The memories of a dead pilot

"The Hero of Our Time, kind sirs, is indeed a portrait, but not of just one man: it is a portrait composed of the vices of our entire generation, at the height of their development."


"The Hero of Our Time" Mikhail Lermontov 1841

               
 
"There have been worse times, but there was none more deceitful."
               
Prince Hamlet


The key characters, along with all those Admirals, officers, their wives and mistresses, colleagues, and drinking buddies—they're not based on any real folks, mind you. I conjured them up with one purpose: to tarnish our once-glorious past—a time when family values, religious beliefs, and recognizable morals gave way to the clutches of Communist ideology. And if, by any chance, you find yourself thinking that such things might have actually happened, think again.

Nope, it wasn't like that.





Prologue

Every part of my body is in agony. Darkness envelops me, and I struggle to see anything. Slowly, I force my eyes open and start to make out the objects around me. The source of my excruciating pain becomes evident - the plane's control column jammed into my chest, pushing me back into my bulletproof seat. A searing sensation in my belly indicates broken ribs and internal bleeding.

I turn my head to the right, searching for my crew. The navigator's cabin at the front of the plane is obliterated. Captain Vasiliev's workspace is now a chaotic mess of aluminum, glass, crushed navigation equipment, and bloody body parts. Flight engineer Gennadiy Rybnikov, who was seated between me and the co-pilot during the landing, is doubled over. The seatbelt prevented him from being thrown out through the windshield but has left him with his forehead melded into the instrument panel. His lifeless hands hang motionless, and blood drips from his head onto the radio operator, who is now dead.

Just before we crashed into the collector column of the storm drain at the Cam Ranh air base, once American but now Russian, the radio operator, Nikolai Onoprienko, was sitting behind my co-pilot. He was sending out the Morse code report of our landing to the fifteenth flotilla of the Pacific fleet headquarters. He had attempted to crawl under the flight engineer's seat to reach the navigator at the nose of the aircraft, desperate to see how I was going to manage landing with only half of the main landing gear. For him, it was better to face the danger than remain ignorant of our situation. He almost reached the cabin when the impact threw him against the navigation equipment.

...My co-pilot is sitting without his head, severed along with the headrest of his seat by the jagged lining of the fuselage. His lifeless head, held in place by the headset, leans towards me, and his blank eyes seem to gaze at me with a mix of contempt and shock. He didn't have the opportunity to tell me the price the Vietnamese paid for transport on our plane from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh.

Before takeoff, the flight engineer managed to sneak thirty locals into the pressurized cabin designed for only ten, without proper authorization. Our initial destination was the former capital of South Vietnam, but we were rerouted to Haiphong, a port city, to pick up cargo shipped from the Soviet Union. Knowing that landing at this intermediate stop would land us in serious trouble, possibly a long prison term for transporting illegal passengers using Ministry of Defense property, I quickly devised a Plan C since there was no Plan B. I sent my co-pilot, Sergey Kovalenko, to compile a list of passengers and get the signature of the aviation supervisor at Hanoi International Airport's military sector. It was a challenging task that would require a significant bribe. Sergey returned fifteen minutes later, looking troubled.

"What happened?" I asked.

Gasping for breath, he replied, "For his signature, Smirnov wants twenty-five percent of the money collected from the Vietnamese."

"And how much is that?" I received a wad of banknotes without time to count.

"Let's just say you don't want to know. "I would say our venture definitely is not going to be profitable." He groaned.               
         
Takeoff was imminent, and I decided to deal with the financial matters after returning from the mission.

...But now Kovalenko wouldn't utter a word, not to me or any military investigator.

The first responders team members rushed towards the plane from all directions. Oh, they would be in for a shock when they discovered my precious human cargo. However, I couldn't help but wonder why they all remained so quiet back there. During the landing approach, I had depleted the fuel from the wing and fuselage tanks almost entirely, which is exactly why we didn't explode on impact. So, while the command cabin was now a twisted mess, the passenger cabin should be intact, right? Yet, they weren't making a peep. Strange. Well, I couldn't be bothered with them at that moment.

Rescuers surrounded me, attempting to direct my broken body out through the twisted metal. My vision was blurred, but one thing was clear - I needed to recollect how I ended up in this wretched predicament, both literally and figuratively. Memories flooded in, a grim sign that my brain had accepted the inevitable and was now reflecting on the most significant episodes of my wasted life.
Chapter 1

After graduating from the Higher Military School for Pilots, I was assigned to serve in the military garrison of Yelizovo. The airfield there also served as the airport of the regional capital of the Kamchatka Peninsula, Petropavlovsk-on-Kamchatka. The place welcomed me with a warm wind and a light drizzle. Even though October was coming to a close, frosts had already been reported in other parts of Russia, but here on the peninsula, yellow and red leaves still clung to the trees.

I could see the birds that hadn't yet left for the south formed a low flock in the sky, honing their formation flight skills. High above them, four white, thin contrails trailed behind an IL-62 commercial airliner as it headed towards North America. It felt like a fitting introduction to my first posting after graduating from the Navy's Aviation College.

As I walked along the road from the airport building to the headquarters of my new squadron, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of those birds. I hoped that soon, like them, I would be up in the sky, doing what I was destined to do: fly. As I looked at the birds perfecting their formation flight skills, I thought,

They, like me, were preparing for a long journey ahead.


The officer on duty, a sullen and imposing Captain, greeted me frostily in the hall of the one-story fifties-era building and led me to the reception room of the commander of the rocket carrier squadron. 

Behind a worn but sturdy oak desk sat a young and remarkably attractive lady with the rank of Sergeant. She was dressed in a cream blouse, a black necktie, and a black skirt, which seemed somewhat out of place in this remote military station.

However, as I caught a glimpse of her slender legs provocatively crossed between the columns of the desk, I was taken aback by the unexpected welcome. The officer with me exchanged a few words with her, but my mind was fixated on the hemline of her skirt, paying little attention to their conversation. Succumbing to my hungry gaze, she picked up the telephone receiver and reported my arrival to the commander with an unenthusiastic expression.

The Captain nudged me with his elbow and whispered, "Don't get your hopes too high. A much bigger fish is regularly in the picture with her, if you catch my drift..."


The girl hung up the phone, silently gestured towards the commander's door, and kept drumming her slender fingers on the typewriter keys.

From the commander's office, I emerged as the co-pilot of Commander Major Gribov's crew. I found myself as the rookie of an old rocket carrier, an outdated TU-16, with an uncertain future. Unfortunately, nothing else was offered to me.

For four long years, I flew in this position, spending my bachelor existence in wild drinking bouts with my colleagues and indulging in love affairs with the local beauties. To my regret, but who knows, perhaps to my fortunate, there were no commander's secretaries among them. Rumors circulated that the girl I had met earlier was not just an excellent typist but had many other talents as well.
 
I could have flown as a co-pilot for another three or four years, but my commander had been stationed in this garrison for too long, and he no longer felt the need to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself. Assuming he had the right to say whatever he pleased, he provoked a scandal with his boldness. However, this turned out to be my opportunity to break away from the destructive cycle of card tables, strangers' beds, and bar counters.

        During one of our typical drinking bouts, Major Gribov shared a harmless anecdote with his friends. It was essentially an account of a conversation between the Secretary of the Communist party organization and the priest of a nearby church.

"Father," said the party branch leader, "let me borrow some chairs from your church for the communists. Tomorrow I have a conference."

        "I won't give you any," replied the priest. "The last time you borrowed them, your party members carved indecent expressions on them with their pocket knives."

        "Well, then, I won't be sending you any more boy-scouts to sing in the church choir," retorted the party organizer.

        "Then I won't send you any monks for Saturday 'volunteer' territory cleaning," the priest parried.

        "Then I won't give you any members of the Young Communist League for the procession of the cross." The party organizer, being a true communist, refused to give in.

        But the priest had an ace up his sleeve.

        "Then there won't be any more nuns for your sauna."

        The local branch party leader fell silent for a moment, and then he barked into the telephone:

        "For such words, Father, you are going to have to surrender your communist party membership card."

       I was well aware that our Orthodox Church was far from being independent. It had deep ties with the state, collaborating with the KGB, police, and the Communist Party of the USSR. Yet, this cooperation remained hidden from the public eye. Making jokes or speaking critically about such connections, especially during Stalin's era, could result in dire consequences, like being sent to the GULAG or the Main Directorate of Northern Camps for prisoners. Even in the early 1980s, it could lead to expulsion from the party and the loss of one's job, putting individuals like me in a perilous position.

      Despite the fact that everyone present was aware of the potential disastrous consequences this funny story could bring upon the narrator, we still laughed together at the joke. However, in a few days, the good Major became the subject of a serious investigation by our Party Committee.  Who wrote the denunciation, I could not ascertain. Not being a party member, I was spared from the suspicions that circulated among my coworkers. The unfortunate joker faced exclusion from the party by a Majority vote, and as expected, he was later dismissed from his position.

       The next day, I was summoned for an interview with the squadron commander. The sight of the entire staff of our squadron gathered in his office surprised me. I stood before the commander's desk, on a heavily-worn rug, and wondered why such a grand meeting was being held in my honor.


       The chief of staff questioned me about my background, meticulously comparing my answers with the data in my personnel file. It seemed like he wanted to ensure that I wasn't a CIA agent, but rather the person I claimed to be. Fortunately, my answers matched what was written in the red file folder, and he closed it with a smirk before placing the secret document in front of the commander.

       The squadron commander covered the coat of arms of the Soviet Union, embossed on top of the file, with both hands. He glanced at his assistants and deputies, who were standing against the walls, took a deep breath, and spoke, "Well, then, Grigoriev, your time has come. The Motherland, represented by me, and the Communist Party, represented by the deputy commander of political affairs, have decided to entrust you with the position of rocket carrier pilot-in-command."

       Despite the highbrow words, I couldn't help but feel a surge of pride in my chest. My shoulders straightened involuntarily. However, my elation was short-lived as he continued, "However, we do have a few unresolved issues with you."

       The sense of pride was replaced by apprehension as I waited for the hammer to fall.

       "You must promise us that you will fulfill the following conditions: first, you must enroll in the Communist Party; second, you must get married; and third, but not of least importance, you must cut back on your drinking."

       The hammer seemed to hang in the air, and in that moment, I processed the demands. Enrolling in the Party might not be a Major challenge, marriage could be managed somehow, but curbing my drinking was a real problem. Vodka had always been a loyal companion to military members who served far from the comforts of real civilization. Nevertheless, I signed the papers placed in front of me, promising to fulfill all three conditions within the next six months.


Chapter 2

The promotion came with elevated respect from those around me and a small pay raise, but it also brought a load of new responsibilities. Gone were the days when I could disappear for my two days off, spending them carelessly in Lyudmila Salnikova's bed or showing up for a pre-flight exam with a face puffy from vodka. The doctor would occasionally remark, while taking my blood pressure,
"Grigoriev, at least breathe to the side.  Your vodka fumes make my eyes water."

Everything shifted suddenly. My reckless youthful days were now behind me, and I had to be more disciplined


Two days later, I sat with all the other aircraft commanders, listening to the flight assignments for the following day. The reports on weather, potential enemies, supply, maintenance, and communications barely registered in my mind. What mattered to me was that I would take off first at 0800 hours, and four hours later, I would return to base. After another four hours, I'd be celebrating in the officers' mess with my friends, marking the successful completion of my first battle mission.

As I glanced at the placards depicting various TU-16 rocket carrier catastrophes over the past decade, I felt a sense of confidence. The crashes were mostly due to pilot error or poor decision-making, which they called "the human factor." I was determined not to end up like those unfortunate pilots. The flight mission for the combat watch to the American Aleutian Islands assigned to me was evidence of the confidence placed in me, and this thought made me smirk with self-satisfaction.

As a copilot, I had flown there many times, but my primary role was to serve as the aircraft commander's backup and avoid interfering with his control over the aircraft and crew. However, in the event of his unexpected death, loss of consciousness, or illness like diarrhea or vomiting, it became my responsibility to take over his duties and ensure the safe operation of the flight.

        Now, the situation had changed, but I couldn't change my carefree attitude. My crew and I devoted only an hour to preparing for the flight along the American border, and then more experienced pilots from other crews approached us, and we headed to the garrison's sports arena to play volleyball. The last two hours of preparation for the next day's flight were spent playing cards in the doctor's office. Our excited and sometimes disappointed shouts were well-hidden behind the sign "Do Not Enter: Patient Exam in Progress" on the door, padded with cotton and covered with black leatherette.

        On the morning of the next day, I sat in the pilots' mess waiting for the waitress, Lyudmila, to bring me breakfast. My previous dalliance with her had ended six months earlier, but we had remained friends until the rumor circulated that I had gotten married. Her attitude toward me changed drastically.

        Nobody knew who my wife was and why a confirmed bachelor like me had taken such a big step. When I informed the commander about fulfilling one of his three conditions, he made no secret of it, which resulted in worsened service for my crew in the pilots' mess. The squadron humorists wasted no time in making jokes.

        On that particular day, I had no time to deal with Lyudmila's emotions. Being scheduled to take off first on the Air Regiment's fly day, I needed to get to the pre-flight briefing as soon as possible.

        Trying to get her attention, I raised my hand like a diligent student who knows the answer to the teacher's question. When I saw no reaction from the waiter, I raised the other hand as well. The pilots turned to look at me, and some put down their forks to see what would happen. But Lyudmila passed my table without acknowledging me, and with contempt, she said, "Grigoriev, you could raise your leg as well, but you're going to be the last to eat anyway."

        I responded loudly, injecting every ounce of sarcasm I could muster into my words, "Lyudmila, raising legs, especially parted, is more your style, I'd think."

        The pilots squad burst into laughter, and the girl, caught off guard by my biting remark, dropped the tray of dishes on the floor and ran off in tears. Shortly after, a new waitress, Veronica, took over, and as she served my crew's table, she wasted no time in expressing her thoughts on the matter: "I always told her that she could expect nothing but filth from you."


Chapter 3

We were the first to take off, soaring to our flying altitude before turning towards the Commander Islands. Leaving the last bit of Soviet land far behind, we aimed for the American border.

"My mission was to verify the anti-aircraft defenses of the potential enemy.”

  At a distance of roughly two hundred miles from the Attu Island, we initiated our descent. Gliding downward, we slipped beneath the radar beam stationed atop a rugged peak that extended from the mountains at the westernmost point of the United States. With the intention of delaying detection for as long as possible, I guided the aircraft towards our objective: Adak Airfield. Our altitude was a mere two hundred feet, and we were hurtling through the air at an astonishing speed of six hundred knots. As we closed in to a hundred miles from the Rat Islands, a pair of patrolling fighters caught my eye.

Our little war game had come to an end; we were detected and theoretically shot down. But we didn't see ourselves as losers. Just six minutes before, my navigators had successfully simulated a training missile launch against the American air force forward base.

In an actual battle scenario, upon exiting the bomb compartment, the three-ton cruise missile would ascend to a staggering altitude of sixty-thousand feet and then descend nearly vertically onto the American targets. The impact would shatter the concrete slabs of their runway, sending debris scattering hundreds of feet in all directions.

The McDonnell Douglas F-18 Hornet fighter jets rushed past us, skillfully maneuvering to flank my aircraft.


The pilot of the leading fighter saluted me and gestured for me to open the bomb compartment. He showed me two palms horizontally pressed against each other and then turned them vertically, indicating that he wanted to see if we had any weapons on board. As I nodded in agreement to his request, my navigator pressed the necessary button, and an indicator on my instrument panel lit up with the "bomb compartment is open" sign. The American pilot dived under the rocket carrier's belly and confirmed that our bomb compartment was indeed empty. He took his position above the left wing, gave me a thumbs-up, and we flew together for about twenty minutes under their escort.

During our joint flight, the pilot of the second fighter jet positioned his aircraft above our right wing, and the pilot entertained my co-pilot. While flying the aircraft on autopilot, the American flipped through the glossy pages of the Playboy erotic magazine, showing the showing the young Lieutenant the allure of nude female bodies through the plexiglass canopy of the cockpit.

Eventually, I signaled farewell to the fighter pilots, and they accelerated to put some distance between us before making a couple of aileron rolls and banking away toward their base.

A sigh of relief escaped me. My first battle assignment had been successfully completed.

  I called out to anyone who cared to listen, "Let's get the hell out of here!"

The nervous tension subsided, and I allowed myself to relax, daydreaming about the leave I had just completed.

Two months ago, after receiving our leave documents from the chief of staff, the entire crew and I headed for Vladivostok. From there, our paths diverged. My subordinates scattered across the country to visit their relatives, while I settled into a hotel with the somewhat romantic name "Dawn of the East." My attention was caught by the discotheque of the medical school. I spent two weeks partying with the students and indulging in a few romantic liaisons, until I unexpectedly faced rejection from a future physician. Her 'No' left me dumbfounded and preoccupied with thoughts of her.

"How could that be?" I pondered. "A naval battle pilot like me getting turned down? I've never heard that word from a woman before, and I don't want to hear it now." But this woman proved to be more stubborn and smarter than I anticipated. As a result, by the middle of my leave, we were married. There was another factor that played a role in my hasty decision—her father held the esteemed title of Rear-Admiral.  Despite having no connection to naval aviation, he held the esteemed position of being the Commander of the Soviet Union Pacific Coast Defense.

Suddenly, I heard the navigator report, 'Commander, we've reached the descent point,' I said, snapping back to reality.

"Roger that." I pushed the control column forward, lowering the nose of the aircraft while idling the engines, and the cabin immediately grew quieter. Glancing at the copilot, I noticed his bored stare, his mind seemingly elsewhere. After all, rare ice floes on the surface of the Pacific Ocean could only hold the young pilot's attention for so long. It was evident that the mission didn't require a substantial amount of his involvement, heightening the likelihood that he was reflecting on the images from a globally renowned magazine — quite possibly the alluring depictions of beautiful naked models that had captured his attention.      

Giving him a look, I returned to the life of a crew commander, I mean myself.

My thoughts drifted back to Vladivostok and my new wife.

The latter part of my leave turned into a honeymoon. Our wedding was so rushed that we had no time for vacation planning, and my wife's impending winter term left her with barely any free time.

Thankfully, my parents-in-law had a solution. They stayed in a posh hotel downtown, giving us full use of their home. We spent most of our time in bed, mixing Olga's lectures with more hands-on and comprehensive studies of human anatomy. We particularly focused on the differences in structure between male and female bodies. While no groundbreaking discoveries were made, the process brought pleasure to both of us. The fond memories brought a smile to my face...


"Commander, my on-board radar screen just went blank!" The navigator's voice snapped me back to harsh reality. It's strange that I'm hearing it directly instead of through the aircraft communication system headset. I glanced at the instrument panel. There were over thirty gauges and indicators there, but my attention was drawn to just two — the ones displaying the revolutions per minute of the left and right engines. Both pointers were trembling, indicating an autorotation — a telltale sign that both engines had stalled. My gaze shifted to the fuel flow indicators. A stark revelation awaited: nothing! The tiny arrows were squarely fixed at 'zero'.

"Cut off all electrical devices!" I hollered to both navigators, the copilot, the gunner, and the radio operator. Then, I focused on the engine control levers, and suddenly, the situation became crystal clear.

About eight minutes back, during the descent from thirty thousand feet, when I moved the engines from cruise to idle, I must've accidentally pulled them a bit too far, into the cutoff position. Without cross-checking the instrument readings, the plane had descended smoothly to ten thousand feet. During that time, the operational aviation equipment and, most critically, the powerful on-board radar had completely drained the batteries.

I mashed the "air start" button for the third time, but it yielded no results. The older model of the TU-16 lacked a "lock flight idle" feature to prevent the control levers from shifting freely across their full range. And lost in my pleasant memories, I had inadvertently shut down both engines.

Back in the early fifties, when Stalin's aircraft designers were sketching out this aircraft type, they couldn't have foreseen that these planes would still be operational forty years later, or that the pilots at the helm would be more engrossed in a woman than in the engine humming beneath them. The degree of "idiot-resistance" they incorporated failed to anticipate such enduring service, nor did it consider the scenario of pilots consumed by desire, their focus diverted as they guided these aircraft.


It wasn't enough to just kill me. I should have been killed, buried, exhumed, and killed again. The water was getting closer and closer, and I couldn't even send a distress "Mayday" call. The radio wasn't working. Parachuting out of the plane was already out of the question—it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. Because, climbing out of the icy water into an individual rubber boat with the air temperature at twenty degrees Fahrenheit, we could survive for no more than two hours.

A shiver coursed through me as I contemplated,
"Damn, this is the end. I've never landed on water before. What will happen if I misjudge the distance from the plane to the sea surface before landing? A foolish question. What will happen? What will happen? Any pilot will tell you what will happen. We'll skim without engine power eight to ten meters above the water, and then, losing speed, we'll crash onto the water. Despite its apparent softness and fluidity, it'll be harder than concrete for us. The fuselage will crack along riveted seams, the wings and tail surfaces will break off immediately, the crew's spines will crunch nauseatingly from the vertical overload, snapping the spinal cord in several places. And we'll swiftly sink, conscious and with paralyzed limbs."

The picture that emerged wasn't enviable. Fear gripped my heart. My shoulders twitched involuntarily, and nausea rose in my throat. I looked at the co-pilot on the right. The Lieutenant gripped the control yoke so tightly that his fingernails turned as white as chalk. His pale face was covered in large drops of sweat.

"Look at that, a paradox. Not a drop of blood on his face, yet he's as wet as if he just stepped out of a steam bath. I wonder, do I look the same or even worse?"

This thought pushed my own concerns out of my head.

I grabbed the control yoke, gently swayed it left and right, and in complete silence, with a calm voice, I said to my assistant,
"Release it."

He placed his hands on his knees and closed his eyes.
 
"Bidding farewell to life," I managed to think, trying to find a landing spot relatively free of ice.


