Mila had grown up in the shadow of the hangar. Her father had been a mechanic, and she had learned to read by tracing the rivet patterns on the AN-45’s wings. By twenty-four, she was the only pilot in the district brave—or stubborn—enough to keep it in the air.
The was never meant to be a hero. A twin-engine cargo workhorse with a fuselage that groaned like an old man’s knees, it had spent twenty years hauling mail and grain across the Siberian tundra. Most pilots called it "The Iron Mule." To Mila, it was simply "Old 45." an-45 Mila
"She won't make the climb, Mila," the base commander shouted over the wind. Mila had grown up in the shadow of the hangar