-Book One- Ghost of Kyiv, an Azur Lane Story

Chapter 4: Opposite Sides of a Coin

June 8th, 1942
0900 Hours
Pearl Harbor Naval Base

Stepan strode through the halls of the naval base, on his way to the cafeteria, his helmet under his arm. Earlier before, a very helpful Ensign has shown him the locker rooms, where he gladly stowed his helmet, since his arms were getting very tired from constantly carrying it around. He was still wearing his flight suit though, albeit a bit crumpled. The base reminded him very much of Vasylkiv's own infrastructure, so it felt like home to him, more or less.

Finally, he reached a door that had a sign above it. It had the words "Mess Hall" written on it in Russian, English, French, Polish, Ukrainian, Filipino, and Serbo-Croatian. He was surprised to see his native tongue on the sign, an unexpected surprise, but a welcome one to be sure. He opened the door to the mess hall, and was immediately met with a delicious smell, something that reminded him of nalysnyky, one of his favorite dishes.

He looked around, seeing kansens, aviators, and sailors alike sitting at long tables, their heads hunched over their meals. Some were speaking in hushed tones, and some, like a group of men and further down the table, a group of kansens wearing slightly revealing clothing. He saw a window up ahead, with a kitchen behind it. He went up to it, grabbed a tray, and came up to the window.

A woman wearing a chef's hat, white rubber gloves, and an apron. Stepan put his tray onto the railing, and waited until the woman finished getting the utensils out of the makelane. She looked up towards him, holding the ladle up. "I've got three options today, since we're running on a skeleton crew of food. Most of the stuff is going to the medical sector after the attack ended, so eat up!" Stepan nodded, and the lady put ladle after ladle of semi thick soup onto his plate. With a small smile and a quick nod, Stepan walked away from the serving area towards the sitting area. As he walked in between the aisles, heads turned to look towards him. He ignored them, and continued walking.

As he passed the tables where he saw the two groups sitting when he walked in, he heard a Ukrainian-accented voice call out to him in English. "Oi, you! Yes, you. Come sit with us, we've got a lot of space here." Surprised, he turned towards the table, and sat down next to them. The men were all eating the same soup, though there was a bottle of vodka in the middle of the table. The man who called out to him turned, looking him over, his eyes stopping on the Ukrainian Trident on his shoulder. "You're Ukrainian? Where from?" "Korolivka, the Eastern part. You?" The man turned, and it's as if Stepan was looking into the eyes of a picture that hung on the wall at his flight school. This man, was very, very familiar. He was looking at Ivan Kozhedub, the Ukrainian-born World War Two fighter ace, who in his own time, has been dead for 31 years.

"I recognize you. You're Ivan Kozhedub, right? The fighter ace?" He asked the man, who was shoveling spoonfuls of the soup into his mouth. He picked up a napkin, wiping his mouth, before turning to Stepan with a raised eyebrow. "What's it to you? Yes, I am. Now, let me introduce you to these three," he said while pointing at a pilot with an Asiatic complexion and blonde hair. "That's Sagdiyev. He's from Kazakhstan, but don't let his looks fool you. He can fix just about anything, and fly pretty much any plane with minimal training." The mentioned man lifted his head up, looking at Stepan and Ivan, and then with a "I guess so" shrug, he continued eating his soup quietly. Kozhedub then turned towards the pilot with a slightly pudgy, yet friendly face, and a mop of brown hair on his head.

"Now we have Vasilyonok. He's a good pilot, but his forté is logistics, mainly assisting the MAC guys with loading supplies and sometimes those OSS spooks aboard the proper aircraft. Don't worry about the hair, he promises to get a haircut." He gave Vasilyonok a sarcastic look, the pilot jokingly flipping him the bird. "That right there, is Kupchenko. He's an ace like me, but he doesn't put his tallies on his plane." He turned back towards Stepan, propping his head up on his elbow. "What's your story? I know you're a pilot, how many kills do you have?" Stepan smiled bashfully, trying to find a proper way to say this. "Over the course of my career? 33 kills, 7 probables." The men sat there in silence, awestruck, and then they all patted him on the back, a fellow pilot now in their midst. "Well, welcome to the team, then! Commander D'Elise wants us to work together for the upcoming mission." They shook hands, and continued eating their soup, trading stories of their battles to pass the time.