Just before the water's surface, I pulled the control yoke towards myself. The plane slowed its descent, the fuselage kissed the water, and, clearing separate floating pieces of ice with the glass nose of the navigator's cabin, it glided on the surface of the Pacific Ocean.

The water landing was successful. Miraculously, my rocket carrier remained intact, and at least two navigators, the co-pilot, and I were alive. The fate of the gunner and radioman was unknown to me. Now, the most important thing was to leave the plane as quickly as possible.

As I focused on the landing, the navigator, bombardier, and co-pilot left their stations, gathering beside my seat, poised to operate the emergency hatch above us. With a brief struggle, they managed to release it, allowing me to crawl out first. I sprinted back along the top of the fuselage toward the mid-station hatch, which had automatically blown open upon impact with the water. Reaching for the silk lanyard, buoyed by a compressed air balloon and connected to the orange-shrouded inflatable emergency raft floating near the open hatch, I retrieved my knife from my flight jacket. I severed the balloon, securing the remaining lanyard around my hand. Stumbling and slipping, I dragged the raft behind me to the aircraft's nose.

At this point, the three crew members were standing on the fuselage, ready to descend onto the port wing, now partially submerged with small ripples and a veneer of ice coating the super-cooled metal.

Just as my mind registered the hazard posed by the icy aluminum, and a split second before my voice caught up, my co-pilot leaped onto the wing. His legs lost traction, throwing him off balance. He tumbled onto his back, skidding down the wing. His arms flailed wildly, attempting to grasp onto anything, everything. In a despairing cry, choked and cut off, he vanished beneath the water's surface.

His fur parka, insulated coveralls, and high leather boots lined with dog fur turned into an enormous sponge, absorbing water and leaving him no chance to stay afloat, not even for a moment.

Horrified by the scene before us, we stood frozen beside the open upper hatch of the cockpit—until the metallic thuds against glass jolted us back to reality.

The gunner and the radio operator, situated at the tail of the pressurized hull, were pounding their pistol handles against the plexiglass of the rear hatch.

The muffled echoes of their desperate attempts reverberated eerily along the entire length of the fuselage. The tail section hatch, designed to open downward under normal circumstances, was now submerged under at least three feet of icy water, and the opposing pressure rendered any attempt to open it futile. This left the two NCOs trapped in the sealed compartment. With inadequate advance notice of an imminent emergency water landing, they had remained within the compartment—now, completely unable to be reached from the outside or to escape from within.

In an emergency situation, they were supposed to parachute out, but they couldn't do it without my command, and after the internal radio communication failed, I couldn't issue such an order anymore.

Haunted by the gruesome fate of the copilot and now confronted with the dire cold reality of the two in the aft, the navigator, the bombardier, and I aided each other in a cautious descent onto the wing.

Then, we carefully maneuvered the raft closer to the aircraft, and I instructed the bombardier to take the leap first. The Lieutenant, new to the service for only a month, shot me a resigned glance, yet trusting my expertise, he leaped. The slippery wing didn't provide much traction for a running start, causing him to narrowly miss his landing. His right leg smacked against the resilient rubber wall of the raft, propelling him over the water's surface. He plunged in, submerged by a wave—but against all odds, he managed to clutch the thin safety line encircling the raft. Within seconds, he resurfaced, and as he emerged, the navigator dropped to his knees and gripped his young colleague's flight jacket collar, preventing him from going under again. I tugged the raft's cord taut to the wing's trailing edge, and together we aided the Lieutenant in scrambling onto the flap and then tumbling into the raft.

While we grappled to rescue the bombardier, the aircraft was gradually sinking into the ocean. The wavelets over the wing evolved into full waves. Icy water licked at the tops of our boots. As the navigator and I clambered into the inflatable shelter after the drenched bombardier, we began to row with ferocity, striving to put as much distance as possible between us and the plane.

The raft floated past the tail compartment, and to my dismay, I witnessed the gunner and the radio operator—bearing an uncanny resemblance to wild animals—firing their .35 caliber pistols at the glass.
Amidst the deafening noise and panic, it momentarily felt as though they were aiming at us. Aghast, I shifted my gaze away, intensifying my rowing effort.

Not yet distanced significantly from the scene, I turned to the navigator and said, I turned to the navigator and said, "They must understand that the glass of their compartment is impervious even to the impact of the six-barrel Gatling-style rotary cannon Vulcan. They'd do better to save a bullet or two to end their own suffering; otherwise, they'll meet a dreadful death from suffocation."

"Very true, Commander, but I'm afraid their fate, much like the copilot's, will weigh on your conscience," he responded, his eyes glistening with tears.

"Row harder, damn it. The plane could descend beneath the waves any moment now. Our raft could easily be caught in the whirlpool. Let's put as much distance between us and this spot as possible. We can discuss my conscience later," I replied, and after a brief pause, I added, "If we manage to survive.”

The bombardier remained silent, curled in a fetal position and trembling. About a hundred feet away, the aircraft began to tilt its nose higher and higher until it reached almost a vertical position, then abruptly plunged beneath the water. Enormous air bubbles surged from the forward hatch, creating a powerful geyser—a final tribute to a once-proud plane. I managed to seal the rubber door of the raft just in time. We were lifted upward and then tossed downward. The sea, having claimed three victims out of our six-person crew, settled back into its calm state.

Now, we had to conserve our strength and wait.

Our destiny rested in the hands of the long-range radar operator. I was confident that he was monitoring our movements and would swiftly report the disappearance of our aircraft from the radar screen. I envisioned that, following his report, the entire fleet's resources would be deployed to search for us, and they would unquestionably locate us. As I shared this belief with the navigators, the bombardier muttered with a desperate edge, "The hell they'll find us."

His older colleague, marked by bitterness in his voice, quietly countered,
"They will undoubtedly find us, but the question is, when?




Chapter 4

We had no inkling then that the long-distance radar operator, Sergeant Konstantin Yelizarov, a twenty-year-old village boy couldn't care less about airplanes, ships, or military service in general. He sent his partner, the first year serviceman to lunch in the sailors' mess hall.

"Bring my lunch here. Make sure it doesn't get cold, or you'll end up back in the galley again. Got it, rookie?" he sternly asked the first-year sailor.

"Got it," the latter replied reluctantly.

"Not 'got it,' but 'affirmative, Junior Sergeant.' Say it again."

"Affirmative, Junior Sergeant," the sailor muttered reluctantly.

"And one more thing," Kosnstantin, softening his tone, said to his subordinate, "Don't rush back too quickly. Take your time on the way back."

Alone at his battle station, he promptly rang up the garrison telephone office to speak with one of the operators.

"Svetlana," Yelizarov addressed, "get over here quick—I'll be alone for the next forty minutes or so."


Three years earlier, Svetlana Mukhina had been stationed in Vladivostok. Her father held the position of the communications battalion commander, serving at the Pacific Fleet headquarters. After completing high school, she adamantly rejected any idea of continuing her education. No matter how persistently her parents tried to convince her to pursue admission to one of the Vladivostok universities, she remained steadfast in her decision. Svetlana's father had no trouble arranging a position for her within the communications office under his oversight.

Around a year later, during the regular morning battalion assembly, the commander introduced the twenty-two-year-old Lieutenant Victor Fedorov to his entire personal staff. Victor had arrived at military sector 357 to continue his military service. The dashing young officer took on the role of communications office commander.

Beyond his excellent professional qualifications, the new Lieutenant possessed a sharp mind and was a captivating storyteller. Before long, nearly all the female telephone operators under his command had fallen for him. Svetlana was no exception. It took less than a month for Victor to become a frequent guest in Lieutenant-Colonel Mukhin's household.

The relationship between the young lovers progressed swiftly. The Lieutenant's ego was gratified by the fact that the commander's daughter spent every lunch break in his office, lie with him for intimacy on his leather couch or sit face to face on his lap next to his desk.

Svetlana was already dreaming of marriage and a life full of happiness. Their future seemed unshakeable. But in a single instant, her hopes were shattered.

At a routine family dinner, Svetlana sat at the table with her younger sister, parents, and Victor. The handsome Lieutenant raised his wine glass and proposed marriage. Yet, it wasn't Svetlana he was proposing to, as she had anticipated—it was her younger sister.

Oksana burst into exuberant applause, enveloped her fianc; in a tight embrace, planted a kiss on his cheek, and wholeheartedly embraced his proposal.

Svetlana's eyes shimmered with tears.

"What's going on?" her father inquired, a smile playing on his lips.

"It's tears of joy for my sister," Svetlana explained, wiping away the salty drops.

Her parents exchanged surprised glances, the room momentarily filled with silence. They had no inkling that Svetlana's relationship with Victor had advanced to such a point. Yet, they had assumed that the Lieutenant's visits were intended to connect with their older daughter.


The Lieutenant wasn't just intelligent; he was also shrewd. When the chief of staff of the communications battalion initially introduced his team to Fedorov, the Lieutenant didn't single out Svetlana from the rest of the women. However, once he learned that the cheerful, plump telephone operator was the daughter of his immediate superior, his attitude towards her underwent a sudden shift.

Soon, Victor started to rue his haste. It turned out that Svetlana was rather unpredictable and largely resistant to being controlled. Her desires consistently exceeded necessities, and sometimes she even went so far as to believe that the Lieutenant was late for battalion formation simply because he hadn't kissed her enough.

In a bid to avoid causing a scene, he had to acquiesce to her whims; he couldn't sever their connection. Stopping their rendezvous would effectively mean waving goodbye to any chance of career promotion. He found himself trapped with seemingly no way out. He feverishly searched for a solution to his dilemma and stumbled upon it during his first visit to Svetlana's home.

On that occasion, the family was gathered to celebrate Oksana's eighteenth birthday. Victor danced with her throughout the night, yet neither the parents, who were seated at the festive table, nor Svetlana, who had consumed a few glasses of wine, took much notice of the ‘innocent interaction of the young officer’.


Every evening from that day onwards, Svetlana's younger sister rendezvoused with him under the pretext of going to the movies or attending a dance with her friends. Fedorov urged her to keep these encounters hidden, explaining that he didn't want to become a subject of workplace gossip. In truth, he feared that Svetlana might discover their meetings before her sister was prepared to marry him.

It grew increasingly perilous for Victor to meet Oksana clandestinely. He worried his coworkers might chance upon him in the park or one of the cozy city caf;s. Worse yet, his young paramour might someday decide to boast to her sister about her remarkable lover. That scenario could hardly avoid scandal. Victor counted down the days, knowing that at any moment, the girl could come to him, news from the doctor in tow. Her pregnancy would be his ace in the hole.

Finally, Oksana, her face pale with anxiety and fearing an unfavorable reaction from her suitor, shared the long-anticipated news. Victor didn't have to feign happiness; he promptly proposed a legal marriage and planned to ask her parents' blessing that very evening. The engagement was formalized.

The following morning, a storm erupted in the communications office. Anything that could be picked up and hurled became ammunition aimed at the Lieutenant. He fended off the onslaught with his hands, entreating Svetlana to calm down. Once she initial waves of anger subsided, she descended into hysteria. Victor approached her, taking a seat beside her on the couch, and worked to soothe her. He implored her to understand and forgive him. Then, placing a hand on her breast, he began to shower kisses on her neck. As he reassured her that his marriage to Oksana wouldn't hinder their ongoing rendezvous, she responded by kissing him fervently and passionately.

Female colleagues of various ages who worked as telephone operators positioned themselves by the door, leaning in to catch every word of the conversation they were surreptitiously eavesdropping on. Upon hearing the scraping sound of the old office sofa and the audible expressions of Svetlana's pleasure, they exchanged disapproving glances and then dispersed to resume their duties.

Svetlana’s best friend Victoria expressed their common opinion, “Svetlana has lost the last of her pride.”

The Lieutenant was telling the truth when he swore to maintain his special relationship with his girlfriend.  He really didn’t change his habits.  He spent each night with his composed and slender wife, and during the daytime, he rendezvoused with her passionate elder sister. 


Predicting the duration and eventual outcome of this situation would have been a challenge. However, the intervention of Colonel Medvedev, the Head of the Pacific Fleet's counter-intelligence service, played a decisive role. He called for Lieutenant-Colonel Mukhin to meet him in his office. Given their decade-long familiarity, he wasted no time in expressing his concerns,
"Good morning, Nikolai," the counterintelligence officer greeted Mukhin, extending his hand.

"It's not so good if it starts with a meeting in your office," Mukhin replied, his tone hinting at a sense of concern.

"It doesn’t matter where it starts, it’s important that it doesn’t end up in the pre-trial detention center of the KGB prison," Medvedev replied with a smile.

"But is my situation really that dire?" Mukhin feigned worry on his face.

“Not catastrophically, but still,” Medvedev replied pointedly.

Nikolai Mukhin had known Medvedev for over a decade, and he understood that if it were an urgent matter, their conversation would have had a different tone. They would be discussing something like an enemy infiltrator caught within the communications battalion or a suspicious encounter between one of his signalmen and a foreign tourist. In those cases, Medvedev's demeanor wouldn't be so congenial; there would be strong words exchanged. But this "morning call" did not bode well for Mukhin. He was well aware of this, so he waited for the real purpose of their conversation to unfold.

"What's new in the battalion?" Medvedev inquired.

"Nothing noteworthy," Mukhin replied.

"And how about in the family?"

"That's where the trouble lies," Mukhin thought to himself. There was no point in trying to feign ignorance. Medvedev wouldn't casually ask about his family without a reason.

"It's worse in the family than in the battalion," Mukhin admitted.

"Is that so?" Medvedev acted surprised, though it was clear he knew more.

"Unfortunately, yes. My son-in-law is involved with both my daughters and doesn't seem to care. The younger one is naive and oblivious, but the older one used to be unruly, and now it's even worse. She responds to my concerns with a hiss, like a snake."

Medvedev's face turned serious. He spoke each word deliberately, without a trace of a smile.

"How long is this debauchery going to continue in the battalion you have been entrusted with?  How long can you tolerate Lieutenant Fedorov cohabiting with both your daughters? Of course, I understand him. Both of them are young and attractive. However, firstly, transforming the communications department into a bordello is not acceptable. Secondly, as a Fleet communication officer, he holds the highest level of clearance for classified information. Such behavior renders him highly susceptible to foreign intelligence activities. He stands as a prime candidate for blackmail or falling victim to honey traps, or even both. So you’d better bring your relatives to heel."

Mukhin noticed the shift in tone. "He's become icier," he thought. "Is he assessing my abilities as a commander in this situation?"


Mukhin remained silent. Medvedev's point struck home. After all, Mukhin was not just a battalion commander; he was a father who deeply cared for his daughters. He could have put an end to this unconventional relationship long ago, but that would have meant hurting one of them.

Noting the pause, Medvedev misinterpreted it as resistance and concluded the meeting with a warning: "If you don't resolve this issue within two weeks, then I will take care of it. In that case, you'll retire to your country house and tend to cucumbers." With a nod toward the window, Colonel Medvedev ended the conversation.

“Yes, comrade Colonel, you're absolutely correct, if he continues an intimate relationship with Svetlana, it could indeed provide grounds for blackmail. However, I'm not familiar with the term 'honey trap.'"

"Honey trap involves placing a woman in the path of the targeted individual, with the aim of creating a pretext for blackmail," the chief counterintelligence officer of the fleet answered. "In our scenario, there's no need for such manipulation. He has already entangled himself in more than he should have.”

With a nod toward the door, Colonel Medvedev ended the conversation. 

Mukhin promptly sought out his immediate superior.

Colonel Razumov, the head of Communications service for the Pacific Fleet, was engrossed in a game of chess with his assistant. Nikolai approached him and requested the reassignment of Svetlana to a distant garrison, replacing her with his younger daughter.

"Not a bad idea," Razumov commented on the proposal.

He picked up a knight from the chessboard, studied it pensively, and remarked, "If a knight can't find tranquility among two pawns, then we'll advance one of them two squares forward. Will Yelizovo Airbase on the Kamchatka Peninsula be suitable for your elder daughter?"

"Absolutely," Mukhin replied.

"Tell Svetlana to submit an application tomorrow for a transfer to the Yelizovo garrison. I'll gladly approve it," Razumov instructed.

The Colonel had long been aware of Fedorov’s audacious behavior. Yet, Aleksei Razumov hesitated to involve himself in this delicate matter, given his frequent interactions with the young telephone operators. Interestingly, Victoria Toropova, the favored "pet" of the head of the communications service, was the same individual who had openly criticized her friend Svetlana’s conduct.


A week later, Svetlana embarked on a journey to her new workplace aboard a transport plane. She was the sole passenger on this flight. Consumed by anger toward the entire world – her parents, her younger sister, and even her former beloved – she stared out of the window at the expanse below the wing. The view featured an endless stretch of dense, forested land, with evergreen trees covering the landscape. Tears welled up, falling onto her black military jacket, and two streaks of mascara traced down her cheeks.

An officer emerged from the cockpit into the passenger cabin. Observing the girl's pale, tear-streaked face, he inquired, "What's the matter, sweetheart? Has someone hurt you, or is it just motion sickness?"

"The flight's fine, Commander. It's just that I'm feeling rather sad right now…"

Foreseeing an engaging conversation, the political affairs deputy of the transport aircraft wing commander, who was flying as a navigator on this crew, settled down beside her.

"Tell me what's bothering you, and it might lighten the load," he offered, placing his warm palm on her hand in a fatherly manner.

"I'm not really in the mood to talk about it," the girl replied.

"Did you have a falling out with your boyfriend?" the political officer inquired, displaying professional curiosity regarding affairs of the heart.

"Something along those lines," Svetlana responded, attempting to dismiss the topic.

"Perhaps you'd like a drink? It might help you feel better… We have beer, vodka, and grain alcohol," he proposed.

"If you're willing to join me and find something to accompany it, I wouldn't mind a bit of vodka."

The political deputy entered the cockpit quietly and returned a few minutes later with his briefcase. After locking the door behind him, he explained, "I'm the navigator for this flight, and I'd rather not have the pilot catch me drinking on duty."

"But wouldn't that be risky for us?" she asked.

"Firstly, we still have three more hours in the air; secondly, I won't be overindulging; and thirdly, feel free to address me by my first name."

Pouring two glasses, he introduced himself, saying, "I'm Leonid."

"My name's Svetlana," she responded, raising her glass. "Cheers."

They drank, enjoyed a snack, and then he refilled her glass.

"And what about you?" she asked, feeling a bit light-headed.

"I'll have a beer. I can't afford more than one shot of vodka during the flight," he explained, picking up a plastic fork from a tin of smoked sardines. He continued to chew, raising his glass as he spoke.

"To a safe landing," the Lieutenant-Colonel proposed a toast.

Svetlana initially intended to drink only half, but the political officer playfully lifted the bottom of her glass with his finger and advised, "A toast like that calls for 'bottoms up,' dear.”

After two glasses of vodka, Svetlana, who hadn't eaten since morning, found herself thoroughly intoxicated. She burst into laughter at every jest the Lieutenant-Colonel made, and he appeared increasingly youthful. As he kissed her on the lips, her head began to swim. She offered no resistance when the forty-three-year-old Leonid Skvortsov began to explore beneath her skirt. Emboldened by the pleasurable sensations and the girl's compliance, he proceeded to undress her. Eventually, he laid her across the passenger seats and positioned himself on top.

The sensation of the familiar never left Svetlana the entire time Skvortsov was fussing over her. The same abruptness in his words, the same haste, the same movements restricted by clothing, and absolutely no tenderness. The sole difference resided in the location where men positioned her on each occasion. On the old office sofa, over the airplane seats, or sitting on the kitchen table in her parents' apartment while her younger sister took a morning shower.

"No," Svetlana thought, putting on her panties and adjusting her slightly askew bra. "This has to end someday."

She cast a disdainful look at the Deputy Air Regiment commander in political affairs who was fastening his pants. The officer was smugly smiling and humming his favorite song, 'The March of the Communist Brigades':

"People will have happiness,
Happiness forever;
The Soviet Power
Has great strength."

"The power of the Soviet government might indeed have 'great strength', but your strength, my friend, not so great. One might even say the opposite, very much weak."

Not fully sober yet, she smiled at her own thought and wanted to share it aloud with the Senior officer.

But she didn't get the chance. Leonid put the empty bottle and two glasses into his briefcase and without saying goodbye, headed to the pilots' cabin.


For several months, Sergeant Yelizarov and Svetlana had seized every possible chance to be together. As soon as the door closed behind her, Konstantin initiated a series of tender kisses, guiding her towards his desk.

The fervent desire of the two young lovers to intertwine their arms and legs coincided with the very moment when my aircraft, descending with engines powered off, vanished from the radar about two hundred miles away from my home base. As this occurred, the minuscule glowing point on the green screen dimmed and eventually faded into oblivion.

Meanwhile, Svetlana was perched on the desk, her skirt pulled up to her chest, her back resting against the radar screen.

Konstantin, the operator, was pouring forth professions of love and promises of a radiant future together. However, Svetlana remained skeptical. Being five years older than Yelizarov, she had lost count of how many times she had heard such words from other young sailors who vowed to whisk her away to their hometown after completing military service.

In this moment, she felt unburdened. In the radar station's environment, with the massive aerial rotating above, an abundance of equipment in operation, and no other soul for kilometers, there was no need to restrain her emotions.

No longer did she have to worry about being overheard by neighbors. No need to conceal her lover beneath the bed to escape the gaze of the garrison superintendent. She cried out, liberated to express herself as she couldn't anywhere else.

The Sergeant grew weary. Balancing while standing, supporting Svetlana's plump legs in his grasp, he took a seat on a chair. However, Svetlana didn't let him rest; she positioned herself on his lap. Nestling her body against his, Konstantin kissed her neck. But then, his gaze slid over the radar screen, and he froze. Sensing the sudden shift in his demeanor, Svetlana leaned back slightly, met his gaze intently, and inquired sternly,
"What's the matter, Konstantin? Why did your 'friend' suddenly become so soft? Have I done something you don't like?"

