4 January 1943

Fort Benning had been blissfully quiet while the Americans went home on leave. Sure, some stayed. Some didn't have the money to make the trips home, some didn't want to deal with the hassle. But most of them packed up their bags and climbed into trains to go see family for Christmas.

Sveta didn't understand Christmas. She knew it had something to do with the Christians' god, but she knew little to nothing about that either. Zhanna was Jewish, that much she knew. But Sveta had never understood it, nor the other religions. Her father had often quoted from the Soviet leadership: religion was the opium of the people.

And if there was anything Sveta didn't need, it was a drug to cloud her mind. She already had enough to deal with. Still, the holiday tree the Americans had put up for Christmas, it reminded her deeply of the New Year back in Russia. An unexpected wave of nostalgia had hit her when she'd laid eyes on it.

Christmas furlough had gone by too fast. Sveta spent her days resting, or trying to track down a new source of vodka, or swapping stories with Zhanna. Speaking Russian with her best friend made the daunting task of staying out of trouble a little easier.

But soon January 3rd rolled around, and the men returned. Fort Benning crawled with the Americans like insects startled from beneath a log. Sveta split from Zhanna in the morning. First Platoon had the initial jump.

Jump. A rush of excitement passed through Sveta as she walked across the center of Benning. A firm breeze hit her face, a bit chilly. Sveta loved it. It reminded her of home, some. Stalingrad had always been more moderate than the north. Though she'd hated Moscow, the Valdai Hills to its north-west had been one of her favorite places. For a moment, Sveta felt like she could almost relax.

Almost. When Sveta reached the hanger they'd been told to gather in for equipment and a briefing, the peace dissipated. A dozen of the men in her platoon had gathered already. It reminded her of the cocktail parties Stalin used to throw; too many people for it to be comfortable, too few for her to disappear in the crowd. It'd been a month and she still hadn't had a full conversation with any of them. She could put names to faces, though.

Martin, John, went by Johnny. Randleman, Denver, went by Bull. Her eyes scanned further. Luz, George, no nickname. Muck, Warren, went by Skip. Tipper, Edward. Alley, James, called Moe. Cobb, Roy. Harris, Terrence. Sveta did her best to stick to the periphery where she could watch them. Play the game, Sveta.

Luz, Perconte, and Muck stood together doing up each other's white harnesses. They hadn't even noticed her entrance. But as she walked over to the cadre who would supply her gear, Sveta's luck ended. Sisk caught sight of her. Just as she turned away with her gear, the comments started.

"How do you think she got to be a Louie?" Sisk asked.

Perconte started laughing. "Nah, Skinny. She ain't a Louie, she's a Louise."

Half the men who heard it started laughing. Sveta didn't really get it. She knew the men used Louie as a pet term, a sort of disparaging nickname for Lieutenants they didn't like. She supposed Louise was their attempt to make it feminine. At least their insults were getting more creative. But even as she felt her rage building, someone else stepped in.

"Hey, you two, shut it."

Sveta didn't turn to dignify their argument. But she did pause as she started getting her gear on. It sounded like Martin.

"Ah come on Pee Wee. That was a good one," Perconte argued. "Takin' her side?"

"I'm just sick of your fucking jokes," Martin snapped back. "One of these days, someone's gonna say somethin' stupid and get us all in trouble. So shut up."

The room settled a bit more. Almost all of First Platoon had shown up. To her dismay, Sveta realized she wouldn't be able to do the buckles all herself. She groaned. As she looked up, though, it surprised her to find Martin and Randleman heading over. She straightened up. None of them said anything.

"Why'd you do that?" she asked. It came out harsh, and Sveta wasn't sure if she'd meant it that way or not.

Martin glared, turning towards the other men for a moment. "Whether they like it or not, you're an officer." When she didn't reply, Martin just turned to Randleman.

"You can't do the straps yourself," Randleman finally said.

Sveta sighed. "No. I suppose I can't."

With a half-laugh, half scoff, Martin finally shook his head. "I'll do it. Stay still." He knelt down to get at the leg straps.

Her immediate tensing and lack of breathing didn't escape either man or Sveta herself. But she couldn't help it. Too close for comfort, it reminded her of the warnings her mother had always given her about Beria.

Never be alone with him. Never go to his estate. Never let Zhanna go. If you see Lana Stalina going, stop her too. And never, ever accept flowers from him or his guards.

"How'd you get that scar, Lieutenant?"

Sveta glanced at Randleman. For a moment, the question caught her off guard. She forgot about Martin's hands between her legs, and instead looked at the man who stood above her. How'd you get that scar? How'd she get it... she'd gotten it cowering in an attic, hands tied by rough chords, starving and covered in sweat. She'd gotten it mouthing off to a surviving member of the Whites. She'd gotten it the day she'd first realized she was not a person, but a puppet.

