
"Mr. Korolenko, sir?"
"That's me."
The courier tipped his hat and left, leaving Basil staring at the envelope in his hand. He opened it carefully, his fingers trembling slightly.
WESTERN UNON TELEGRAM URGENT - DECIPHERED
TO: BASIL A. KOROLENKO
FROM: CLAIRE L. CHENNAULT
NEED EXPERIENCED PILOTS STOP
FOR TRAINING PROGRAM IN CHINA STOP
IMPERIAL JAPANESE FORCES INTENSIFYING ATTACKS STOP
CAN YOU COME QUESTION MARK
W.U TELEGRAM URGENT - DECIPHERED
Basil sat heavily on the edge of his bed, the words sinking in. Chennault had been his mentor, his commanding officer in the USAAC, and one of the few people who believed in him. The man who taught him how to think like a fighter pilot was calling him back to the skies.
For the first time in months, Basil felt something stir in his chest. Purpose.
Chongqing, Republic of China
September 1939
The journey to Nationalist China was long and circuitous. From San Francisco, Basil boarded a freighter bound for Hong Kong, then took a rickety train through the countryside to Chongqing. The city was a labyrinth of noise and movement, with refugees crowding the streets and the constant threat of Japanese air raids looming overhead.
Chennault met him at the airfield, his familiar sharp features softened by a rare smile.
"Glad you made it, Antonovych," Chennault said, clapping him on the back. "We've got a lot of work to do."
Basil looked around at the assembled pilots—young, eager and untested. The planes were older models, their paint peeling and engines wheezing, but they were ready.
"Where do we start?" Basil asked, his voice steady despite the memories of Spain creeping at the edges of his mind.
Chennault grinned.
"With the basics. These boys need to learn how to stay alive."
As Basil stepped onto the tarmac, the hum of planes overhead felt familiar again. For the first time since Spain, he felt like he belonged. China was not home, but it was a cause worth fighting for. And this time, he wasn't flying alone.