"Where is he?" Yelizarov asked in almost a whisper.

"Who is he?" the young woman asked in surprise.

“The crew with callsign 716."

"Where was he?" getting up from his lap, Svetlana asked.

"When you came in he was right here," Konstantin replied, pointing at the radar screen, and, looking at his wristwatch, added,
"Right now he should be at least one hundred miles closer, but he's nowhere to be seen."

The telephone operator, who had served more than five years in the Fleet's communication battalion, immediately understood how serious the situation was. Buttoning up her uniform blouse and straightening her skirt, she said,
"Report the disappearance of the target immediately to the flight director," after which she almost tumbled down the iron staircase which led into the station and ran between the aircraft parking places in the direction of the communications office.

As soon as the door closed behind Svetlana, the Sergeant's hand trembled as he lifted the receiver of his direct line to the flight director. With urgency, he reported,
"Comrade Lieutenant-Colonel, this is Sergeant Yelizarov, the operator of the long-range radar station. Mark 716 vanished from the radar screen ten seconds ago."

He then added from memory,
"At a distance of two hundred miles and azimuth 105 degrees."

This was the exact spot where he had last spotted our aircraft just ten minutes earlier. Following that, he had firmly guided Svetlana to his desk, leaving no room for further attention to our plane.




Chapter 5

Securing all the rubber door's buttons, I stretched out on the raft's floor. The inflated bottom shielded us from direct contact with the frigid ocean waters. Unfortunately, we lacked a source of heat, just as we had neither vodka nor grain alcohol to rub down the completely drenched bombardier. His responses to our questions had dwindled over the last few hours. We attempted to rub warmth back into him with our bare hands, but our energy quickly waned. Drained both physically and mentally, we surrendered to sleep. When we roused from our unconsciousness the next morning, we discovered that the young Lieutenant had perished.

The navigator's grief exploded upon the cold body as he began to wail. The bombardier had been akin to a younger brother to him. Countless hours were shared between them, during which the seasoned navigator imparted the intricacies of bomb hatch operation, bomb release angle calculations, wind and altitude adjustments — all the nuances of the bombardier's craft. Interrupting his lament over his friend's body, he abruptly raised his head, fixing me with a malevolent gaze. He seemed on the verge of speaking, yet a cough, deep from within his lungs, choked his words.

A fever raged in the navigator's eyes deliriously. It dawned on me that he was burning up. The previous day, while rescuing his comrade, he had exerted himself far more than I, and had ended up partially soaked.

My own condition didn't worry me much. The provisions on hand ought to last us for ten days, especially considering that we were not the six individuals the supply planning had expected, but just two. The sorry state of my companion, however, indicated that we might be two for no more than a couple of days.

By that time, we should be located. Based on my calculations, we were merely a hundred miles away from the peninsula. I even knew the direction in which Kamchatka's shore lay. Yet, this knowledge wouldn't provide much benefit.

The navigator positioned himself on the rubber floor, his back against the raft's side.

He shot me a menacing look.

It abruptly occurred to me that each of us possessed a pistol and eight bullets in the left pocket of our coveralls.

This realization did not particularly contribute to my native optimism. Hoping to prevent any aggressive moves by the navigator, I unzipped my jacket and reached for my pistol with my right hand.

The navigator’s eyes widened. His pupils began to move and by the expression on his face, I understood that he was beginning to realize the nature of the situation.

Not wanting to provoke him to some unconsidered act, I slowed my movement. Smoothly grabbing the handle of the pistol, I gently removed it from my pocket. Without taking my eyes from the navigator for a single instant, I aimed the barrel of the pistol upward and inserted a bronze-coated piece of lead into the cartridge.

The navigator's lips curled into a sardonic smile.

"You're afraid of me, Commander?" he asked, his posture unwavering.

"No," I replied, "I'm more concerned about polar bears prowling the ice floes in search of seals. If one of those bears decides to tear through the rubber raft, our fate would be far more grisly than that poor bombardier's."

"But it would be simpler than the fate of the radio operator and the gunner. Tell me honestly, Commander, have you already forgotten about them?"

"Just the opposite. I recalled how they shot at the glass of their cabin, and it occurred to me that we also have firearms. In case of an emergency, we could use them too," I answered.

He fell silent for several minutes before saying, "But you lied about the bears, Commander. The chances of encountering them are so slim that you wouldn't flinch until you heard some stranger's breathing in this eerie silence." He let out a heavy sigh and continued after a pause,

"We both know I'll be the first to go. And you, my commander, are concerned that I might shoot you before I die, to avenge the deaths of those good men. And you're right to be concerned. I didn't think of it before, but now I see it's not a bad idea. So here's a proposition: shoot me now. Don't wait. Toss my body into the sea. You can tell the investigators that I perished alongside the co-pilot. There won't be any witnesses of your supposed negligence left alive. After all, our young bombardier won't be able to tell anyone anything."

Well, if he wants to talk openly, I thought, I might as well share my view

"You're right. It's not the bears I'm truly worried about—the gun is just a precaution in case you get any ideas. Have you ever considered why, in the late 1960s, political relations between the Soviet Union and China came close to the brink of crisis?"

He didn't respond, so I continued my monologue, almost as if I was speaking to myself,

"During that time, Mao Zedong was on the decline but still in control. Our government had valid concerns that a dying Mao might precipitate a nuclear war, dragging millions from both nations into the abyss. Dying men are unpredictable. That's why my pistol is cocked, resting in the unzipped pocket of my jacket. Though the safety is on, I could draw it faster than you. You can say and think whatever you like about me, but it would be wise for you to keep your hands off your own pistol.”

"Then kill me. I've already suggested that," he said, a contemptuous smile on his face.

And there I was, thinking he hadn't been paying attention to my words.

"That won't work," I replied curtly.

"Why?" he retorted.

"Because accidentally shutting off the jet engines is one thing, but cold-blooded murder is a whole different level."

"But if I survive, I'll spill everything to the investigators. You'll stand trial and end up in jail for sure."

"I have no doubt, but I'll find a way to live with the guilt of the mistake that's already cost four lives," I emphasized the word 'four,' "whereas I could never forgive myself for intentionally taking a single life."

I pulled out the survival kit and began a detailed inspection of its contents.

The compass was put aside as momentarily useless. I picked up the signal mirror and the signal gun, opening the rubber door wider, and gazed at the sky. Heavy clouds stretched from one horizon to the other, the cloud base barely two hundred feet above.

Even if I hear the sound of a passing plane, I thought, neither the signal mirror nor the signal gun will be of much help. The signal rocket fired into the gray cumulo-stratus clouds will be visible for a mere couple hundred feet, and the mirror without the sun is nothing more than a tool to evaluate the growth of my beard.

Returning to my spot, I continued my examination of the survival kit. I took out the fishing kit with hooks, bobbers, lures, and weights, wondering: Who on earth thought this would be useful? I wasn't much of an angler, and it's quite possible that my thoughts were off-base, but then I imagined catching fish on the raft would require live bait. A worm, a fly, a piece of raw fish or meat. And to use a lure, I'd need a fishing pole. After all, a lure needs to move under the water, mimicking a small fish in motion, not just hanging vertically. I pushed all of this aside as useless for our situation and continued my inspection. Next was the knife. Why include a knife here? No crew member boards an aircraft without a personal knife. The medical kit with pills and bandages—I tossed it under the navigator's feet without opening it and said,
"Navigator, see if you can find some antibiotics for yourself. Maybe it'll bring your temperature down, even if temporarily.”

“That’s no use,” he answered.

It seemed as if all the recent tension in our relationship had evaporated. I shifted the survival kit to one side and crawled on my knees to his section of the raft. I opened the box of tablets and poured half a dozen antibiotics into his mouth.

“Swallow them,” I ordered.

He shook his head. I returned to my corner, scooped up some seawater with the aluminum lid from the fishing gear, threw in two purification tablets, mixed them with my index finger, and went back to the navigator.

“Drink this,” I offered.

He took a couple of swallows and questioned me,

“Why are you doing this? Do you really think there's a chance for a rescue team to find us, let alone find us alive?”

“Today, I'm not certain of either, but there's nothing else to be done. Why not fight a bit for your life? For now, let's hold on. Just look, in the time I’ve been talking to you and investigating the survival kit, the day has already turned to night. I'll check out our food supply, and after supper, we can rest.”

I opened two cans of hash that looked more like dog food than human sustenance, nudging one of them toward the navigator with my foot. Then, tossing him a packet of wafers, I began my own meal.

The next two days brought a storm on the ocean, and we lay on the raft's floor in total darkness. The door was firmly buttoned shut, and the waves tossed us up and down, turning our stomachs inside out. Constant nausea plagued us, but there was no vomiting. Our stomachs had been empty for a while. In that hellish rocking, all we wished for was to lose consciousness and wake up when it was all over. It seemed to be the same for the navigator because, from time to time, his body, much like the deceased bombardier's, rolled over onto me.


By the end of the fourth day, my hope of being rescued was rapidly diminishing. The navigator's fever was escalating, and he began to hallucinate, calling out to his wife and having conversations with his two sons. It became unbearable to listen to. I took some cotton wool from the medical kit, stuffed it into my ears, and lay there, trying to move as little as possible, lost in thought:

What will become of me if I'm actually found?


The rescue operation for my crew started the moment the commander of the rocket carrier squadron, Lieutenant-Colonel Maksimov, who was acting as the flight director that day, ordered all the airborne crews to return to base. After reporting the disappearance of mark 716 from the radar screen to the Fleet aviation commander, he convened the command staffs of all the units and wings stationed at the Yelizovo Airbase.


While waiting for all the invited officers to gather, Maksimov approached the chief of staff. The Major stood, leaning over a map of the southern part of the Bering Sea, drawing circles with a compass. Maksimov looked at the circles, radiating from a hypothetical point in the sea, and quietly asked the chief of staff:

"Do you believe he crashed into the sea?"

The Major removed his glasses and looked the commander straight in the eyes.

"If he landed on the Aleutian Islands with the Americans, you and I will end up in prison. Do you understand that?" Maksimov asked again, not waiting for a response.

The chief of staff wiped the sweat from his bald spot with a handkerchief and finally replied to the commander:

"I don't think he did that. He just got promoted, married well. He's supposed to grow and advance in his career. I don't see any grounds for treason."

"The military counterintelligence will find the grounds quickly. Don't forget, Grigoriev served under Gribov's command for four years. And we didn't kick the Major out of the party for drinking or marital infidelity. Grigoriev could easily absorb the apolitical sentiments of his former commander."

"And what about his wife?" the chief of staff inquired.

"What about his wife?  Recall when Viktor Belenko famously landed the supersonic MiG-25 fighter on the Hokkaido Island in Japan, in 1976. He had a wife and a daughter, and he was promoted to the position of deputy squadron commander. Nothing stopped him."

"If Grigoriev wanted to land on the Aleutians, he would have done so immediately. No need for him to fly almost a thousand kilometers back. He would have shot the crew to avoid interference and landed without any nerves on an enemy airbase."

"Well, I hope you're right. If we find wreckage in the ocean, we'll get reprimands, but if my suspicions are confirmed, we'll have to face the consequences."

While they were talking, the gathered officers had settled around the oval table, quietly discussing the incident. The meeting began with a report from the chief of staff. The Major briefed those present on what was known up to that moment.

Over the course of an hour, a coordinated effort was planned by the naval and air forces of the Kamchatka flotilla. The chief of staff, along with the senior navigators of the squadron, marked out a circular search area with a radius of forty miles from the coordinates provided in Sergeant Yelizarov's report. The outer half of this circle was allocated to the TU-16 squadron, while the nearer half was evenly split between the anti-submarine squadron, operating flying boats Be-12, and the border guard helicopter squadron. Surface ships were dispatched from Petropavlovsk-Kamchatka to aid the aviation forces in the presumed disaster zone.

For seven days, the pilots took turns circling low over the water, utilizing all the daylight hours for the search. Yet, neither they nor the sailors on the frigates found so much as an oil slick on the water's surface, let alone any remnants of the aircraft or the bodies of the lost crew members.

My orange shelter drifted much closer to the shore than anyone had anticipated. Left alone among the ice floes with the two deceased navigators, I was quietly losing my grip on sanity.

At first, I began to sing. I sang every song I knew, one after the other. But when I reached the eleventh verse of "Grenada," with lyrics by Mikhail Svetlov, the gravity of my situation hit me full force. I sang the same lines over and over like a broken record,

The platoon didn’t notice the loss of the man
And sang its last “Apple” song out – but in vain—
For soft through the sky in its traces there ran
On dark sunset’s velvet the tears of the rain.


Tears streamed down my face, akin to the drops of rain in the song.


It felt as if I were sitting in the middle of Captain Likhovtsev's counter-espionage office. On the wall behind him hung a portrait of Felix Dzerzhinsky, the founder of the Extraordinary Commission for the Struggle Against Sabotage and Banditry. Behind me, two investigators from the Military Prosecutors' Office meticulously transcribed my every word.

Captain Likhovtsev led the interrogation, his voice soft, almost affectionate, but like a relentless wind-up toy, he kept repeating the same question,

"Well, what exactly happened during your flight, Grigoriev?"

I recounted the story of the engines failing, but he persisted, asking the same question over and over. I repeated my tale, striving for meticulous precision in every detail. The investigators chimed in with clarifying questions, but I was forbidden to turn around and face them, responding only to Likhovtsev. He stared at me as intensely as Dzerzhinsky's portrait on the wall, his smile calculated and cold. Suddenly, he leaped up, leaned over the desk, and bellowed in my face:

"Don't lie to me, Grigoriev! The engines couldn't have just failed! You must have shut them off! Because you're the enemy!"

I cried, my tears flowing like a child, and mumbled:

"They could have failed on their own. They could have!"

He struck my chin sharply, and I tumbled over, chair and all, onto the floor.



What was that sharp smell? It knocked my head back. Opening my eyes slightly, I saw an officer in a white coat standing above me, the high collar of his uniform peeking out.

Only doctors on naval vessels and submarines adhere to the old tradition of wearing their white coats over their uniforms, I thought joyfully. That meant they had somehow found me, and for the moment, I was still under the care of doctors, not undergoing an investigator's interrogation—although I knew I couldn't escape that fate.

I attempted to raise myself a bit on my elbows.

"Just stay down, Lucky, and don't move," the military doctor said. "At least until you're off the intravenous."

A needle protruded from my left arm, and a comforting warmth spread through my body.

"Is that glucose you're giving me?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered briefly, continuing to jot down notes in his journal.

In that moment, I adored that submarine doctor. It was like the feeling a patient has for the surgeon who, when asked, "Doctor, will I make it through the operation?" instead of a cynical reply like "What's the point?" smiles reassuringly and confidently states, "Absolutely, you'll be just fine."

My regard for him held more warmth than all the drops in the vast Pacific Ocean, a body of water I had grown to loathe.

Only those who have experienced the relief of being spared from a certain death sentence by the Supreme Court of the Soviet Union can truly grasp the depth of my feelings.

“What's the date today?” I inquired, craving human conversation.

"It’s the eighteenth," the doctor replied, sensing my persistence and setting aside his notes.

"I lost two comrades, one just two days ago and the other five days ago," I mentioned, hoping he'd find it significant.”

He remained silent.

Curiosity compelled me to ask, "How was I found?"

The doctor briefly recounted that submarines cover the last fifty nautical miles on the surface during their return to the home base after an underwater mission. Upon surfacing, the duty officer spotted the orange rescue raft. From that moment, the primary concern was whether anyone was still alive on it.

“We've already reported your rescue to headquarters,” he continued, glancing at his watch. “You'll be on shore in about an hour. I believe the hospital ambulance is already waiting for you.”



On the shore, I was greeted by the squadron commander and Captain Likhovtsev.

While I was being transferred from the submariners' stretcher to the ambulance stretcher, I briefly recounted the incident to them. Сounterintelligence officer off to the naval headquarters to report the situation over the phone to his superiors. Left alone with me, Maximov quietly said,

"Valeriy, I don't believe your version of both engines failing simultaneously. But I'll stand up for you."

"Why, comrade Colonel?"

"I don't believe it because in eighty-five percent of aircraft equipment failures, people are to blame, mostly pilots. And I'll defend you because you survived. You didn't shoot yourself, you didn't throw the deceased comrades overboard.

"Thank you for that, Commander," I replied.


Chapter 6

The counter-espionage officer, Captain Likhovtsev, attempted to impose an armed guard on the intensive therapy ward where I was placed. When the head of the hospital, Colonel Ivanchenko, found out about this, he promptly sent the guards away, asserting, "For the time being, I am in charge here, not the KGB officer."

The chief of counter-espionage for the flotilla got involved. He contacted the hospital's head and explained in detail that the witness, Captain Grigoriev, who was undergoing treatment in the therapy department, was of great importance to the investigation. After lengthy negotiations, Ivanchenko reluctantly permitted sailors to be stationed outside my door, but insisted that they remain unarmed and sit at a small desk to avoid drawing attention.

An official investigation into the deaths of the five members of my crew was initiated immediately after I detailed the circumstances under which each of them had perished. Ahead of me lay numerous hours of interrogation, and whether my status would change from witness to accused depended on the success of my defense. The investigator from the military prosecutor's office rightly believed it would be better for the investigation if I were shielded from informants.

I craved information. What did the investigator know, and what was still a mystery to him? That was the main question on my mind. It determined whether they would believe my alibi or catch me in a lie, potentially leading to complications and forcing me to reveal the truth.

Engaging with an armed guard was far more challenging than interacting with a sailor on watch. First Lieutenant Filatov, the ground technician of the lost aircraft, didn't face significant difficulties bypassing them to reach me. He slipped a bottle of vodka to the drowsy sailor stationed at my door, and the sailor pledged to forget that anyone had visited me. My technician found a perfect pretext for the visit: delivering fruit to his commander, who was recuperating from the encounter with the ice floes.

The First Lieutenant, who had grown gray from the ordeal, shared with me that after our disappearance, everyone in the squadron had been interrogated, including the sailors. They meticulously unraveled all the details of the preparations we had undertaken for that fateful flight. The commission was well-informed about the volleyball game and the card games played in the doctor's office. This information proved to be crucial for me, as it clarified the path I needed to take in my defense.

"Thank you, First Lieutenant," I told him.

His seemingly innocuous nighttime visit had saved me from the clutches of prison. Although, on the other hand, perhaps spending the five years in jail I had been promised by the prosecutor of the Kamchatka flotilla might have been preferable to facing the haunting sight of my navigator's blood gushing from his throat just before his death.

I stuck firmly to my story of the engine failure during the transition from the ‘Idle’ to ‘Cruise’ position. In my explanatory notes, I admitted to everything – the card games, the volleyball matches – except for my own inexcusable error.


When the investigators had exhausted their questions, I was dispatched to Vladivostok to await news of my fate. The command was eager to ensure I didn't linger any longer than necessary in the garrison. 

It was done right on time. The psychological atmosphere around me had become unbearably tense. During the symbolic burials of empty coffins, the widows of my comrades, along with their mourning for their deceased husbands, uttered curses aimed at me. It was as if they knew for certain that if I survived the disaster, I must be its main culprit.

Gradually, a void formed around me, replacing the initial popularity of being a hero that surrounded me in the first days after my rescue.

The widows of the fallen, wearing black headscarves as a sign of mourning for their husbands, would say to their children when they saw me on the street,

"Look, my child, there goes the man who killed your father."


Chapter 7

I had to endure more than a month of anticipation for the official results of the investigation. And if it hadn't been for the weight of uncertainty, these days could easily have been mistaken for a well-deserved vacation. During that month, a tribunal was convened for Sergeant Yelizarov and the telephone operator Mukhina. The radar operator received a two-year sentence of service in a punishment battalion. However, Mukhina was declared innocent, as the tribunal found no grounds to accuse her of a crime. She was dismissed from military service for "abandoning her post while on duty with no negative consequences resulting" and was sent back to Vladivostok.

On one of my free days, Svetlana called me and requested to meet with me. I wasn't familiar with her, and at first, I tried to politely decline, claiming how busy I was. But she persisted, explaining that she felt terrible about the people who had perished and wanted to express her sorrow to me at the very least. I made one more attempt to avoid the meeting, mentioning that I had forgiven everyone long ago, but she pleaded with me, and I gave in.

Why not go? I asked myself. My wife was at the university, my father-in-law was at work, my mother-in-law was at the cottage, and I didn't really have anything pressing to do. I figured I'd spend a couple of hours consoling her, wiping away her tears. It wouldn't cost me much. I decided to meet with Mukhina and asked her where she'd like to meet. She mentioned a caf; on the outskirts of town, and I promised to be there in an hour.


On the way, I realized that I had no idea what she looked like. I had forgotten to ask during our telephone conversation, and I had no clue how to recognize her. But my worry was unfounded. She was smarter than I had assumed. She had written her name, "SVETLANA," in large letters on a paper napkin and placed it on the empty vase in the middle of her table. When I shifted my gaze from the napkin to her face, I immediately thought, "She's not just smart, she's attractive." Maybe I shouldn't have been so eager to avoid this meeting. Although, at this point, nothing was lost yet.

I approached her and introduced myself, and after taking a seat at the table, I asked her, "How about some old cognac this early in the morning?"

"That would be fine," she replied.

I signaled the waitress over and ordered a bottle of French cognac 'Larsen' along with a box of chocolates.

"An officer's choice," Svetlana commented on my selection once the waitress had left.

"Do you have a lot of experience with officers?" I asked, trying to keep the tone she had set when our conversation began.

"Yes, I do, and not very pleasant experiences at that," she answered, accommodatingly.

"I hope it will be more pleasant with me than it was with my predecessors."

"While there's life, there's hope," she responded philosophically.