Anger surged through her. They'd used her. The Whites, the Reds, it didn't matter. In Russia, she was a pawn. Her hatred boiled over as she kept her voice as even as possible. "It wasn't a kitchen knife."

"Yeah, what was it then?" Martin stood up off the ground.

Sveta decided to leave it simple. "Politics."

"First Platoon! Gather up around me outside!"

At Lieutenant Heyliger's command, the chatter quieted. The noise of boots against concrete filled the hanger. Randleman and Martin both turned back to her and then walked away. Left to herself, Sveta almost regretted not saying more to them. For a brief moment, she'd felt something other than bitterness.

But only for a brief moment.

Soon the tiniest bit of warmth that had filled her chest at their seemingly innocent questions was replaced by deep, aching anger. Sveta didn't even know why she was angry. Then again, she didn't know that most of the time. It just burned inside her.

The directions given to them by the Sergeants Airborne passed in a blur. They told the enlisted how it would go down; twelve jumpers per aircraft, about a jump a day. On this first one, they had almost no gear, just what would keep them safe and secure. Each jump would get progressively more intense until they completed the final one at night on the last day. Only after that would they receive their wings.

Sveta wanted the wings for one reason only; it meant going home. Going home meant going back to the Red Army, and in the Red Army she could avoid Stalin and Beria and Samsonov, at least to a degree. She'd spoken to Stalin's son Vasily once after he'd joined the Army. He'd complained of the abuse thrown his way by the other soldiers. Sveta had always been thankful she'd not suffered the same, just cold shoulders and silence.

"Samsonova, Martin, Blithe, Alley, Luz, Spina, Dukeman, Tipper-"

Sveta tuned out the names after hers had been called. As the Cadre listed off the others in her plane, she just moved to the side where one of the instructors stood. Then she stopped. There he was. Nixon. He stood with Heyliger and Winters, chuckling about something as he sipped from his flask. Flashes of memories, of blue caps with red trim, of blood on a mattress, of girls with tear-stained cheeks leaving Beria's estate clutching flowers in their trembling hands, crossed her mind.

"Lieutenant?"

At Martin's voice, Sveta spun to face him. He watched her, eyes narrowed, before glancing past to the other officers. She released a long, silent breath.

"Corporal, what's the name of America's police?" She turned from where Nixon still stood with the lieutenants. "Who ensures your loyalty?"

Martin's flat expression only deepened. "What?"

"What does your government call the organization that ensures your loyalty? Who enforces your laws and punishes traitors?" Sveta shuffled as he still didn't answer. With a sigh, she shook her head ever so slightly. "Your secret police. What are they called?"

"We only have the FBI, Lieutenant," he said. "Not exactly a deadly secret police."

Her well-practiced expression of indifference faltered. Martin wasn't lying. He maintained eye contact, his breathing stayed regular. No sudden movements or changes. She frowned. Looking back at the lieutenants, she bit her lip. Society couldn't function without loyalty. Loyalty could only be ensured through careful monitoring. America had to have their own NKVD, their own Gestapo.

Martin wasn't lying, but maybe he didn't know what he was speaking of. She'd have to look into this FBI. They would truly be worth fearing if they didn't inspire fear in their people and still worked the shadows.

"What does Russia have, Lieutenant?"

Sveta glanced back at him. "What?" She could feel her eyes widening at the question. It took all her effort to stop herself. "Oh. It's not important."

Before he could say anything more, the cadre ordered them to line up. They had a ten-minute walk to the airfield, and from there, they'd jump out of an airplane. Jump from an airplane. The fluttering of her heart, the pounding of chest, it only escalated as she followed in the footsteps of the men of her platoon. No one questioned her taking up the back. By now they'd probably gotten used to it.

From the back she could watch them. Boots slammed against the concrete as they moved across base to the airfield. She took stock of the men. Martin led her stick in the march. Behind him, she recognized Blithe, Alley, Luz, Spina, Dukeman, Tipper, More, and Sisk among others. Most of them gripped their gloved fists tight. Blithe already had his helmet strapped up, but most of the others let theirs hang loose.

Dozens of planes sat stationary on the runway. Above them, the mid morning sun beat down on the gathered paratroopers in training. She shaded her eyes, looking up as they came to a halt by one of the planes. Back home, the same sun shone down on Stalingrad. Of course, in Stalingrad, the war raged. Sink had brought her up to speed on the battle.

The Nazis would not outlast her people. Russia would not be defeated. They knew the cold like no other people. Sveta felt herself smiling. The Motherland would see to her children. And someday she would get back there.

Her smile fell. What would she find? Sveta turned from the sky to look at the plane and the gathered men. Her jaw clenched. If she got back, she'd have to get away from Stalin and Beria and her father. She didn't know if she'd rather be a puppet for them, or for the Western allies. Allies. She shook her head.