After some initial playful banter, we settled into a peaceful conversation, and our meeting, two individuals connected by a shared tragedy, took place in a surprisingly friendly atmosphere. There was no talk of excuses or tears of pity. After a few sips of cognac, Svetlana shared the entire dramatic story of her first love. The intimate details she omitted out of modesty were easy enough to imagine.

As she spoke, I took in her appearance and couldn't help but think about her sister's husband, Lieutenant Fedorov, enjoying a comfortable life in the midst of two dozen young women at his battalion. It was like letting the fox into the henhouse. If only I had his job, even for just a month. I don't think I'd last much longer than that; exhaustion would get the better of me.

My attention drifted as my eyes traveled from her face to her breasts, two inviting curves nestled beneath the neckline of her dress.

Noticing my gaze and realizing I wasn't fully engaged in the conversation, Svetlana took a more intimate tone and asked, "Valeriy, would you mind continuing our conversation at my place?"


She didn't need to ask twice. I picked up the half-full bottle of cognac from the table and followed her.


Starting the morning with a good quality cognac wasn't such a bad idea. By two o'clock, we were already sharing a shower, exchanging well-deserved compliments. After spending a few more hours in bed with her, and hearing her life story, I left, agreeing to keep in touch and call her.

A week later, I received a summons from the Pacific Fleet Aviation Commander. His demeanor gave me hope that the situation might not be as dire as I feared. The fact that he only inquired about the events after the emergency water landing was a positive sign. He asked me to provide a detailed account of how I managed to survive for nine days on the raft. I described our challenging ordeal, including the thoughts that crossed my mind regarding the survival kit and the valuable lessons I had learned through first-hand experience.

The commander requested a report for headquarters, specifying the value and usage of each item at my disposal on the raft, as well as what I found most essential and what was lacking. I assured him that I would prepare the report within three days. I also mentioned that the most critical item we lacked was waterproof suits, as our clothing constantly got soaked, leading to plummeting body temperatures. As our conversation concluded, the Lieutenant-General posed a significant question:

"Captain Grigoriev, if you were offered the position of Lieutenant-Colonel in charge of the search and rescue service, would you be willing to accept it?"

For a brief moment, a thought crossed my mind: a life confined to staff headquarters from nine to five, potentially withering away in the monotonous corridors of power. Or perhaps something even worse: becoming the scapegoat for the inadequacies in crew training for emergency situations, just like the unfortunate soul who held this position before.

Even the prospect of bypassing the rank of Major and rapidly ascending to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel failed to sway me from my decision to return to my role as a flight pilot.   

Fate had granted me another chance at survival, but I remained stubbornly steadfast. With a sense of pride in my response, I stated,

"Comrade Lieutenant-General, if the alternative to your proposal is any pilot position, I would choose that position."

"Too bad," the commander replied. "In the entire history of our Naval aviation, no one has managed to survive for nine days under such conditions. Your experience could prove invaluable to others, and you, as a living example, would instill confidence in the crews who must fly over the ocean for hours on end. But I understand and respect your choice."

He dialed the aviation fleet chief of staff and inquired, "What do you hear about Grigoriev?"

After listening to the response, he said, "Good." Then he hung up the phone, looked at me with a meaningful smile, and added:

"The order will come from Moscow within the week. I believe you have nothing to worry about."

Leaving the commander’s office, I nearly sprinted to my father-in-law’s office. As I shared the details of our conversation, instead of receiving praise for my firm stance, I was met with harsh criticism,

"You're only thinking about yourself—have you forgotten that you have a wife? It would be better for you to serve under my protection at headquarters and allow Olga to finish her studies. Otherwise, they may reassign you to some less favorable location, like Khorol and then you'll witness what happens to those who refuse to become Lieutenant-Colonels." 

My father-in-law fell silent for a few seconds, as if gathering his thoughts, and then, with a sigh, he asked me, "Were you aware of the reputation Khorol air base has among navy pilots?"

"No, I've never actually met any pilots from that base," I answered honestly.

"They say, 'If the entire USSR Far East is like a big ass, then Khorol airbase is its asshole.'"


However, I wasn't sent quite that far.


As promised by the General, I received a new assignment within a week. I was tasked with assuming the role of the pilot-in-command for the AN-12 aircraft at the aviation transport wing.

The wing was stationed at the Vladivostok International Airport, located in the small mining town of Artem. On my way from the fleet headquarters to my home, I decided to pay a visit to Svetlana and share the news with her. It was a good excuse to celebrate, almost like a mini holiday. Instead of her preferred cognac, which we had enjoyed two weeks earlier, I brought along two bottles of champagne.

"I'm going to be working under the watchful eye of your old friend, Political Officer Skvortsov," I mentioned to Svetlana, gently stroking her back.

She pressed herself against me, savoring the moment. Her head rested on my chest, and with a slight smile, she asked,

"You're not feeling jealous of my past, are you?"

"No, only a bit envious of your future," I replied. "I'll be leaving tomorrow, and by the day after, you might have already forgotten what I look like."

She attempted to move away from me, as if preparing to leave the bed.

"All you men think women are possessions. You have wives waiting at home, but that's not enough for you. You want a faithful mistress as well."

I didn't want to argue, especially not before my departure and recited the poem by an unknown author,

The seeker asked the sage so wise,
"Pray, reveal, with your knowing eyes,
A clear response, I earnestly implore,
What's worth more than a beauty's lore?"
The sage mused deep within his mind,
And gently replied, "Two will be fine."

She laughed, settled comfortably back on me, and in a conciliatory tone said,

"All I can promise you, Valeriy, is a spot beneath my sheets whenever you feel like taking it.”



Chapter 8

The generals and senior officers stationed at headquarters are indeed wise, especially those entrusted with decision-making authority.

Transferring me to a transport wing was a clever way to navigate a challenging situation.

The investigation commission scrutinizing the catastrophe couldn't arrive at a unanimous conclusion regarding the simultaneous engine failure during flight. The engineering representatives were inclined to pin the blame on the aircraft's commander, suspecting a concealed error. However, seasoned pilots collaborating with them asserted that theoretically, anything could transpire. Citing the Prosecutor's decision not to pursue criminal charges due to insufficient evidence, they stood firm in my defense.

The artfully worded reassignment managed to pacify both sides.

Officially, this shift from a rocket carrier pilot to a transport wing was considered a demotion, but for me, it felt like a reward surpassing even a medal or a promotion to Major.

Every pilot harbored a secret longing for such an assignment. Whether you were a fighter pilot, a bomber pilot, or, at worst, a helicopter pilot, deep down, you yearned to be a part of the transport crew.

You might not always admit it, not even to yourself, and certainly not in front of your colleagues. You'd only surreptitiously gaze with envy at the transport crews who'd come for dinner at the pilot's mess, thinking to yourself, "What a mistake I made enrolling in Tambov, Barnaul, Borisoglebsk Pilot College, or any other pilots academy. I didn't know then," you'd rue, "about the Balashov Transport Pilot College existence."

Even if you knew about it, in your youthful naivety, you likely saw the graduates as mere wanderers. You believed a real pilot's life was all about daring maneuvers in a 'dog fight,' cruise missile launches, or the long hours of flying at extremely low altitudes with buoys and torpedoes, searching for enemy submarines. Or, on the other hand, cruising at 45,000 feet above the Earth, holding out a futile hope to intercept the American spy plane SR-71 Blackbird.

In reality, you fly eight hours in one direction and another eight hours back, harnessed by parachute straps, oxygen mask in place, hoping to spot an American aircraft carrier accompanied by its escort. Gradually, after immersing yourself in the challenges of your combat job and comparing it with the work of the transport crews you once disdained, you begin to grasp why those crews resist retirement even if you tried to chase them away with a stick.

Meanwhile, your friends and colleagues start counting down the years until retirement, only three or four years after graduating from military pilot college. They calculate, using the formula "one year of flights is worth two years of service," aiming to secure the maximum pension at the earliest possible age.

Of course, I felt a sense of sorrow for my fallen comrades, but sometimes I couldn't help but think that every adversity comes with its silver lining. In my heart, I expressed gratitude to fate and my father-in-law for granting me the opportunity to fulfill the very position I had always dreamed of.

After undergoing three months of training flights, my crew finally received the long-anticipated transport mission. We were about to traverse the entire expanse of the Soviet Union. If you excluded the planned refueling stops, the flight seemed quite appealing. Our task was to transport military cargo from Vladivostok to Moscow, unload commercial cargo in the Crimea, proceed empty to Leningrad, load seven tons of newsprint from the paper plant for the fleet newspaper "On Guard," and then return to Vladivostok.

The head of the wing staff, who had assigned this mission, hadn't detailed the nature of the commercial cargo. Thus, I was quite surprised on the morning before our departure when I found two fully-loaded five-ton trucks beneath the open cargo ramp, packed with Japanese electronic devices such as televisions, VCRs, and cassette recorders.

Three civilians, the Petty officer, and five ordinary seamen were standing beside the trucks.

The passenger, engrossed in discussions with the Petty officer in charge of the loading crew, appeared to be arguing about money. It seemed to be a matter of principle - should they pay the sailors for handling the commercial cargo or not?

As I approached, I overheard the businessman accompanying the cargo saying,
"You military types have gotten above yourselves. In Vladivostok at fleet headquarters, I only paid three generals; on this airbase here, two officers have got their share, and now you want me to pay you and the sailors, too?”

He turned to his hefty comrades and continued,
“Everyone claims to be concerned about the state's interests, but when it comes down to it, they only take cash, and you can't get a receipt from anyone."

One of the sullen bodyguards silently pointed me out to the speaker.

The young man turned, and guessing that I was the commander, tried to explain the situation. Hearing my suspicions confirmed, I summoned the Petty officer, and ordered him to load the plane, warning him along with that, we would discuss payment after I returned in the wing commander’s office. And then, so that he wouldn’t die of fright waiting for the upcoming execution, I left him some hope by whispering,

"If I don’t forget about this incident during the course of the mission."

The Petty officer went off to carry out my order, and the businessman extended his hand to me and introduced himself.

“My name is Pavel, and these are my subordinates.” He indicated his companions. “They will be going with us to look after the cargo.”

The whole flight to Moscow I thought about my bosses, who had collected a not inconsiderable sum of money to arrange this mission.

People certainly know how to get others to earn money for them, the thought circled about in my head, and I sit here on top of my parachute for seven hours looking at these prehistorical instruments. I am taking this cargo to Simferopol, and they are sitting in their offices playing chess or cards and counting the money they’ve gotten from the businessmen. I wonder how legal this cargo is from the point of view of customs? Maybe it’s contraband?

And I thought that I might be able to earn a bit myself in this regard… I looked at my co-pilot and decided. I only need one helper. And Kovalenko should be quite suitable.

Gesturing for him to take off his headset and stand on the emergency hatch in between the pilots’ seats, I put the assignment to him,

“Sergey, listen to me carefully and don’t ask any questions. I’ll explain everything to you later.”

He nodded his head, and I continued,

"As soon as we land in Moscow at the Air base named after Valery Chkalov, I will go to the dispatcher, and you will go to the passengers and ask them to prepare all the documentation for the cargo we’re carrying. Answer their questions this way: this is the procedure used at this airport. All the planes traveling through Chkalovsky Airport are inspected by a special commission while in transit, and the first thing they check is the legality of the cargo being transported by the Ministry of Defense."

Sergey looked at me questioningly, but remembering that I had forbidden him to ask any questions, he nodded his head as a sign of his complete subordination.


Chkalovsky, a military air base located 30 km northeast of Moscow, unofficially served as the primary aviation base of the Soviet Forces. This base provided crucial air support for Star City, the Yuri Gagarin Cosmonauts Training Center, and other components of the Soviet space program. Additionally, it played a pivotal role as a Major transport hub, with the 8th Special Purpose Aviation Division operating a wide variety of transport planes.

From this base, Yuri Gagarin departed for the Baikonur Space Center, where he embarked on his historic flight around the globe. It was also the site from which the first human in space embarked on his final flight on March 27, 1968.

However, within the pilot community, the base was notable not only for its size and its proximity to the Cosmonauts Training Center but also for an unprecedented level of corruption that existed among Air Force transport crews and their chain of command during the Afghan War.

The thing is, during the intervention in Afghanistan, the Soviet Union lost more than 15,000 soldiers and officers, and the main carriers of the zinc coffins from the combat zones were the crews of the 8th Special Purpose Division. It is not precisely known when these mind-boggling crimes began, but by the middle of the war, rumors began to spread throughout the country that coffins containing the remains of the fallen warriors in Afghanistan were disappearing from the dug graves. Soon, military investigators determined the cause of these peculiar crimes.

In Afghanistan the ordinary members of the sprawling heroin mafia operation separated the heads of the fallen fighters from their bodies, placing them on a cushion in front of a tiny square of plexiglass for identification by their relatives in the Soviet Union. The rest of the space inside the zinc coffins was filled with heroin.

In this manner, the Soviet Union received hundreds of tons of the most dangerous narcotic, delivered by the hands of the elite Air Force transport division's flight crews. As a result of the military prosecutor's investigation, nearly all the commanders of the transport regiment crews, most of the co-pilots responsible for the transported cargo, and several officers from the division's headquarters ended up in prison.

The commission that I informed my co-pilot about indeed existed at this airbase, established to prevent the type of crimes Air Force pilots committed during the Afghan war. That supplemental organization was assisted customs and border police in dealing with the subtleties of Air Force transport operations.

Navy transport flights were exempt from checks because the orders of the air force command did not apply to us.

I learned about this from my squadron commander, who not only taught me to fly the AN-12 but also devoted some time to the finer details of transport procedure. It was now time to find out whether the quantity of vodka I had consumed with him was equal to the volume of knowledge I had obtained from him.

I was walking to my aircraft past the apron of the 70th Test and Training Aviation Regiment, which belonged to the cosmonauts, with a departure permit to Simferopol signed by the controller.

Under the wing of the plane, Pavel was waiting and nervously chewing on his fingernails. Hearing me approach, he turned towards me, took a few steps, and said,

“Well, then, Commander, are we on our way?”

“The cargo will be checked now, and then we’ll go,” I answered.

“Can’t we take off without the cargo check?” he asked in a troubled voice.

“We can,” I said to him. “You can do anything you like for money.”


He unfastened his attach; case, which he hadn't been parted from for the whole flight, and without showing me its contents asked, “How much?”

“A thousand dollars to the head of the commission, and a hundred dollars for each member of the crew to keep quiet about it.

“Here is two thousand,” Pavel proffered the money to me. “Settle the matter for us, please.”

I put the money into the pocket of my coverall and set off for headquarters rapidly. Halfway there I was met by the Major who was headed for the plane on his own business. Knowing that Pavel was looking at my back, I decided to reinforce my words about the upcoming inspection with a little scene played out with this officer.

“Comrade Major,” I addressed him, blocking his path with my body. “Could you tell me where your political officer could be found?” I couldn’t think of anything better on the spur of the moment.

“In the headquarters on the second floor,” he answered, trying to get rid of me.

I had to stop him at any cost. I moved to informal language and made him a business proposition: “Listen, Major, I’ll give you two bottles of vodka if you will take me to the political officer’s door."

“Apparently, you really need to see him,” he said, and turned to lead me there.

On the second floor of the headquarters, I gave the oblivious officer a sum of money, enough to buy ten bottles of vodka, and asked him not to go out again for several minutes.

The bewildered businessman, going out of his mind with anxiety over his contraband, during this time must have formed a complete picture of a particularly dangerous crime - "Bribery of a public official in especially large amounts," committed by me at his request.

My sang-froid never left me. When I was a teenager, my father, seeing how I conducted myself so calmly in the most dangerous of situations, often told his friends,

“He is too stupid to understand how his misadventures might turn out for him.”

I silently disagreed with my father and was proud of the fact that I never showed fear to anyone.

And so I was walking along the same asphalt road that Yuri Gagarin, the first cosmonaut, did when he came here from Star City for his flights, but in my pocket was a sum of money equal to two years' pay, and I wasn't even quickening my pace. Only when I had approached within a hundred feet of the aircraft did I indicate for the passengers to board the plane and signal the flight engineer to prepare for engine start-up.




Chapter 9

The co-pilot, having received permission to taxi and dying of curiosity, asked me on the internal radio,

“Well, how did everything turn out?”

The navigator and flight engineer looked at me curiously. That meant that because Sergey hadn't been able to keep quiet, I'd have to share the dollars with them.

He's still wet behind the ears, I thought. I warned you to keep quiet. Now the whole crew is going to know about the money.

There was nothing I could to do. I announced to everyone:

“After unloading the cargo in the Crimea, each one of you will receive a small bonus.”

In Simferopol, saying farewell to the passengers and their cargo, the crew members began to try to persuade me in a friendly way to spend the night in the blessed Ukrainian land. I thought that it would be better for us to keep as far away from the mafia as possible. I didn’t have the slightest doubt that we had just parted with an organized criminal group.

It was a night flight. The maximum flight duty time remaining for the crew from the first take-off to the last landing was coming to an end. As soon as we reached cruising altitude and turned on the autopilot, I was overcome with fatigue. I settled down more comfortably in my seat and fell asleep to the sound of four turbo-prop engines.


I can't fathom how I ended up in this dimly lit room. Where am I? It's either an empty room or an office. The light filters in through a narrow window near the ceiling. This must be a basement. I try to move, but to my surprise, I can't. I'm seated in a chair, my legs tied to its legs, and my hands bound behind my back with a leather belt.

“You're awake, our little carrier pigeon… Did you take us for idiots? Well, never mind, we're going to squeeze you until our money comes squirting out of your eye-sockets…” said one of the two gangsters standing beside me.

Where have I seen these foolish faces before? I try to remember, but can't. The one I can't see, the partner of the one who spoke, pulls a plastic bag over my head. When he tightens it around my neck, I give a jerk. From the lack of air, my eyes start to bulge, my mouth opens, desperate for even a hint of oxygen. I'm about to die …

… but then someone nudges my shoulder, and I discover to my surprise that my torso had leaned over from the vertical position, and the cord of my headset has gotten tangled around my neck. Looking around, I feel relieved as I see the familiar sight of the pilot's cockpit. The co-pilot is asleep; the navigator is busy jotting something in the flight journal. And the flight engineer who woke me has a sly grin and says,

“You looked like you were dreaming of your mother-in-law.”

“No, the political officer,” I reply, smiling.

However, the smile quickly vanished from my face as I turned to the instrument panel and realized that all the navigation instruments were behaving very strangely. The radio compass indicator was spinning slowly in circles, and the gyroscopic course indicator showed that we were flying east, even though I knew for a fact that Leningrad was located due north of Simferopol. The city's geographical position wouldn't change, regardless of any name changes. Vasiliev, from his navigator's seat, looked at me with a puzzled expression:

“Do you have the same thing?” I asked him, gesturing towards the instruments.

He nodded in response.

“Where are we approximately?” I inquired.

“We are over Velikie Luki.”

“Sergey,” I woke my co-pilot with a fist to the shoulder. “Report to the Pskov radio controller that we've just passed over Velikie Luki.”

He made the report, but I didn't hear the reply. It meant that, in addition to everything else, our radio had given out.

“At least the engines are running,” remarked the flight engineer, perhaps hinting at my past or perhaps genuinely relieved.

Unexpectedly, the clouds directly in our path illuminated brightly. A pillar of light, several hundred feet wide, remained for about thirty seconds before slowly fading away. In a silence reminiscent of a grave, we continued to fly in an unknown direction. A few minutes later, our navigation instruments came back online, and we heard the noise of radio interference in our headsets. Then, the voice of the Pskov-town air controller came through, reprimanding us for not reporting at the mandatory checkpoint. Sergey was on the verge of pressing the reply button when I stopped him, making our excuses to the ground control for our inattentiveness.

“Why are you making excuses for us?” my assistant complained in a hushed tone. “You should just tell it like it was.”

“What should I have said? Should I have told them about the bright light that appeared in front of our noses, or the failure of our navigation and radio? Until we agree among ourselves about what we saw, we'd better not make any report. What do you think, Sergey? What was it?”


“It looked like a rocket launch or a super-powerful flood light,” he answered.

“I agree. That’s what it looked like. But the temporary loss of electromagnetic instruments doesn’t connect with that very well. Let’s put our heads together. The meteorologists didn’t warn us of any storm activity in this sector. That means that it wasn’t lightning. Moreover, there aren’t any magnetic anomalies or space-vehicle launching sites in this zone. It’s unlikely that the air defense command of the country would launch a missile within an air corridor used by civil aviation. I can’t explain this incident by anything other than a possible encounter with an unidentified flying object.”

“Yes, that’s just what you should have told the controller, that we missed our checkpoint report because of an encounter with aliens,” said the flight engineer, trying to conceal a smile.

“And immediately after landing, we’d end up in the loony bin,” I answered.

And to disperse any air of misunderstanding, I explained,

“I’ve never met a pilot who kept their wings after reporting an encounter with a UFO. Anyone bold enough to try it usually faces serious consequences. And if they persist in claiming they’ve seen one, they end up 'in the sack' – sent off to psychiatric hospitals, kept far away from the general population," I explained.

“What sack, like the ones we use for potatoes?” Sergei asked. He was still young and unaware of how psychiatric hospitals in the Soviet Union treated their patients.

“To ensure that the 'madmen' couldn't resist, they're dressed in a tight, sleeveless robe. There are only two openings in it, one for the head and one for the legs. That's why it's referred to as 'the sack,’” the on-board technician explained in a didactic tone.

The navigator, as a sign of his approval, nodded his head and added:

“There were only one or two cosmonauts who talked openly about anything like that. But of course, they are only a little less than gods, their names spelled in capital letters. But we’re just your everyday air haulers.”

“More irony, eh? Just say when you expect us to be landing, hauler,” the radio operator asked the navigator.

“At the Pushkin Aerodrome in the glorious Leningrad region, our dauntless crew will land their mechanical Pegasus successfully in precisely…”—during his lengthy introduction, he performed calculations on his navigator’s slide rule, checking the entries in the flight journal against the instrument readings, and, finally, armed with the exact figures—“in precisely eighteen minutes.”

“Hurrah,” said the co-pilot. "I thought we would be flying the rest of our lives.”

“Yes, it’s turned out to be a long day, but it will end only when we reach the hotel. Cut the chatter and get ready to descend,” I put a stop to their sparring.

Slowing the engine, I listened to the hum of the propellers. It is a lot more pleasant to fly on a plane when you can check the engines visually. You had only to turn slightly to the left, and you could see the propeller through the side window. The rest of my life, I would check to see if the propellers were turning during descent.


Chapter 10

The military hotel in the city of Pushkin, Leningrad region, was located right in the heart of town, occupying the fourth floor of a building constructed in the nineteenth century. As I ascended the steep spiral staircase to the office, I rang the bell, summoning the hotel administrator. While we awaited Her Majesty's appearance, we had the chance to survey the interior of our potential lodging.

It seemed as if the hotel had been renovated for the last time sometime after World War II... or maybe even after World War I... or perhaps after the mid-nineteenth-century Crimean War, when the Russians defended Sevastopol against the British, French, and Turks...

The long corridor, painted a dark blue, was lined with the imposing doors of ten-person rooms. A mild sense of discomfort arose at the sight of the iron bed frames with sagging springs, though the real source of discomfort might have been the odor emanating from the communal toilet at the end of the corridor. Its door hung from a single hinge, rendering it impossible to be completely shut.

All of this gave the hotel a certain air of revolutionary times. The only thing missing to complete the picture was a sailor in a black pea jacket, with a Mauser pistol in a wooden holster, seated beneath a red banner at the entrance.

The portly administrator, encountering my crew past midnight, remarked, "What brought you in at this hour? Let me make it clear right away that you won't be getting individual rooms; you'll have to share with those who are already here."

“We can't share a room with strangers," I protested. "We have all our flight documentation on confidential stationery, and our personal belongings might be of interest to others.”

“Your documentation could be on top secret stationery, and it wouldn't make any difference to me. Leave someone in the room when you go out. The hotel administration accepts no responsibility for the property of its clients," she informed us calmly.

"We plan to spend four days here. What do you think we're going to do—set up an armed guard every day?"

“Young man, do whatever you please. You can leave and find a hotel more to your taste. But here, I am in command, and if you're going to stay, you'll take whatever I provide," she cut off my attempt to fight for our rights.

I had encountered such unfriendly service before, and I knew for certain that further negotiations would not only be useless but even hazardous. The administrator could, at any moment, report us to the military garrison commander of the comfortable city of Pushkin, and my crew would be accused of conduct unbecoming an officer.

"Let's get out of here, guys. Let's try to find better quarters than this while the loaned car is still available," I said to the crew.

Returning to the van, we asked the driver about the chances of finding better accommodations at this time of night.

“There are plenty of hotels in town, but not all of them would be suitable,” he answered.

“We're not looking for the Ritz or Hilton, but we don't want to stay in a place like this military hotel. Take us to some quiet place as far as possible from the city center," I requested.

"Here's another idea," said our nocturnal companion. "About three hundred feet from here, in the former Lyceum of the Tsar's Village, they've opened a new hotel. Before the revolution, the Chinese cooks who worked in the Tsar's kitchen lived in their own little village. It was constructed by order of Emperor Paul the First, right in the park, at the end of the eighteenth century.Not long ago, the administration of the Tsar's Village Museum renovated these little houses as separate cottages for tourists. You won't even have to interact with the administration every day. Each cottage has its own entrance; the only inconvenience is that the cottage doors must be locked after eleven.”

"That's more of an advantage than a disadvantage," I said. "When you have a crew like mine, a few extra control levers come in handy."

My sleepy crew didn't even crack a smile. They simply expressed their willingness to stay anywhere, as long as we could reach the place quickly.



Chapter 11

... I was dreaming that my wife was sitting with Svetlana Mukhina in the bathroom Jacuzzi. They were hugging and fondling each other, and when they saw me, they waved for me to join them. I moved towards them, stripping as I went. I was just about to get into the warm water when… brrnnng! – The sound of the telephone interrupted my wonderful dream. The damned telephone… Who would be calling me on this beautiful Friday morning? My navigator didn’t even attempt to lift the receiver, even though the telephone was on his nightstand. Vasiliev knew that if someone were calling us, he would certainly want to speak to the crew commander.

The person on duty at the paper mill informed me that two rolls of paper, weighing a combined 15,000 pounds for our fleet newspaper were ready and loaded onto the truck. However, the truck driver hadn’t shown up for work because his son was getting married. So it would be impossible to get the cargo to the Pushkin-town airport until Monday.

While I was listening to all this, my mind was occupied with one question: what was I going to do to keep my crew busy for the next three days?

“What should we do for the weekend, Vadim?” I asked my navigator.

“Let’s go to Leningrad. It’s just twenty miles away from here,” he replied.

“And what about the others?” I couldn’t help but think that leaving the guys without supervision might not be the best idea.

“They can find their own fun—they’re not children.” My navigator had known them a lot longer than I had.

“That makes sense. Would you go and ask the crew to come to our room? I have a pleasant surprise for all of you.”

Vasiliev went to wake the guys up, and I retrieved the cash I’d hidden in my socks and counted out a hundred bucks for each of them.

There would have been more, I thought to myself in dissatisfaction, if my co-pilot Kovalenko wasn’t such a chatterbox. His brain seemed to catch up about two minutes after his tongue started to wag. Hiding the remaining fourteen hundred back in the smelly stash, I composed a brief speech about the crew's material interests.

Ten minutes later, the still half-asleep guys were standing around the table in the middle of my hotel room.

"If anyone didn't get enough sleep, I apologize," I said. "You can catch up on rest tomorrow and the day after. I gathered you here early in the morning to share two pieces of news with you."

"One is good and the other is bad?" Kovalenko asked.

"No, Sergey, you didn't guess right. I have good news, and the other is even better. Today, we're not flying anywhere. The flight is postponed until after noon on Monday. We have three days to relax. That's the good news, before I share the very good news, I want to say a few words."

I emphasized the importance of the moment with a brief pause. The crew, not understanding where I was heading, stood in silence.

"I've never asked how you dealt with 'extra' income while flying under Voitsekhovsky's command. That's not my concern. Now that I'm your commander, and since we share the risks equally in flights, I believe the money that comes our way should also be shared equally. But remember that being a member of my crew means not only the privilege of receiving an equal share but also the responsibility to keep everything beyond official matters confidential,"

I looked at them.

"And now, each of you will receive one hundred dollars."

I approached the table, took out seven bills from my pocket, and placed six of them in front of the guys. I kept the last one for myself.

Nikolay Onoprienko picked up the paper bill lying in front of him, glanced through it at the lamp hanging above the table, and put it back down.

"I can't believe my eyes," he said, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

The guys laughed together, took the money, and went to their respective rooms, while the navigator and I headed to the most beautiful city in Russia.


Leningrad, known as Saint Petersburg before World War I, was a city of unparalleled beauty, rivaling the grandeur of Paris or Vienna..

Constructed in the early eighteenth century by Peter the Great, it reigned as the Russian Empire's capital for two centuries. Successive rulers endeavored to emulate the finest European cities. The buildings, bridges, palaces, and museums that comprise the city's heart are nothing short of a historic and cultural treasure.

Vadim and I sauntered along Nevsky Avenue, the bustling main street of the city starting our stroll from the Faberge Museum.

The atmosphere was alive with the sights and sounds of Leningrad. We passed by charming boutiques, cafes, and street performers, each adding its own touch to the vibrant tapestry of the city. As we walked, the grand architecture of historical buildings lined the avenue, reminding us of the rich history that resonated in every corner. The grandeur of the Anichkov Bridge, adorned with its famous horse sculptures, caught our attention, and we couldn't help but marvel at the elegance of the surroundings. Our leisurely stroll took us past the majestic Kazan Cathedral, its impressive facade towering over us, inviting us to step inside. We knew that our destination, Palace Square with the Winter Palace and the Hermitage on it, awaited at the end of this enchanting journey, offering yet another glimpse of the grandeur that Leningrad had to offer.

On the way, we admired the historic buildings and glanced at the storefronts of the modern shops housed within them, like little children enjoying ice cream. Since childhood, the exquisite taste of creamy batter pecan covered in milk chocolate was as magnificent as the city itself. Before buying this delicacy, Vasiliev suggested we stop by a cafe known locally as the ‘Frog Pond,’ just beyond the Griboyedov Canal, and taste ice cream served in small dishes.

I persuaded the navigator to abandon this idea and indulge in the ‘Leningrad’ ice cream on the go. I employed a clever tactical maneuver. I reminded Vasiliev that in Lermontov's "Masquerade," Arbenin poisoned Nina with ice cream from a dish.

"And on a serious note," I added, "I really don't feel like sitting on worn-out greenish sofas amidst students skipping classes on this delightful spring Friday.”

 Crossing the People's Bridge over the Moyka River, we found ourselves on the Kazan Island, within a block or two from Palace Square. There, we noticed an eye-catching advertisement inviting all residents and visitors of Leningrad to explore an exhibition of unconventional artists. With a nominal entrance fee, we embarked on our skeptical exploration of contemporary works. Truth be told, I couldn't spot a modern Rembrandt or Rubens among them. Pausing before some, we exchanged hushed critiques. Much of our commentary could be boiled down to the notion that we, too, could have painted "The Black Square" as competently as Malevich.

While some pieces held daring concepts, many artists seemed to have forgotten about technique. In other cases, technique was evident, but traces of pencil-drawn grids lurked beneath layers of paint. Whether haste or a lack of respect for the audience was to blame, it was hard to say. We didn't want to admit our taste was lacking, continuing our search for a piece to satisfy our role as amateur judges of new art. I was already second-guessing the five rubles spent on the ticket when, at last, I discovered the single work that prompted me to bring my entire crew here a month later.

In a discreet corner, as if intentionally avoiding notice, sat a small wooden panel about ten inches high and fifteen wide.  On a double page torn from a West German magazine, a professional photographer had printed images of sausages, smoked pork, wieners, sprats, roasted chops, poultry, lamb ribs, game bird fillets, all with three bottles of horseradish in the background. The advertisement exclaimed: "You Can Eat Whatever You Like with this Horseradish." In the upper left corner, coated with colorless lacquer, was affixed a ration card for two pounds of sugar, issued by the Leningrad City Executive Committee for March 1985. The profundity of the artist's concept touched the heart of any Russian.

Where was justice?

In Germany, defeated by the Red Army and subsequently ravaged by the Western Allies, horseradish was being promoted alongside a plethora of delicacies, while in a city that had lost two-thirds of its population to starvation, forty years after the victory, sugar was rationed at a mere two pounds per month.

We left the exhibit feeling somber and resolved to bring our crew here on our next flight to Leningrad. I even had money prepared, intending to acquire this conceptual masterpiece.

Yet, very soon I was to experience a mix of deep disappointment and pride in my taste. When, with my crew in tow, I inquired with the exhibit's administrator about seeing the piece titled 'Horseradish,' he spread his hands and informed us it had been sold long ago. Hoping to convey my genuine interest, I inquired further,

"Excuse me, I also wished to buy it. Could you tell me the price it fetched?"

"That's no secret." He opened his journal, found the catalog number, and disclosed, "It was acquired by the Swedish National Gallery of Contemporary Art for forty-five thousand crowns."

I had no clue whether this was expensive or a modest sum, but I understood that forty-five thousand Swedish crowns certainly exceeded the thirty full-weight Soviet rubles I had set aside for the purchase.


Late that evening, Vasiliev and I were returning to Pushkin on the interurban train. My navigator was so tired that he rested his head on my shoulder and fell asleep. I gazed absently at the door leading to the next car. On the platform, a young guy was standing, smiling, and he nodded, waving hand invitingly for me to join him. I glanced around, thinking he might be signaling to someone else, but I didn't see anyone behind me. Adjusting the navigator's head against the window, I was about to get up when the elderly woman sitting next to me asked, "Are you a homosexual, young man?"

I was caught off guard by the unexpected bluntness of the question, leaving me momentarily speechless in response to this curious inquiry from the relic of a bygone era. She seemed to have survived the tumultuous times, the civil war immediately following the October Revolution. I simply shook my head.

"Well, that's what he might think," she continued. "He probably saw how your friend fell asleep on your shoulder and thought you were one of his kind."

"Thanks for the clarification, ma'am. I'm from the provinces, and we don't have much of that there."

"That kind of thing is everywhere," she said, a touch of regret in her voice. "In the provinces, they may keep it hidden, but here in the city, some tend to be more open about it.”


Chapter 12

Saturday kicked off with a hearty brunch. The crew members who had stayed in Pushkin the previous day decided to mark their inaugural outing with the new commander with an all-out celebration. Without a word to me about their plans, they had managed to secure ten bottles of vodka, two bottles of cognac, and twenty beer bottles. The goal was to finish it all off today, and it was no small feat. As a result, we opted not to wait until evening and gathered around the table in the radio operator's hotel room when the clock struck half-past ten. By eight in the evening, I had reached my limit when it came to eating and drinking. I suggested to Vadim that we take a walk in the park to stretch our legs a bit.


As we walked under the arch of the Grand Caprice, Vasilyev suggested that we climb onto it.

"Don't you want to climb to the chapel? It's just over there," I teased him. "I can barely keep you on your feet, and you want to climb around the ruins. Cool your jets, brave navigator."

Navigating poorly in the twilight in an unfamiliar park, I led Vasilyev to the Mirror Pond, although I had planned to end up near the White Tower.

"Where are we?" The navigator muttered as I sat him down on a white-painted bench at the foot of a sculpture of a naked woman.

"I think we're at the Mirror Pond in the Catherine Park. At least that yellowish building, reflecting in the water, really reminds me of the Upper Bath," I looked around trying to understand how we ended up here.

"Where were we heading?"

"To see the White Tower, in the Alexander Park."

"So you're the sailor Zheleznyak then."

"Why would I be Zhelyeznyak?"

"Because he also set out for Odessa and ended up in Kherson. There is a hundred miles between two cities,”  Vasilyev laughed at his own joke.

“Ah, you can't imagine a worse navigator,” I sang in half my voice,
 
“He went to Odessa,
         But came to Kherson –
His detachment was ambushed.
On the left side – an outpost,
With the enemy squad – on the right,
And we only have ten grenades left,”


"Upper Bath, you said. Is there a Lower Bath too?" Vadim asked and hiccupped returning to the topic I mentioned five minutes ago.

"Yes, there is."

"What's the difference?" Vasilyev persisted.

"The difference is that in the Upper one, royalty bathed, and in the Lower one, the courtiers. It was even called the Cavalier's Soaphouse.”

"Cavalry's Soaphouse,”  my tipsy friend chuckled. "So they bathed there with horses."

"I said Cavalier's, not Cavalry's."

At that moment, Vasilyev raised his head and saw a marble statue standing on a pedestal a few meters behind us.

"Oh, tits," he crudely reacted, appreciating the work of art.

"So you didn't notice the dolphins, faces at her feet, but the tits, of course," I parried without hiding my sarcasm, and with a gesture, I turned Vasilyev's head, redirecting his gaze along the path. " You'd better take a look over there."


We were barely a hundred steps away from the "Chinese houses" when we came across two delightful young women or at least they seems to us .

At least, then it seemed to us, because we were under the strong influence of the god of winemaking Bacchus.

"Hey, guys," one of them greeted. "Are you busy right now?"

"We always have time for you, ladies," my navigator responded, gripping my arm to steady himself.

"Please excuse us," I intervened on his behalf. "Vadim and I might have had a tad too much to drink, but if you're willing to wait about forty minutes, we should be in a better shape to lend you a hand if needed."

"I'm not so sure about that," the second woman remarked.

"Well, you'd be mistaken," Vadim retorted, putting in all his effort to appear more sober than he actually was.

"Just tell us what the issue is, and then we can assess our capabilities together..." — how self-assured I felt at that moment...

"This morning, we took a bus from Moscow for a two-day tour of Leningrad. Our group spent the whole day in museums, and then we were brought here and put up in the same hotel you're staying in. But we'd rather not waste time sleeping, so we've decided to gather people who'd be interested in going to Leningrad at night to witness the raising of the bridges over the Neva River. The bus driver mentioned that if we can gather twenty people, the trip is on. Otherwise, he won't even start the engine."

"And how many do you have so far?" Vadim inquired in a tipsy tone.

"Well, if you two agree to join us, we'll have a group of four.”

"Not a large group," I performed a simple arithmetic calculation. "Here's the plan: we'll take a walk through the park and return in an hour from now. While we attempt to sober up a bit, you can try to convince others to join us. If it works out and we manage to gather more people, we'll join you for the bridge event. If not, we'll come up with an alternative to the raised bridges."

With the girls in agreement, Vadim and I strolled down the wide avenue of Catherine Park, surrounded by ancient oaks and classical sculptures.

To my surprise, Vadim perked up considerably after our hour-long walk. But what surprised me even more was that as we approached the hotel, the girls were still waiting for us. It wasn't difficult to guess that their attempts to find willing participants for spending the night outdoors in a splendid city like Leningrad had fallen flat. The suggestion of another stroll was met with enthusiasm by our two adventurous companions, and once again, the four of us headed back to the park.

I briefly introduced Vadim and myself, allowing our companions ample opportunity to share their own stories. Marina took me by the hand and led me along a path in the park. Her family's history was both unique and fascinating. Just her patronymic alone would have caught the attention of anyone listening. Encountering a Marina Sebastianovna in central Russia was a rarity.

Her father, Sebastian Jose Velasco, was a mere six years old when he, along with three hundred other young Spanish boys and girls, boarded a large ship in the port of Barcelona. It was 1936. His father, a commander of a communist infantry regiment, had perished in battles near Madrid several months prior to that fateful day. His mother, leaving her son in the care of her sister, had gone to the front to seek vengeance against the Franco forces. Unfortunately, his aunt left him in an orphanage, from which Sebastian and the other children were eventually taken by the Russians.

The ship took a grueling four days to journey from the Spanish shores to the Soviet port of Odessa. Peculiar men and women, speaking an unfamiliar language, provided the children with food twice a day. Initially, he couldn't bring himself to eat, as everything tasted foreign to him. However, hunger eventually forced him to partake. When he disembarked from the ship, Sebastian was placed on a train bound for Ivanovo, where he spent the next ten years in a boarding school. Within a month, pasta with fried ground beef and boiled potatoes combined with pork sausages  had transformed into the most delectable meals in his world. After World War II, he relocated to Moscow, convinced for the remainder of his days that it was the finest city on the planet.

The granddaughter of the Spanish regiment commander was less willing to talk about herself than about her grandfather and father. A typical Moscow woman's destiny: school, institute, marriage, a son, work – an engineering job at one of the defense factories. She had one best friend and three or four acquaintances, just like anyone else. Yet, her heart yearned for something more – holidays, festivals, dances, carnivals, and, of course, adventures filled with intrigue.

Well, you're a real discovery, I thought, a grin spreading across my face. I'll give you an adventure filled with more intrigue than you can imagine!

We decided to continue the party at the girls' place, hoping it would lower the chances of the drunken crew members finding Vadim and me and offering us another round of drinks.

As the hours passed, my heart raced from the numerous cups of coffee consumed during our casual conversations. I didn't want the night to end, but it was well past the hour for bedtime. Everyone anticipated this moment, yet no one wanted to explicitly state it. It's one thing when lovers meet in a cozy apartment, quite another when an audience is present. Vadim and I weren't particularly bound by principles, yet our lack of experience showed. I opted for an improvisation.

"Vadim and I aren't really keen on leaving," I began somewhat awkwardly. "It's not that we're asking to share your beds, but it's already two in the morning. So, I'd like to propose something..." I paused here, hoping they would catch on – "We can all sleep in the same room, Vadim and I in one bed, and you two in the other."

The most foolish idea in the world couldn't have matched the absurdity of what I suggested. Yet, I had this notion that the comical situation I was attempting to create for four grown adults might lead to a defining moment, and that everything would find its resolution.

"Perhaps you could still go back to your room? It's not very appropriate to share a bed with strangers on the very first night, especially considering one of us is married," Marina's friend, Tanya, said.

"I agree with you," Vadim responded. "But unfortunately, we can't leave. Both our room and yours were locked from the outside at eleven o'clock. So, until seven in the morning, we have nowhere else to go." Marina laughed, "So you knew, but they didn't inform us about it? We returned from our stroll a quarter to eleven." "Well, since you're so clever, why don't you both share my bed, and I'll sleep with Marina," Tanya said.

Since neither Vadim nor I had ever shared a bed with individuals of the same gender, after exchanging meaningful glances, we simply took off our shoes and lay down on the bed fully dressed in jeans, shirts, and sweaters. The women burst into laughter, changed into their nightshirts, and like old friends, settled down side by side on the adjacent bed.

Vadim and I tossed and turned in the bed for about half an hour.

The ladies were quiet as church mice, and it seemed as if everyone would fall asleep if Tanya didn’t undertake something.

Suddenly, she got up from her bed, took my navigator by the hand, and led him to the now vacant spot. Marina slipped under my blanket, wrapped her arm around my neck, and pressed her body against mine

Chapter 13

In the evening, we were roused from our slumber by my former classmate from military flight college, Oleg Sergeyev.

The young women from Moscow had departed for their excursion much earlier, leaving a note on the table stating that they wouldn't return before nine in the evening. Hoping for an undisturbed rest, Vasiliev and I had decided to catch up on sleep in their beds. But it turned out we were mistaken.