"Lieutenant, you ever been on an airplane?"

She looked right. Martin had spoken to her again. The smoldering warmth she'd felt at his willingness to help, however strange she'd found it, returned. These questions weren't interrogations. Perhaps she could give him a bit more than a tart reply.

"Once," she told him. Turning from the plane, she looked around where a few of the men had slowed their movements. They listened carefully, even if they didn't want to be obvious about it. They weren't nearly as good at that as she was. Sveta hesitated before continuing. "From Tangier to Gibraltar, in June. It was a short flight."

Martin nodded. He seemed a bit surprised, but as with every interaction she'd had with him, he concealed it well. He'd have made a good officer in the Red Army. They always had to control themselves. As she turned away from him, the Sergeant Airborne had them board the airplane.

"Ladies first," More told her.

As the ranking officer, she would be expected to jump first. Sveta hated going first. She could feel their gazes on her whenever she walked ahead. But to hesitate would be to show weakness.

Without much gear, climbing the steps into the plane took almost no effort. But she knew later it would be worse, when their hundred pounds of gear hung from their bodies. Sveta scowled. She sat down across from the door, head high, shoulders tight.

Most of the men didn't spare her a glance as they heaved themselves into the aircraft. Soon enough, eleven men sat to either side of the belly of the plane. Across from her sat Martin. To his right sat Blithe. He rarely looked her in the eye. On most occasions, such an attitude would've been a welcome change from scathing remarks or scornful gazes. But every time she looked at Blithe, all she saw was the dozens of girls who she'd watched wash out of the sniper program.

Sveta had gone from the frying pan to the fire long before the paratroopers, long before the snipers. She turned from Blithe to the cockpit. The pounding in her throat intensified. She had to succeed. Failure meant death.

In a lot of ways, failure to get her wings reminded Sveta of failure to uphold the mask in Russia. In Russia, Beria watched her eagle eyed for any sign of disloyalty. Disloyalty from Sveta would give him ample reason to displace Alexander Samsonov. And while she had no desire to contribute to her father's political gains, his execution would be the least of her worries.

She could imagine it easily. First the public humiliation. Traitors to Russia, threats to the Motherland she held so dear. Stalin would probably turn them into public examples. No quiet thieves in the night to steal them away to the Gulag. Hopefully Premier Stalin would keep her out of Beria's hands. Even he could not be so evil as to hand her to that man. Sveta shivered. She saw red. Red roses, red stars, red flags, red blood.

Then a red light. Her eyes widened. She'd been so wrapped up in the nightmarish daydream that she'd missed take off. She'd missed so much. The fear of jumping out an airplane paled in comparison to the fear of Beria. The men around her stood up. Some shook where they stood, others tapped their feet though she couldn't hear anything for the roar of the engines and the wind outside the belly of the plane.

She followed suit. The plane rocked, and she moved her feet apart to take a better stance. Her hand began to cramp from her hold on the hook over her head. She could see the ground racing by far below. The Sergeant Airborne screamed instructions through the hurricane-like wind. Sveta couldn't understand them. The jumbled English might as well have been Gaelic. Her heart pounded.

Then the instructor motioned with his arms to check their gear. Sveta tensed. Her hand ached. Martin's hands on her body made her want to scream. She tried to think of something else. Anything else. Like the Volga in spring time.

"One okay!"

She turned from the open door to the Sergeant Airborne. The light turned green. Green like the grass of the Motherland. Sveta's mouth twitched up in a small smile. Moving to the door, she took a spot. Her hands went to either side of the door. She took a deep breath.

Remember the Volga.

Remember the beautiful golden sickle and hammer on the field of scarlet.

Remember home.

She leapt into the air. Freefall lasted a few moments, her count to four ending all too quickly. With a jerk, the chute opened and she looked around. Blue skies, fields of browned grasses and leafless trees below. Above, a silk chute, and others that dotted the tapestry of the sky.

So this was freedom.

Sveta didn't even notice the brief moment of pain from impact. Sitting up, she undid her harness with precision. One hook, then the other. The silk chute rolled into a ball in her hands. The pounding of her heart didn't calm. The grin on her face remained. For the briefest of moments Sveta had tasted total freedom, total control, total bliss.

What did the countryside of Russia look like from the skies? It had to be even grander than America. It stretched wider, had lands more varied. She felt her chest tighten at the prospect.

"Hey, Louise does smile," someone joked. "You owe me ten bucks, Tip."

She looked right. Luz and Tipper, also grinning from ear to ear, weren't far away making their way with her towards the rally point. She froze. They didn't spare her another glance. Sveta felt her fists clenching, the leather creaking as she did so.

Her smile evaporated. Trudging after the gathered members of First Platoon, she looked instead up at the sky. Men of the other companies had taken to the sky. As the planes streaked across the sky, black against the blue, she sighed. Freedom would have to wait.