Our unexpected visitor was a pilot-in-command of a TU-16 stationed at one of the airbases of the Black Sea Fleet. Arriving at the Pushkin airсraft repair plant after Friday's lunch, he had spent two days searching for me. Not finding me in my room and receiving vague responses from my crew members regarding my whereabouts, he had embarked on a tour of all the hotel rooms in the "Chinese Village." Luck eventually favored him. I looked at him and wondered,

'Why is he so delighted to see me? We weren't particularly close friends during college, and we hadn't crossed paths even once in the seven years since our graduation. So where is this excitement coming from? He even brought along two bottles of cognac'.

The true motive became apparent after the third shot. Starting with a few general questions about my family and health to initiate the conversation, Oleg began probing into the details of my crew's accident.

Vasiliev, who had been partaking in the drinking until then, found a polite pretext to excuse himself.

I felt the urge to kick Sergeyev out of the room where my navigator and I had enjoyed our night so immensely. However, despite the considerable amount of cognac already flowing through my veins, I realized that it wouldn't be wise. A Captain wouldn't have incurred such expenses on his own.

Behind Oleg's back, I sensed the authoritative presence of the KGB orchestrating this conversation. I was being surveilled. I was hesitant to believe that last night's revelry and the lively Moscow girls were part of an operation to uncover the truth. It probably was just coincidental. Oleg was pushing too hard to gain my trust for me to perceive his sympathy as sincere.

I found myself entangled in a web of suspicion and uncertainty, a gnawing uneasiness that seemed to tighten with every passing moment. I couldn't help but believe that I was being watched, every move I made monitored and analyzed. It was as if an invisible observer was shadowing my every step.

As I looked back on the revelry and lively company of the Moscow women from the previous night, a nagging doubt gnawed at me. Were they really just a chance encounter, a stroke of luck in an unfamiliar city? Or was there more to it, something calculated and deliberate? The notion of being caught in an operation aimed at unearthing the truth was both intriguing and unsettling.

Caught between the rational desire to brush off these thoughts as mere coincidences and the unsettling realization that espionage was often more intricate than it seemed, I wavered. Could the laughter and distractions have been orchestrated to test my defenses, to exploit any vulnerabilities I might unknowingly reveal? Still, I hesitated to fully commit to this paranoid narrative, choosing instead to attribute it to an overactive imagination.

This internal battle between suspicion and skepticism left me on edge, my mind a battleground where reality and paranoia clashed. I was trapped in a cycle of questioning, where every interaction and every memory became a puzzle to be deciphered. Oleg was pushing too hard to gain my trust for me to perceive his sympathy as sincere.

Gratefully, many individuals possess a tendency to talk more than they listen. Captain Sergeyev was no exception to this rule. Convinced that I hadn't imbibed enough to reveal the complete truth, and as I sobbed and expressed my grievances about fate on his shoulder, he initiated conversation on his own.


Our discussion's theme lacked originality. After all, what would two inebriated pilots find to converse about?

Perhaps women, if they were friends.

Or aviation mishaps, if they were former classmates, and if, within one of their briefcases, apart from two cognac bottles, there also lay a pocket-sized tape recorder.

Oleg recounted to me the demise of a mutual acquaintance at the Mongokhto airbase, where a squadron of supersonic rocket carriers had been performing paired night flights along a designated route.


The specific crew in question had, right after takeoff on Tu--22M2 'Backfire', forsaken reliance on their instruments, instead searching for visual contact with their leader who had launched three minutes prior. Their gaze trained on the clear night sky, attempting to discern the fiery glow within the nozzles of jet engines amidst among billions of stars, they failed to perceive the descent of their aircraft. When the automated ground proximity warning system sounded, it was too late. Laden with fuel, the supersonic rocket carrier proved too ponderous to swiftly alter its flight path.

It crashed nose-first, igniting a conflagration in its wake. Debris from the fuselage and engine parts, engineered to resist fire, scattered over a vast area around the crash site. The search and rescue team promptly recovered the orange fire-resistant sphere, commonly known as the 'black box'. The tape recordings of the pilots' conversations substantiated the initial assessment of the tragedy,

'A fatal error in piloting technique.'

After briefly discussing the tragedy, we raised our glasses of cognac, toasting to the memory of the fallen crew members and another for the pilot from our class who had served as the co-pilot for the deceased crew.

An even more harrowing catastrophe had unfolded at the 33rd Battle Preparedness and Re-training Center located in the southern Ukrainian City of Nikolaev.

The very same aircraft model had lost a variable geometry wing during a routine daytime takeoff in favorable weather conditions. The pilots, perceiving an increasing rightward bank, sought to correct it by turning the control column to the left, until the moment of impact with the ground.

The navigators, seated behind the pilots in their compartment, quickly grasped the situation and attempted to eject themselves. The junior bombardier, quicker to respond to the emergency, ejected one-second before the navigator. This action saved his life.

At the moment of ejection, the steep bank had reached forty-five degrees, and the parachute opened with ample height from the ground. The navigator was far less fortunate. Reacting a moment later, he ejected when the bank had reached a hundred degrees.

"Propelled by the jetstream in his ejection seat, he was accelerated almost parallel to the ground and crashed into the arid Ukrainian soil about two hundred feet away from the runway. Regrettably, his parachute did not deploy. To be candid, the navigator, who also held the position of the Head of the Navigators Department at the Training Center, left behind an indistinguishable scene. The impact was so forceful that the Colonel's remains melded with the clay, becoming virtually indiscernible.

Despite the fire's scorching blaze, both deceased pilots clung to the controls of the uncontrollable aircraft until the very end, although charred by the fire's flames, remained readily identifiable.


The two pilots and the navigator were laid to rest as heroes. A squadron of fighters from the air defense wing flew over the funeral procession. Just as the jets were directly above the servicemen carrying the coffins, three out of the eight MiGs surged upwards and vanished into the blue sky, symbolizing that even though the flyers were being buried, their spirits would forever ascend to the heavens.

The sole surviving member of the crew, miraculously spared, insisted on returning to flying. A month after the tragedy, as he walked along the concrete taxiway to the parking spot of his new aircraft, all the aviators and technicians stopped their tasks, turned towards him, and applauded.

Having completed his narrative, my guest recalled the reason for his visit on that Saturday evening. But Oleg had barely transitioned to discussing my own calamity when the door swung open, and the delightful occupants of the hotel room entered, accompanied by Vasiliev.

I offered a smile to Sergeyev and spoke, "It's time for you to leave. Thank you for the intriguing conversation. And inform your 'handler' that I'm not responsible for my crew's demise."

"What 'handler'?" Sergeyev pretended surprise.

"You're more acquainted with the answer than I'm," I responded and added, for clarity's sake, "The person who sent you here."


The uninvited guest departed, and the girls, somewhat bewildered, stood at the door, gazing at me with astonishment. Marina was the first to recover, closing the door behind her as she sat at the table across from me.

With the demeanor of someone entitled to seek answers, she asked pointedly, "Valery, what is happening here? Whose death were you discussing?"

I recounted my harrowing experience of navigating ice floes with my frozen comrades. As I concluded my story, I turned to both girls and inquired, "Any further questions?"

Tanya responded in a calm tone, "Yes, there are. What is a 'handler'?"

"'Handler' is the term used for a counter-espionage agent in the armed forces," my navigator answered on my behalf. "They're akin to puppeteers, putting their hand into the doll to control it for their own purposes.”

"Allow me to rephrase what my friend just mentioned," I interjected. “A ‘handler’ typically refers to an individual who directly manages and controls an informant or agent in the field. This person is responsible for communication, task assignments, and overall guidance of the informant's activities. The term ‘handler’ emphasizes the active role in managing the operative.”

Tanya expressed her surprise, "What does counter-espionage have to do with all this?”

“When they have nothing better to do they try to find something to occupy themselves. They have to justify their inflated perks somehow. That’s why they get themselves mixed up in everybody’s business.  There’s not the faintest sign of espionage in the fleet, but they have to do something. The investigation of my case finished six months ago.  I’ve even managed to get a new job, but they keep searching for some way to catch me out in a lie and send these Olegs after me with cognac. As if cognac could change the past, or that I would undertake to contradict myself under the influence of alcohol.  I don’t know what they’re basing their calculations on, but they won’t get away with that.”

The girls from Moscow had turned pale, sitting there at the table and looking at me with pity.  My navigator, who had known the whole story for a long time, said:

“Maybe we should have a little something to drink in honor of our commander?”

I poured out four glasses of the cognac that remained after Sergeyev’s visit and proposed another toast:

“I propose that we drink to those who have flown away and will never return.”

As if on cue the two girls burst into tears. Already worn out by the long trip and the uncomfortable bus which had brought them from Moscow, having spent a second sleepless night in Vadim’s arms and mine, and having spent the whole day wondering the halls of museums, they weren’t in any condition to hear such a toast. We had no choice but to guide them to bed, with the intention that our embraces and kisses would ease their emotional exhaustion. Little did we know that the ladies had the same plans in mind. As the hours passed, laughter and stories gradually gave way to soft sounds of intimacy, and the weight of the ladies' earlier tears seemed to be alleviated by the intimacy we all shared.



Chapter 14

I thought about all of this as we aimlessly wandered through the city in search of what we considered to be worthy adventures. After all, it's hard to take activities like visiting the amber museum or admiring the Schiller Monument seriously. The local girls barely noticed us. Our flight jackets with "Air Force" embroidered on the sleeves and invitations to share a meal, smoothly transitioning into breakfast, failed to make any impression on the women of Kaliningrad. Even the female students from the Fishery Institute, whom we invited for a glass of amber liquid at the beer garden near their main campus, turned us down.

We stopped by the bronze sculpture 'Struggling Bisons.' Two giants with bulging muscles and raised tails clashed their horns against each other. It seemed as if they were attempting to knock their opponent off the pedestal into the fountain that was shattered at the base. The crew's radio operator and mechanic climbed onto the marble slabs, grabbing onto the tails of the bronze creatures, dangling from them like two appetizing sausages.

"Enough of this child's play," I disapproved. "It would be embarrassing if you were picked up by a completely sober police patrol."

"It's just not biting today," the navigator sighed with bitterness.

"You didn't show them your rod, that's why it's not biting," the radio operator replied crudely, releasing the bison's tail and jumping back onto the ground.

"Head to Ivanovo—three women for every man. You'll have all the seamstresses you could ever want," proposed the co-pilot.

"Let's head back to the hotel. This isn't our kind of town," I said. "At least we lucked out with the accommodations. There's even hot water in the rooms. By the way, there's a beer bar on the first floor of the hotel. Whoever wants to can visit it, but everyone should return to the hotel rooms for lights out."

"No, I'm actually going to get my laundry done. I'm not much of a beer person. I wouldn't mind having some vodka with a few girls like we did back in Pushkin, but as you can see, there aren't any around here."

"I'll keep you company. Let the younger folks have fun without the older generation looming over them."

The decision to do laundry turned out to be well-timed. After the fourth day of the mission, the collars of our beige shirts were the color of coffee—without cream. And our socks were stiff enough to be mistaken for shoes polishers if placed outside our suite doors.


Stripped down to our underwear and hanging laundry over the backs of chairs, Vadim and I settled in front of the television for some tea. We hadn't finished the first cup when the crew's radio operator, Nikolai Onoprienko, burst into our room without knocking and rapidly said from the threshold:

"Commander, we found some fresh faces at the bar…."

"Quite the silver tongue you've got there, comrade Petty Officer. You sound like a real pimp," the navigator quipped.

"Save your reprimands," I defended Nikolai. "Firstly, I appreciate your resourcefulness, and secondly, why are you just standing there? Bring them in!"

The radio operator shot out of the door like a bullet, while Vadim and I hastily put on our pants, donned our still-damp uniform shirts, and camouflaged our lack of socks with bedroom slippers. No sooner had we finished dressing than the door swung open, and the "fresh faces" made their entrance.

Their arrival sent a mild shock through all the participants of this impromptu gathering. I was twenty-seven, the navigator was twenty-nine, the flight engineer was barely thirty, the radio operator was twenty-five, and the co-pilot was just twenty-two; averaging around twenty-six. Yet, the four women hesitating on the threshold, undecided about whether to step in or not, were at least forty on average. The age difference was evident even at first glance. However, there was no turning back at this point, so I welcomed them inside.

The impact of their presence was felt immediately. Seated on the sofa in the center of our suite were the leaders of the USSR's automobile production trade union.


After a series of exhaustive meetings, the delegates of the trade union committees, who had convened from various corners of the country for their annual conference, sought relaxation at the bar. It was there that our youthful crew members encountered them.

Evidently, the radio operator and the copilot had conveyed that their commander and navigator were significantly older than they were, leading the ladies to expect men around the age of thirty-five to forty. However, standing before them were mere young men and slightly older ones. This was a surprise. The women hadn't yet determined if it was a pleasant one, when I proposed a toast to our meeting.

"I'm Elena," one of the guests introduced herself and extended her hand.

"What shall we be drinking, boys?" she inquired with a hint of sarcasm, as each participant in this encounter introduced themselves.

"As usual, pure grain alcohol, ladies," Vadim responded in a matching tone.

I nudged him in the side with my elbow and whispered, "Don't be too lively, or they might take offense and leave."

However, offending these women proved to be quite a challenge. They matched us drink for drink, complementing sips of alcohol with bites of smoked fish. Before long, they seemed not at all like the older women I had initially perceived them to be. I decided to tackle two things: firstly, to minimize the age difference and balance the gender ratio by getting rid of the youngest one present, the copilot, and secondly, to discreetly swap the alcohol in my glass with water.

Sergey posed a bit of a challenge. Being quite intoxicated already, he was unwilling to leave. I explained to him in hushed tones by the door that he could easily be the son of one of these women.

"And you?" he stubbornly asked.

"Oh, I could pass as a younger brother," I quipped, hoping to defuse the situation.

He put his arm around my shoulder and said with an amiable tone, "I hope you enjoy your time with these lovely sisters."

The second task proved far simpler. Once Sergey departed, I surreptitiously switched my glass of alcohol with a glass of water. We took turns proposing toasts to each other. After my navigator and I had done so, Gennadiy Rybnikov requested his turn to offer a toast. Uttering the traditional hussar salute, "To the Ladies," he missed the glass of water he was aiming for and mistakenly grabbed my glass of alcohol instead. Believing his parched throat was about to find relief, he gulped down half the glass of alcohol from his right hand and followed it with an equal measure from his left. Then, slowly turning his gaze in my direction, he stared into my eyes and, with a string of colorful expletives, tumbled between the sofa and the small table where our hastily assembled supper was laid. The women erupted in merry laughter, while Vadim, Nikolai, and I lifted the flight engineer and guided him into the bedroom.

This awkward episode turned out to be a favorables moment for everyone. There was no need to convince anyone to transition from drinking to dancing.

Vasiliev and Onoprienko took the initiative, inviting their chosen women onto the dance floor. They gracefully swayed around the center of the main room in our lavish suite. As for me, I stayed seated on the sofa, torn between deciding which of the two remaining beauties deserved my attention. Holding both of them by the shoulders, I felt their hands trace over me, deftly undoing buttons and releasing garments.

After a brief dance, Vadim seized his partner by the waist and led her towards the suite's adjoining office. Only the considerable amount of alcohol they had consumed could explain their disregard for the glass door dividing the two rooms. As the navigator settled at the office desk, the radio operator forsook dancing and positioned himself on the floor beside the sofa, keenly observing the unfolding events in the adjacent room.

Absorbed by the kisses enveloping me from both sides, I nearly missed the pivotal moment when the situation in the office began to deviate from Vadim's intended plan. Natasha was kneeling in front of the desk, her trembling hands on the navigator's thighs. Initially, I couldn't quite comprehend what he was doing, but upon glimpsing the helpless, bewildered expression on my friend's face, I nearly tumbled off the sofa with laughter. The woman was on the brink of losing her dinner. In a matter of seconds, his still-damp legs and shirt became the canvas for everything she had consumed that evening. I suspect the navigator had anticipated a more pleasant series of sensations.

Two of the ladies, who just a minute ago seemed to have intentions of spending the rest of the night in my company, suddenly got up from the sofa and led Natasha to their suite.

Vasiliev, swearing at all women and threatening us with his fist, commenced the task of tidying up the room. Emerging into the hallway, we continued to chuckle, collectively exhibiting our playful disdain by pinching our noses shut with our fingers. With an expletive-laden retort, the crew navigator disappeared into the bedroom where Rybnikov was sound asleep.

I converted the sofa I had been perched on into an expansive bed and instructed Onoprienko,

"Nikolai, get in touch with our older acquaintances and inform them that we're awaiting their return. Also, ventilate the office after Vasiliev—you'll be spending the night there."

Anticipating our guests' reappearance at any moment, I stretched out atop the blanket on the sofa, fully clothed, and attempted to reminisce about how dull I had found my time in Kamchatka. Soon, the memory of what Mukhina had done to me in Vladivostok resurfaced, and I suddenly realized that I had drifted into slumber.

As it turned out, someone was in the process of undressing me, but this time, the situation involved two seductresses, guaranteeing that sleep wouldn't be my immediate fate.


At six the next morning, a cautious knock echoed on the suite door. Using the sheets to cover my naked body, I approached the door and found a courier holding a package.

Unwrapping the package, I began to read the contents of the letter inside.

"What does it say, Valery?" Elena inquired.

"It says that all the trade union members from your Gorky Auto Plant have been on strike since yesterday," I replied, reclining on the bed between the two women.

"And what about the Chelyabinsk Tractor Factory? Did they mention anything about it?" Galyna questioned while planting tender kisses on me.

"They did mention something," my lips whispered. "They mentioned you personally as well."

"What did they say?" she inquired again, playfully competing with Elena for my attention.

"You have been bestowed with the honorary title of 'Hero of Sofa-ist Labor.' The Golden Phallus award ceremony will take place upon your return from the conference."

Elena burst into laughter, and Galyna gave me a playful, albeit slightly painful, pinch on my side.

"But on a serious note, I need to leave for Moscow in two hours. So if you want to make the most of our time together, you better get to work on my weary body."



Chapter 15

The first coherent thought that crossed my mind after I closed the door behind my nocturnal guests was about the impending medical examination.

How would I be able to pass the pre-flight medical test in my current state? Alongside me, the vomit-covered navigator, the thoroughly intoxicated flight engineer, and the sleep-deprived radio operator had all actively participated in the previous night's revelry. The copilot might have been feeling slightly better, but he was too young to stand in for me during the medical examination.

I gathered the entire crew in my suite and informed them that the cargo we were supposed to transport had turned out to be too heavy and had been dispatched by train instead. We were scheduled to take off in an hour, and due to various reasons, not everyone was in a condition to pass the medical exam. Therefore, I suggested that the gunner and the cargo mechanic dress up as me and the navigator, take a two-pound can of caviar from our emergency supplies, and, with the help of the caviar can, persuade the doctor that the entire crew was in perfect health.

There was no other feasible way for us to depart from Kaliningrad.

As I started the engines, only a few minutes remained until the designated take-off time. There was no time to go through the pre-flight checklist thoroughly. I taxied to the preliminary starting point and, without halting at the threshold, pushed the levers of all four engines to maximum revolutions per minute, commencing the take-off roll.

Almost immediately after becoming airborne, Gennadiy Rybnikov asked me, "Captain, did you set the pressurization lever to the 'closed' position?”


A shiver ran down my spine. I looked at the lever and my suspicions were confirmed: I had forgotten to close it. Panic surged within me as I pressurized the aircraft, remembering a similar incident that happened two years ago with the crew of the same aircraft type.

They had been drinking all night and were ordered to fly from Ufa to Kiev the next morning. The commander had forgotten to set the pressurization after picking up the gunner, who had been standing by the aircraft during engine startup via the nose emergency hatch. At an altitude of twenty-four thousand feet, everyone on board, including the crew and passengers, had lost consciousness due to oxygen deprivation.

I adjusted the route waypoints and radio contact points, making sure not to miss any, as I recollected the details of that incident.

That aircraft, nicknamed the "Flying Dutchman," had eventually approached Moscow. The intercepting fighters reported crew members visible at their stations, but it was unclear whether they were unconscious or deceased. The AN-12 would have continued flying until its fuel ran out, if it weren't for a co-pilot who was a final-year trainee at the Air Force college. He woke up from the intense cold and managed to communicate with ground control, ultimately performing a rough landing at a military airport near the city of Gorky.

The investigation into the incident had assigned blame to all parties involved. The entire crew, including the heroic trainee and the doctor who had signed the flight readiness form, were discharged from the armed forces.

We reached our cruising altitude, with picturesque Lithuanian villages far below us. A freight train raced eastward on the ground. A passenger jet flying toward Western Europe was passing about ten thousand feet above us, leaving four distinct contrails behind its tail.

I envisioned the scene inside the airliner - flight attendants diligently serving breakfast to the passengers, the pilot-in-command comfortably seated in his immaculately pressed white shirt and black tie, his four gold stripes on the shoulder straps shining. As he sipped his morning coffee, I could almost picture him mentally tallying his anticipated earnings for the month. Meanwhile, the first officer's mind wandered to the sixteenth-century icon he had illicitly stashed in his briefcase.

I wondered if pilots on flights to Western Europe ever engaged in affairs with their tall, elegant flight attendants. Unlikely. Such behavior might jeopardize their positions on elite crews, and they could end up spending the rest of their careers flying to Siberian cities like Surgut or Urengoy, with perpetually intoxicated oil drillers onboard. Such is life.

Just a year ago, I had envied transport pilots for their ability to move around during flight, play cards with passengers, or engage in chess matches with the radio operator. Now, gazing at the pristine white airliner above us, envy welled up within me once again.


I wish just once someone would bring me coffee during a flight. That moment would be etched in my memory forever. I wasted my last night with two shameless trade union chairwomen, and now I'm so sleepy. I went through all the techniques I knew to fight off sleep.

First, I rubbed my ears, then I licked the roof of my mouth. Finally, I reach behind the backside pocket of my pilot's chair and take out an oxygen mask, breathing in pure oxygen for several minutes.
But nothing was working. I nudged the flight engineer, who had fallen asleep long ago.

“Gennadiy,” I said to him. “Pass me some matches.”

He fumbled in his pocket and in a drowsy voice asked, “Why do you need them? You don't smoke.”

In response, I showed him my oxygen mask and said, “I want to light them in pure oxygen.”

“Go ahead and do it,” Rybnikov said, handing me the box of matches. “At least we'll have something to do until we reach Moscow.”

Overhearing our conversation, the radio operator chimed in, “What's the plan until we reach Moscow? Play cards or something? I'm in too.”

“No,” Gennadiy replied. "The Captain wants to ignite pure oxygen. I told him that we'll likely be busy battling the cockpit fire until we land."

“Well, that sounds like a brilliant idea,” the navigator remarked.
"Especially if the squadron commander decides to listen to the cockpit voice recording when we arrive at the home base."

I took out two matches from the box and placed them between my eyelids. My eyes welled up, but they didn't close. I accidentally hit my forehead on the control column, which was painful. That indicated I had fallen asleep with my eyes open.

I removed the matches and looked at my co-pilot. Sergey was sound asleep and snoring loudly. Gennadiy Rybnikov had dozed off again as soon as he handed me the matches. The navigator was holding his slide ruler vertically, presumably hoping that if he nodded off, dropping it would wake him up, or his forehead would hit against the ruler if it remained standing.

In an attempt to shake off the overwhelming drowsiness, I stood up on the emergency hatch between the pilot seats.


"Kovalenko!" I shouted directly into my copilot's ear. "Wake up! Crawl over to the navigator and make sure he doesn't fall asleep before we start descending. "If he nods off, we won't be landing in Moscow. Instead, we'll end up in some Northern city, behind bars, wearing prison uniforms."

The young man jerked from the suddenness of it, wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth, and reluctantly left his seat. He got down on all fours and crawled into the front section of the aircraft.

"What's got you moving?" Vasiliev asked.

"The Captain sent me to keep you entertained."

"What an astute commander we have," Vadim said with a sly smile, looking at me from below. "Since he sent you, get to entertaining."

The copilot shared a joke about a passenger plane's crew that involved a new stewardess,

"The Captain of the plane, after reaching cruising altitude, unfastens his seatbelt, reclines the pilot's seat, and getting up from it, says to the first officer through the intercom - 'We have a new flight attendant, I'll go give her a try.'

The first officer shrugs, implying 'do as you wish - you're in charge here.'

A  few minutes later, the pilot returns and takes his seat, while the first officer, still looking at the clouds passing below, asks his boss, 'So, how was she?'

'Nothing special,' the pilot replies curtly, and then adds with a pause, 'My wife is better.'"

With that, the First Officer stands up and declares,

"Alright, it's my turn to assess her worthiness."

He returns after a similar amount of time, fastens his seatbelt, puts on his headset, and gazes out at the endless expanse of clouds.

The Captain's curiosity overtakes his common sense, and he asks, "Hey, young man, what's your verdict on our new crew addition?"

"You were right, Captain. Your wife is indeed better."

The navigator winced as if he had a toothache and remarked,

"Give me a break."

"Huh?" said the copilot. "What do you mean?"

"I want to call your grandmother and let her know you're stealing her jokes," Vadim replied, then added,

"Sergey, do you know the latest doctor joke?"

"Tell us, Valery," the navigator asked me via intercom, "Your jokes are way better than the copilot's."

"Here it goes," I began. "The doctor walks into the waiting room of the hospital delivery department and shows the new father his baby. The young father reaches out to hold the baby, but the doctor grabs the baby by the feet and smacks him against the wall. There's brain debris splattered all over. The father faints in horror. So the doctor revives him with smelling salts and says, 'Don't be so upset. I was just kidding. Your child was stillborn."

"What was that? A warning?" the copilot asked.

"No, that was a direct threat. If you keep making jokes about Captains' wives, I'll do to you what the doctor did to the baby, and I'll tell the wing commander that you were born that way."

Sergey's innocent joke had struck a sensitive chord. My young wife lived in the bustling city of Vladivostok, which was fifty miles away from my residence in the small town of Artem. She could only visit me on weekends. What was she doing during the rest of the week? I chose to believe it wasn't anything like what I was doing during my missions.

I pushed those melancholic thoughts aside. It was time to initiate the descent and come up with a reason for my crew to stay in Moscow for a few days. I wanted to see the young ladies we had a good time with in Pushkin a month ago.

I leaned close to the flight engineer's ear and whispered softly, so the rest of the crew wouldn't hear,

"Gennadiy, we need to sabotage something on the plane. Vadim and I really need a couple of days in Moscow."

Rybnikov fell into thought and a few minutes later, he whispered back just as quietly:

"It's time to change the tires. We planned to do it when we got back to the base, but we can do it just as easily in Moscow. What's the difference? Brake hard during landing. By the time they find us some tires from the warehouse, we swap the old ones for the new ones, and you'll have your three days. Just make sure you leave the crew with me."

I nodded in agreement.

Taking the plane on a slightly higher trajectory, I performed the landing. Simultaneously with the propeller braking, I applied the wheel brakes fully. The gunner in the rear reported,

"The tires are smoking, and they're leaving black streaks on the runway."

I released the brakes. I couldn't risk having even one tire explode. If that happened, changing tires wouldn't be enough. It would be considered a landing accident, and the engineers wouldn't let me off easily.

After successfully taxiing to the apron, I informed the engineer who met us about the necessary maintenance work.


I didn't want to think about how I would justify all of this when I returned to Artem. However, that thought kept persistently coming back to me. I could anticipate an especially unpleasant conversation with the political officer. He had taken a disliking to me right from our initial meeting. I was the only commanding pilot who refused to submit reports about the conduct of each crew member during missions.

Lieutenant Colonel Leonid Skvortsov had devised this subtly deceptive method of reporting long ago.

Some commanders, who didn't wish to implicate their crews, just filed formal reports. But those who aimed for promotions or desired unscheduled flights abroad attempted to document everything in excruciating detail, occasionally even fabricating incidents. Skvortsov held the reins of control over the transport wing much like Cardinal Richelieu held power over 17th century France.

  He rightly perceived that the person who holds the information wields genuine power.

My reasons for refusal, albeit unconventional, had nothing to do with any moral qualms – I was not exactly known for having such qualms. It was a matter of calculated reasoning. I saw no personal gain from getting too close to the political officer. No one intended to send me abroad due to my tarnished reputation. It was too early to consider promotion since I was still quite young. I couldn't be demoted to a copilot either, as there were insufficient grounds. Hence, sensing the temporary stability of my position, I chose to engage him without any obsequious undertones in my voice.

Attempting to break my obstinacy, Skvortsov invited me for a "friendly" chat and remarked, "I've heard rumors, Valery, that you never miss a chance to seduce any pretty woman during your missions”

He paused momentarily, awaiting a reaction.

In reality, there were two possible courses of action for me: either to joke my way out of the situation or to respond with a counterattack.

With his next words, he closed off any chance for a peaceful resolution.

"I could call your father-in-law and tell him about your behavior on missions," he said in an unofficial tone.

"Well, when you do, make sure to also inform him about how you organized the transportation of red caviar from Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk to Voronezh," I retorted. "And don't forget to let the counter-espionage agents know how much profit you made from reselling it."

"How dare you speak to me like that, Captain?"

"I'm not worried, Comrade Political Officer. You'll have to endure it. Just like Svetlana Mukhina had to endure you, you old pig, when you got her drunk and tossed her across the passenger seats while flying over the Sea of Okhotsk. Or Olga Morozova, who slept with you in the backseat of your personal car in your garage just to jump the line for getting an apartment. That's what you should do, Lieutenant Colonel. Before you dial my father-in-law's number, you better call your wife and confess all of this. And then call your direct superior, the Head of the Political Department of the Pacific Fleet, and confess all your sins to him."

His face turned red with anger. He wanted to shout at me, but instead he hissed like a cornered snake,

"Get out, Grigoriev. But remember, I won't forget about you."

I almost said, "Me neither." But I stayed silent. Pouring oil on a localized fire like this might escalate the situation. I could have informed him that I was aware of the wing administration's embezzlement of anti-icing alcohol or the bribery of crews for financially lucrative missions, among other things. However, I chose to keep my knowledge to myself for a more opportune moment.







Chapter 16

My call to the Tushino Machine-Building plant where Tanya and Marina worked caught both women by surprise. It was a pleasant surprise to hear the hesitant voice of the Spanish beauty on the other end, especially when she expressed how they remembered us and were eager to see us. We agreed to meet  in the heart of Moscow by the fountain at the Bolshoi Theatre. When we arrived, they were already there waiting for us, with four ballet tickets in hand.

That evening, the performance was "Spartacus." As the gladiator fought against the Roman commander Marcus Crassus on stage, I discreetly caressed Marina's leg, my mind wandering towards our upcoming encounter. According to our plans, we were supposed to head to her place for a friendly dinner right after the ballet.

Marina's husband had a peculiar habit. Every Friday after work, he would take his two days off to roam the forests near Moscow. He enjoyed spending nights in a tent amidst the snow, strumming his guitar by a bonfire, sipping tea from an iron mug while using snow to fill the teapot. Marina shared this information with me at the theater's buffet. We sat at the bar on tall stools, discussing Peter's hobby over coffee with cognac. I expressed my doubts about the authenticity of his stories.

"Your Peter is probably in a cozy apartment, enjoying a warm Jacuzzi," I suggested. "He's likely being pampered by some sweetheart under the water. And tonight, he'll be cuddled up with her under a warm blanket, not in a sleeping bag on the snow. Then, on Sunday evening, he'll return from this 'challenging expedition,' telling you and your son about the struggles of lighting the bonfire with damp wood, the howling wolves nearby, and the cold sleeping bag by morning. He'll be claiming he's exhausted and just wants a quick shower and bed."

Marina seemed somewhat surprised by my imaginative theory, responding with an indifferent shrug,

"I couldn't care less if he's in the woods with his buddies or in a Jacuzzi with his mistress. As long as I get a break from him. At least for two days a week."

The third bell rang, signaling the end of the entr'acte, and we returned to our seats.

Peter's presence wasn't mentioned again that night. I honestly couldn't care less whether he was shivering in his sleeping bag or indulging in a Jacuzzi. What truly mattered was that his wife would soon be warming me with her alluring body. We just had to wait for Spartacus to finish his dance.

As the final notes of the ballet faded away, the leader of the defeated slaves was carried off stage on the tips of Roman spears. The curtain fell. The anticipated miracle didn't happen – Evil once again triumphed over Good.

However, the audience, perhaps having long surrendered their hope for such a miracle, showered the dancers with an extended standing ovation. Yet, we were too preoccupied with our carnal desires to fully appreciate the applause. We hurriedly navigated through the rows of the parterre, eager to retrieve our belongings from the cloakroom and make our way to the small one-bedroom apartment on the North-West outskirts of the city as swiftly as possible.


We devoured our supper so hastily that a slight awkwardness lingered in the air.

Tanya was the first to comment, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm,
"Are you two from a famine-stricken region or what? We had quite the spread at the theater buffet."

Vadim, always quick with a witty response, chimed in, "Tanya, we're not from a starving region. We're from the Maritimes region, where we were starving to meet you again. The faster we eat, the more time we'll have to spend with you alone."

Marina feigned offense, remarking with a touch of humor, "Well, here you go," Marina said, pretending to be offended. "I cooked dinner, tried to impress you with my culinary creations, and all you have in your mind is the bed."

But Vasiliev was no longer listening to her. He lifted the petite Tanya in his arms and carried her into Marina's son's room. The apartment's hostess wanted to clear the table of the dirty dishes, but I took her hand and pulled her towards me.

"Leave everything like this. In the morning, you'll have time to clean up the traces of the nomads."

She sat on my lap, wrapped her arms around my neck, and said softly,

"I never thought I'd see you again after our meeting in Pushkin."

"Meanwhile, I was confident we would meet again, but I was afraid the reunion would be somewhat chilly."

She kissed me and went to prepare the bed. When I returned after my shower, Marina was lying under the terrycloth sheets, watching TV. Seeing me draped in Peter's bath towel, she burst into laughter, then lowered the television's volume and lifted the sheet to invite me into bed.


Half an hour later, I made my way to the bathroom once more, fully intending to relax in the hot water.

"Will you be back soon?" Marina asked, stretching luxuriously.

"Go ahead and fall asleep. When I return, I'll wake you up, and we can continue."

"If I doze off, you can go ahead without waking me. If I enjoy it, I'll wake up and join you. Otherwise, you can tell me how it was in the morning."

"You little tease. Here I'm, making such an effort, and you're just making fun of me."

"Then you better put in more effort. This is one place where there are no limits.”


Filling the bathtub with hot water and bath foam, I turned off the light, pulled the shower curtain closed behind me, and allowed only my nose to remain above water.

It was as if I had transformed into a submarine lurking in potential enemy waters at periscope depth. Following this analogy, I imagined that the submarine had started falling for a destroyer. "How can I avoid getting entangled in the anti-submarine net of emotions?" a warning blinked through my mind. I pondered what Tanya and Vadim might be up to. Should I pay them a visit?

My submarine's Captain had yet to reach a decision when the door swung open, the light flicked on, and Tatiana entered the room.

Without noticing the translucent curtain, she stood in front of the mirror, meticulously wiping away traces of lipstick from her neck and breasts. What sticky lipstick Tanya has, it moved from her lips to Vadim's lips, and from there to her own body. The navigator was giving it his best shot, I mused. Tanya's lipstick certainly leaves its mark. I wondered how low Vasily's kisses had traveled...

Observing a young, beautiful naked woman in the bathroom brought me great pleasure. Forgetting my love for Marina, I lingered submerged in the water, eagerly anticipating Tatiana's decision to shower and discover my presence.

After her meticulous self-examination, she turned her face toward me and pulled the curtain aside. Her reaction was a mix of surprise and slight alarm as she instinctively covered her breasts and lower abdomen with her hands.

Like a hero from a fairy tale, I emerged from the depths. Water cascaded down from my head, washing away foam bubbles that clung here and there to my body. Understanding my intentions, she tried to open the door and slip out of the bathroom without facing away from me. However, I remembered that she had locked the door immediately upon entering and turning on the light.

"So, you're trapped," I whispered with a smile, stepping closer to her.

She pressed her back against the door, hesitantly removing her hands from her body and placing them on my chest, attempting to gently halt my approach.

"Don't, Valery. Let's just remain friends."

"We'll still be friends, but on a different level. ‘Being just friends' is good, of course, but 'close friends' is even better."

Before she could say anything more, I gently placed my index finger on her lips and then guided her hands to my shoulders, saying,

"We're wasting time," I said as I lifted her by the waist and placed her on the washing machine opposite the mirror.

Her eyes continued to gaze at me, an imploring look that trembled slightly. It seemed tears were just moments away from flowing down her cheeks. Trying to prevent that and resist the plea in those beautiful eyes, I turned off the light and pressed my body against hers.


Before returning to the bedroom with Marina, I gently picked up Tatiana, who was still trembling, and placed her in the bathtub, which was still warm.

"You won't tell Vadim about this, will you?" she asked.

"Of course not. Take a quick soak and calm down. Nothing terrible has happened."


Marina was sleeping diagonally across the bed. I couldn't lie down next to her without waking up the granddaughter of the Spanish hero.

"Why did you take so long?" she asked, embracing me. "I've already had my beauty sleep. And now I won't let you get yours."

'I sighed internally. This is going to be tough. Submarine, why did you dive so deep? Surface and show her the real fighting spirit of the USSR Navy.'


But the battle never even started. Suddenly, the sound of the elevator reached us, stopping on our floor. After a short pause, a cautious ring echoed at the door.

While Marina was putting on underwear and a robe, I stood by the window, looking down at the flowerbed from the eleventh floor. ‘

Even if I jump out of the window and land on soft ground, I won't have a chance of survival, I thought.

"It's my husband," Marina said softly, a suppressed horror in her voice. "Hurry, grab your stuff and Vadim's, and go to their room."


From the bathroom, the sound of a flushing toilet could be heard. Then Tatiana, still naked, tiptoed into Marina's son's room.

With clothes hanging from every possible spot on my body, I took mine and Vadim's jackets from the coat rack in the hallway. Behind me, Marina was buttoning her robe, trying to delay as much as she could. The unfaithful wife was talking to her husband through the door.

"Peter, is that you?"

"Who else would it be?" came Peter's irritated voice.

"Just a second, I'll open the door right away. I can't find the key for the bottom lock. I'm still so sleepy."

"In the right pocket of my work pants, there's an extra key. The pants are on the hanger. Get that one if you're being clumsy," Peter responded, his annoyance clear even through the door.

"She's not clumsy, quite the opposite," I whispered to him. Then I kissed Marina on the cheek, gathered all our clothes, and slipped into the boys' room on my bare feet.


From under the covers, Vadim and Tatiana looked at me with frightened eyes.

"Who's at the door?" Vadim whispered.

"Our cuckold has returned from his trip," I whispered back, covering my mouth with my palm and gesturing for them to stay quiet.

I stood there covered in clothes, my ear pressed against the door, trying not to miss a single word of the conversation between the husband and wife.

And my untanned naked buttocks reflected the moonlight streaming through the semi-transparent window blinds




Chapter 17

"What's happened, Peter? Why have you returned in the middle of the night?" Marina's voice came from the kitchen.

"Yesterday, Ivan Koval was preparing firewood for the campfire and accidentally cut his leg with the axe," the traveler began his tired story. "We took turns carrying him for eight miles through the forest to the train station. We called an ambulance and accompanied him to the village hospital. After that, I hitchhiked to the Ring Road and walked home on foot. None of us had enough money for a taxi. The subway is closed from one to five in the morning. So I had to trek here for two hours in the middle of the night with my backpack."

Would have been better if you got lost, I thought mischievously. Or went with your friend Koval to gather firewood.


"I'm hungry. Leonid was preparing dinner on the campfire, you know. And then we were too occupied to think about food."

"I'll prepare something quickly," Marina replied, without waiting for questions about the dirty dishes already on the table. "We were celebrating the tenth anniversary of the creation of our department with the girls. Elena Kuzmina and Olya Rasputina went home, and Tanya is sleeping on Dmitriy's sofa. She had a bit too much to drink and decided to stay with us. You know yourself, it's dangerous for a young woman to be out in Moscow late at night, even when she's sober, let alone when she's drunk."

"And where's our son?" her husband asked in an irritated tone.

"At Tatiana's mother's place, along with her son."

"I'm not fond of your friendship with her. What could you possibly have in common with a single mother?"

"Peter, don't start. I'm not a fan of your nocturnal excursions to the forest either. But I don't make you stay home. Your relaxation with your friends is your business, just as mine with my friends is mine. There on the refrigerator are four tickets to the Bolshoi Ballet. Would any of your forest wanderers go there with you? You don't even have to answer that. I know it already. They avoid the ballet like the plague. They think that songs around a campfire with a guitar are the pinnacle of cultural activity. But the girls and I went to see Spartacus and enjoyed ourselves immensely."

Especially after the ballet ended, I couldn't help but flatter myself in my thoughts.

While Marina balanced precariously between peace and argument, the hungry traveler consumed everything he found on the table. He felt much more at ease then—yawning, stretching with contentment. Deciding that at four in the morning, it would be better to be in bed with his beautiful wife than arguing with her in the kitchen, he said conciliatorily,

"Alright, don't get all worked up. If we're such different people, we'll need to find a way to make each other reconcile with our interests."

"That's more about you," his wife answered, still a bit offended, as she continued washing the dishes.

"Come here, I want to ask for your forgiveness."

"You can apologize in the morning when you've had some rest. You're too tired to make a proper apology, anyway."

He went to bed, and Marina finished washing the dishes. She glanced into our room and, seeing me behind the door, gave clear instructions for our departure,

"You'll leave at six o'clock. I won't get up to avoid waking him. Let Tatiana sleep until I wake her. We'll meet tonight at the Prague Restaurant and celebrate your departure." She took something out of her pocket and continued speaking, "Here's your underwear, Mr. Spy. You lost them while running down the corridor. I noticed them just in time. While my husband was taking off his boots, I managed to pick them up without him noticing.”

I attempted to detain her, my hands tracing along her unbuttoned robe. However, she eluded my grasp and said, uttering for the first time the word we had carefully avoided until now,

"I couldn't figure out why I fell in love with you at first sight. And now it suddenly occurred to me: it's your irrepressible sense of adventure, your love for risks, your constant craving for trouble. I doubt I could ever live with you, as I'm just the same way, but having you as a lover feels like a gift from fate."

With those words, she departed, leaving me to set the alarm on my wristwatch for six in the morning before sliding under the covers of Tatiana and Vadim's bed.

Those two hours of sleep passed surprisingly quickly. It felt like I had just fallen asleep when the alarm chimed in my ear, proclaiming, "Get up, commander—it seems the homeland expects new acts of heroism from you." I was fortunate that I hadn't placed my arm under the pillow; otherwise, I might not have heard it, and around nine in the morning, I would have encountered Peter on his way to the bathroom for a shave.

"Hey, bro," I'd greet him, offering a friendly shoulder pat.

"I'm not your bro," Peter would object.

To which I'd retort, "Of course we're bros—if we're nursing from the same teat."

Following such nonsensical thoughts, I gingerly attempted to awaken Tatiana, who lay nestled between me and the navigator. When my hand brushed her thigh, she cautiously turned toward me, finding herself enveloped in my embrace. However, our efforts to keep the old sofa from creaking were in vain, prompting me to slip off the bed and onto the floor, tugging her along.

She galloped atop me like an adept equestrian astride her mount, eyes closed and head thrown back. Of course, she couldn't observe Vasiliev peering at us from beneath the blanket, his fist momentarily threatening me before  turning away to face the wall.

We vacated the apartment without incident. Returning to the airbase, we grabbed a few hours of rest at the hotel. In the evening, we reassembled at the restaurant to recount the prior night's escapade. Following some libations, a bit of dancing, we bid each other adieu until our next Moscow sojourn.

However, they'd be waiting a lifetime for that return flight.

Our companions in the capital would never uncover the truth behind the sudden cessation of visits from the lively comrades from Artem.

The most unsettling part was that they'd perceive us as turncoats. No one would ring them to convey the grim fate that befell us. My wife and other relatives would receive notification ahead of them; Mukhina herself would be informed about my fate, and even the waitress Lyudmila Salnikova might shed a tear in distant Kamchatka. But in Moscow, among our dearest acquaintances, no one would be there to bring the tragic news.




Chapter 18

Upon returning home, a series of unpleasant events unfolded. A white stripe of joy was soon followed by a black stripe of consequences.

Similar to an aircraft, a person's life consists of takeoffs, where it truly lives, and landings, where it sits idle on the tarmac. Sometimes the aircraft falls ill, much like a human, and instead of hospitals, it goes to aviation repair facilities. Occasionally, it encounters accidents, akin to a person breaking a bone or a heart attack. For the aircraft, it could be burst tires or engine failures. And at times, like a person in a car crash, it meets its end. More often, however, the aircraft ages, its usefulness dwindling, until it's finally retired to the scrapyard, where it's dismantled into smaller parts. Irrespective of whether the aircraft spent more time soaring through the skies or resting on the ground, its fate inevitably leads to dismantlement or a catastrophic crash on the Earth's surface. Similarly, for a man, no matter how many white stripes of joy he experiences or how many black stripes of consequences he endures, the ultimate outcome remains unchanged — an inescapable encounter with death.

The first attack came from the KGB's counter-espionage officer assigned to our wing.

He suddenly "discovered" that I had intentionally damaged the tire of one of the six wheels during a landing in Moscow. However, I had spent four and a half years in pilot's college studying aviation technology, while he had been in KGB school learning about border guard exploits with his wonder dog.
Exploiting this disparity in our education, I wrote three pages detailing the landing incident, including weather conditions, glide path angles, runway length, and a page about the braking coefficient in drizzle conditions.

The KGB officer skimmed through my explanation and promised to consult an aviation specialist. He didn't bring up the matter again, soon being preoccupied with other concerns.

The second bout of unpleasantness took a different form. During a regular communist party meeting, I found myself facing severe criticism. After my fellow party members had taken their seats, the party organization's secretary addressed the room,

"Comrade communists, there is one issue on today's agenda," he began. "It pertains to Comrade Grigoriev's political immaturity."

I set aside a crossword puzzle and focused on the accusations being levied against me. The party organizer opened my ominously-titled file and began to read,

"After returning from a routine mission, Comrade Grigoriev, while inebriated, made the following statement to his colleagues (and I quote): 'You must truly hold disdain for your own people to subject your flyers to—forgive the explicit language, comrades, but this is what he said—shitting outdoors when it's minus twenty-two Fahrenheit.' What did you mean by this, Valery, and who were you implicating with these words?"

A suppressed wave of laughter rippled down the row of my colleagues. Nearly a hundred communists in the room put down their books, magazines, and newspapers, turning their attention to the impending scandal with genuine interest. The communications officer from our squadron, seated behind me, commented to his neighbor,

"Valery's got himself into a mess again."

"Let's see how he wriggles out of this one," the man responded.

I glanced back at the two individuals speaking, casting a scornful look at both of them, and softly retorted,

"Don't be so quick to laugh, boys."

Then, without standing up from my seat, I spoke loudly,

"It's a lie.”

“What is a lie, Comrade Grigoriev?” said the party organizer, caught off guard by my audacious response. "You don't deny that you said those words, do you? Stand up and explain the situation to the meeting."

"The lie is," I began as I got to my feet, "that I was intoxicated when I made that statement. It was three weeks ago after we returned from  The Semipalatinsk Nuclear  Weapon Test Site. Have you ever been there, Comrade Party Organizer?"

"You're well aware that I haven't, Comrade Grigoriev. I'm a dedicated party worker, not a member of a crew."

"Then you're used to always sleeping in your own bed beside your spouse and conveniently using a warm bathroom equipped with a pristine white toilet?" I didn't wait for his response, my sarcasm rolling on: "But in my case, confined to a military hotel constructed back in 1947, devoid of any indoor restroom facilities, I found myself facing a wooden outhouse about 150 feet away from our single-story barracks. A path had been trampled through the two feet of snow by pilots just like me. Obviously, there were no lights in that shack. Running electricity to a wooden outhouse in the middle of nowhere is a luxury. So, I opened the door and saw, by the light of the moon, a pyramid of excrement sticking up from the hole cut into the floor. Do you comprehend?" I injected mockery into my voice. "At minus twenty-two degrees, human waste doesn't slide down, it builds a mound upwards. So, to avoid injuring my precious behind on that pointed mound, I relieved myself outside in front of the wooden shack and used snow instead of toilet paper. As you know, even in the late twentieth century, we still have a slight issue with toilet paper."

"So you wiped yourself with snow?" the wing doctor chimed in. "That's healthy. At least you won't be getting hemorrhoids."

The communists, who had been sitting quietly until then, erupted in laughter.

"After we returned," I pressed on, undisturbed by the hubbub in the room, "I shared this little anecdote with my friends, one of whom spilled the beans."

"Your attitude is all wrong," the party organizer tried to regain control of the meeting.

"Of course my attitude is wrong! What else could you expect from someone as brainless as me?" I retorted from my seat.

"I'm not questioning your intelligence, Valery. But if you take a look at the world map, you'll see the predicament our country is in."

He walked over to the political map of the world hanging behind him, picked up a wooden pointer, and began to enlighten me like a seasoned lecturer.

"Our homeland is currently facing challenging times. We're surrounded by enemies on all sides. In the west," he pointed at Western Europe, even including Turkey, "we have the formidable alliance of NATO. To the south, we're dealing with the hostile Afghanistan and rapidly expanding China. In the east, the US Seventh Fleet and Japan, which still hasn't signed a peace treaty with us. Underneath the polar ice, numerous American nuclear submarines are on patrol, ready for battle. For US strategic bomber aviation, the shortest route is across the polar region. We're encircled. The party and government are tirelessly working to ensure the safety of our entire population, not catering to the tender behinds of individual Grigorievs. What we need now are strategic nuclear missiles, not cozy bathrooms."

After the impassioned speech from the professional political officer, one felt the urge to shed a tear, shout "Hurrah!" and cringe in embarrassment, all at once. Instead of succumbing to those impulses, I asked,

"And how long will these 'temporary' difficulties endure? When will the valiant Soviet people finally live like human beings?"

"The party's approach is aimed at detente, and it will undoubtedly yield positive results. Eventually, the government will have the opportunity to reduce military spending and redirect funds towards improving the lives of the population."

I should have held my tongue at that point, allowing the party organizer to bask in the glow of his own eloquence and perhaps reconsider my case. But some inner spirit of defiance possessed me, and I blurted out once more:

"We can only dream of such times..."

"I see, Valery, that you are determined to persist in your misguided stance. This is doubly unacceptable for a commander, who should be setting an example of proper behavior for his subordinates. Today you criticize the government, tomorrow you'll be doing the same about the party, and the day after tomorrow you might be running to the American Embassy with classified documents or attempting to escape to Japan with an aircraft. We cannot allow that. Comrade communists, is there anyone willing to condemn the politically immature remarks made by comrade Grigoriev?"

No one volunteered to throw condemnation my way.

However, the party organizer had been true to his word about being a professional. He had prepped two technicians, both from rural backgrounds, to bring up the subject of the toilet. They went on to draw comparisons between it and the living conditions of more than half the country's population. They spoke of people bathing only once a week in communal bathhouses, the lack of hot water not only in villages but in most cities across the USSR. They highlighted how women were forced to wash laundry in holes cut through ice on lakes and rivers. They emphasized that in villages, all facilities were outhouses made of wood, and that there was nothing to complain about in that regard.


What fools they are, I thought. They're missing the point entirely. I'm well aware that the Majority of people are still living in the 19th century, and they're thanking their stars for having electric lights in their homes. People who've grown up cuddling with animals see any life slightly better than a pig's as pure paradise. And the multi-year wait to transition from the barracks to an actual apartment is deemed a brief period nestled between transient discomfort and genuine happiness. It's in that in-between that children grow up, playing war games in the long corridors of communal dormitories. And the number of broken families due to housing shortages exceeds all reasonable norms. I know all this, I'm not na;ve. All I wanted to know was who's accountable for this. But before I could even voice the question, I had a metaphorical brick hurled at my head.

I could have told them, You guys are ready to defend the party organizer tooth and nail. But it never occurred to you to question why he's so fiercely guarding our party's interests. And it's never crossed your minds to ponder why you've worn out more pairs of shoes than you can count on the concrete of taxiways, battling heat, cold, day, and night, bruising your fingers on metal, struggling to loosen a bolt on an aircraft engine with an open wrench. And yet, you still have to rent apartments on half of your pitiful salaries. Meanwhile, he, who hasn't even served a year with the wing, already has his own three-bedroom apartment. He jets off to a special spa resorts every year. It's his way of recovering from the battles he's fought against all these so-called 'politically immature Grigorievs.' He doesn't believe a word of his own rhetoric; he's only thinking about how to escape the clutches of little Artem and make his way to Vladivostok, or even better, Moscow. There he'll comfortably sit, biding his time in some political department, away from any Grigorievs who might rub him the wrong way.


After the technicians had their say, the voting commenced regarding the disciplinary measures to be imposed by the party. There was no question of my culpability. The only aspect still up in the air was the severity of my offense. Among the three options on the table—a reprimand, a formal censure, or a severe censure noted in my party record—the unanimous decision settled on a formal censure.

To hell with it, I thought at that moment. A formal censure isn't a stomach ulcer, and it won't put a dent in my salary.


Right after the meeting ended, members of my crew approached me. The guys didn't look great. Trying not to make eye contact with me, they began to assure me that there was no informer among them.

"I know. It's not your job. Don't worry. Instead, find out who did it."

"You know, Commander, a wise man once said, 'Don't look for the snake that bit you. Look for the antidote'," the navigator said.

"Who said that? Persian polymath Omar Khayyam?"

"Maybe Khayyam, or maybe another some," Vasilyev replied.

"Vadim, the best remedy for a soul wound is the death of the snake. You could quote me later," I responded, offering my own wise words in response to the quote from Omar Khayyam.




Chapter 19

A few days after that unfortunate communist party meeting, when the memory of it had mostly faded from my mind, I was in a classroom trying to solve a chess problem on a magnetic board. Playing both sides, I was strategizing to counter white's attack with the Queen's Gambit.

In walked my radio operator, Nikolai Onoprienko. He scanned the room, then approached me and took a seat across from me. Leaning over the chessboard and feigning deep thought, he spoke softly to me,

"Commander, you were ratted out by Semyon Zorin, the radio operator from Major Borisenko's crew."

"What are you talking about, Nikolai?" I responded, still moving chess pieces on the board.

"About the party meeting."

My interest in chess instantly waned, but I continued moving the pieces as I asked,

"Give me the details. How did you find out?"

"His wife told me a night before. He flew to Kamchatka peninsula yesterday morning, and as soon as I was sure their plane had taken off, I went to visit his house. Veronika, his wife, was home with their nursing child. We have a close relationship. We spent a couple of hours together, and before I left, she asked if you really got chewed out at the meeting. I downplayed it and asked what she knew. Veronika, being young and trusting like a child, confided in me that she had known about the meeting well in advance. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that her husband Semyon is the snitch. I distinctly remember he was among the group of pilots when you had your colorful outburst about that dreadful toilet after returning from the mission in Semipalatinsk."

"But have you considered the possibility that she might be involved with someone else besides you and her husband?"

"She's been married for just two years and isn't even in her twenties yet. Also, she doesn't have a phone in her apartment, so juggling multiple lovers would be tricky. In the year we've been together, I haven't seen anything suspicious."

"Well, you're quite the detective. I assume the child isn't yours?" I smirked playfully.

"No, I can't say whether it's Semyon's or not, but it's definitely not mine," Nikolai responded, feeling the weight of my gaze.

"Why are you so sure?" I continued my impromptu interrogation.

"I had my first encounter with her when she was already two or three months pregnant," Onoprienko explained.

"Alright, where is Zorin now?" I asked aloud, while internally plotting my next move.

"He's probably at the gym. Our squad is playing basketball against the second and third squadrons." The Petty officer seemed to have his finger on the pulse of everything.

"Well then, it sounds like it's time to join them. Care to come along?" I suggested.

"Based on the expression on your face, I think I'd better stay back at the staff building," he replied, rising from his seat.

"Suit yourself," I said, placing the chess pieces back in their box, then into my briefcase. I picked it up and headed toward the sports arena.


I changed my clothes in the locker room and entered the gym with around ten minutes left to play. The guys on our bench motioned for me to join in as quickly as possible. I casually walked around the basketball court and joined them. We were trailing by six points, which is why my team believed that having a fresh player like me might turn things around. However, my focus was on something entirely different – making sure I was on the same shift as Zorin. I'd figure out my plan from there.

Semyon was in good form on the court. The athletic young man grabbed rebounds, made passes, slipped past the opposing team's defenses, and positioned himself well to receive the ball again.

Unfortunately, not all our squadron team members could match his aggressive playing style. If we had one or two more players like Zorin, we would have easily beaten the combined teams of the second and third squadrons.

After a successful offensive maneuver against the joint team, I stepped onto the court, replacing the exhausted chief of staff. With my presence, our team's energy seemed to rise a notch. At twenty-eight years old, I had more stamina than Major Gryzlov, who was forty-two.

Gradually, we started closing the gap in the score. With less than two minutes left on the clock, Semyon Zorin once again surged past our defense, caught the ball, and was about to rush for the opponent's basket. I found myself behind him. As he propelled forward, I stepped on the heel of his supporting foot. Semyon's body lunged forward, his right hand managed to dribble the ball against the floor, he sought a teammate, but the sole of his left foot was trapped by my size nine sports shoe with "Made in China" written in English.

He let out a cry of pain and collapsed to the ground, unconscious. His calf muscle gradually contracted from its extended state and gathered under his knee.

Not bad, I thought. A ruptured Achilles tendon would necessitate the expertise of a micro-surgeon. If they didn't operate on him within a few hours, the radio operator could end up with a permanent limp. In any case, after a brief loss of consciousness, doctors wouldn't permit him to fly. They'd likely transfer him out of service and assign him to a remote communication battalion.

Alongside the rest of the team, I stood over Zorin, attending to his unfortunate injury. Everything unfolded so quickly and amidst a crowd of people that no one could piece together the incident.

Eventually, they concluded that the tendon had simply given out under the strain and ruptured on its own.

Hospital doctors hurried in to assess the injury. After their examination, they affirmed my diagnosis and prognosis. Two attendants placed Zorin on a stretcher and carried him off to the examination room.


During dinner in the mess hall, the entire wing buzzed with discussions about what had transpired. Sitting at the same table as me, Nikolai Onoprienko leaned in and said quietly,

"Well, Commander, you sure took revenge seriously."

"It wasn't me. It was purely coincidental," I lied.

"Of course, just a coincidence – and a completely pure one," he chuckled.

"Look at the bright side. With Zorin stuck in the hospital, his wife Vera will be home all alone… giving you a chance to unburden yourself to her. You can both shed a few tears for poor Semyon. Women appreciate it when you empathize with their husbands, especially when they're in your arms at the time.”




Chapter 20

The past two weeks had further frayed my already worn nerves. As a result, I decided to visit my wife and her wonderful family in Vladivostok. I informed them of my intended arrival on Saturday morning and set off for Vladivostok on Friday evening.

Svetlana Mukhina had been calling me every evening at the officers' dormitory. Her attention almost resembled that of a mother's care. Sometimes it bordered on the absurd, with her asking about my supper or the temperature of my room. Perhaps she was subtly suggesting that I invite her to visit for a day or two. However, I played innocent and ignored her transparent hints. The last thing I needed was to add a family scandal to my existing concerns, which were already enough to handle at work.

'No, Svetlana, that's not going to work. The dormitory staff should only know about one wife—my legal one. I won't bring anyone else into my bachelor's haven. But if you'd like me to visit you, that's another story. Please, invite me over. I would arrive with champagne, cognac, sweets, flowers—and everything else I had to offer. You could make unlimited use of it, but it's a limited-time opportunity,' I thought.

Of course, I didn't express any of this to her, and she didn't inquire about it either. On that late evening, when I finally arrived at her place by the last bus from Artem, she promptly opened the door the moment I rang the doorbell.

I stood in the dimly lit entryway to her apartment, bearing the quintessential gifts of a gentleman: a bouquet of crimson roses and a bottle of champagne, and I gazed at her. Her chestnut hair framed her face, a face that had frequented my dreams more than any other woman's. She looked at me with a smile. Her bright green, mischievous eyes and invitingly moist lips captured my attention.

In a tone as composed as if the intervening weeks of anticipation had never happened, I said, "Here I am."

She stood still for a moment, then responded in a soft voice, "Finally, I see you again..."

After our official reunion, we retired to the kitchen where a meal awaited me. Yet, what started as a romantic encounter quickly transformed into a typical binge, even the glow of candles illuminating Svetlana's kitchen couldn't prevent us from discussing the ordinary aspects of life.

Sharing grievances about our ill-fated circumstances, we became thoroughly intoxicated and collapsed into bed. I say ‘collapsed’ because when we awoke the next morning, we realized we hadn't even undressed. Our connection had evolved from that of lovers to confidants. At times, it was more important to have someone to confide in than to merely engage in physical intimacy.


"Take off your clothes, I'll iron them," Svetlana instructed when I opened my eyes the next morning. "You can't visit an Admiral's daughter looking like that."

"Press me instead. You see the state I'm in."

"You shouldn't have mixed champagne with cognac. What an evening you've spoiled," she teased while removing my socks.


As I took a shower, Svetlana pressed my trousers and shirt, entering the bathroom just as I was lathering my stubble with a shaving brush.

"Have you washed up already?" she inquired with a sly smile as she entered the bathroom.

"Yep," I responded, tugging my cheek for a smoother shave.

"Would you like to do it again?” she asked coquettishly, dropping her dressing gown.

“Nope,” I answered, moving on to my neck.

She waited until I put the razor under a stream of water, and, jumping onto my back, she said,

“Well, you’ll have to anyway.”


I was so taken up with shaving that I hadn't noticed that she had discarded her negligee behind my back. Her large breasts pressed firmly against my shoulder blades. Clasping my waist with her legs and hugging my neck with her arms, she said,

"Captain Grigoriev, you must put this love-struck telephone operator directly into the bath and release her onto the floor, only under the shower."

It is pleasant to acknowledge that there are people of such a merry character in the world. I had to submit completely to the love-struck telephone operator and undertake the treatment of her broken heart with intensive therapy beneath the shower.


I rang the bell of Rear Admiral Kapustin's apartment at the precise moment I had been scheduled to arrive. I had barely crossed the threshold when my wife Olga threw her arms around my neck and began to kiss my cheeks and lips, unabashedly happy at my arrival.

At least there is one person who can express their feelings openly. Happy girl. She doesn't have to lie or fib or prevaricate or try to pretend, I thought. She just lives her life and is happy with it. Or maybe she worries a little about her husband—he's a pilot, after all. That's a dangerous profession. But even then, she probably thinks about it only when her fellow students ask her.

I put my briefcase on the floor, took her by her waspy waist, lifted her from the floor, and kissed her in reply.

Well, she's not Mukhina's hundred and fifty pounds, Valery; your wife is under a hundred ten. I compared them without thinking while I was holding Olga—my mind returned to less than two hours before when I had been ridden by the full-bodied Svetlana in the bathroom of her apartment.

"That's enough kissing," said my mother-in-law on her way out of the kitchen. "Breakfast is ready. Valery is probably sick of mess food. No matter how hard they try in the officers' mess, they can't hold a candle to a home-cooked meal."

"Especially yours, Mum."

I took off my outer clothes, washed my hands, and went into the hall.

My father-in-law was putting out the forks on the table set for a holiday. Seeing me, he stretched out his hand to me, gave me a firm handshake, and said:

"Happy to see such a rare guest. Are you trying to keep your distance from your in-laws?"

"I'd like to visit more often, but the cargo traffic for the Pacific Fleet doesn't give me the opportunity."

"Come off it, what traffic? You'd be better off visiting us more often than inviting your wife every Friday to Artem. I understand that you're still comparative newlyweds, and you like to be alone together, but give us old folks the pleasure of seeing you every once in a while."

"Hmph. Some old folks. Life begins at fifty. It's the best time of your life. The passions die, and at last the time for a mature reflection upon a well-examined life begins…"

"I had no idea that our son-in-law was a philosopher," said my father-in-law.

He ruffled my hair affectionately, and looking at his women, he issued his commands,

"Girls, forward march into the kitchen and bring out the entr;e."

I cast my eye over the table, laden with appetizers, among which there were herring pate, crabs, flounder, red caviar, Olivier salad, shredded carrot salad with mayonnaise and garlic, pickled mushrooms, rolled meat rissoles, a vegetable salad, and something else I didn't recognize on several plates—and I imagined to myself what sort of entr;e might be in the offing.



We settled comfortably on the soft cushions of the Romanian dining room set, which had been fashionable fifteen years ago or so. 

My mother-in-law and wife entered the hall, carrying a tureen of stuffed dumplings and a large platter of honey-garlic pork chops. 

Our brunch stretched out into dinner.  Feeling stuffed from the abundance of delicious food, washed down from time to time with high-quality vodka, we sat at the table and enjoyed each other’s company.  I told my relatives about how my crew and I had gone to see “Spartacus,” adding a fabricated story for pure amusement about the radio operator falling asleep during the third act, and how the Majority of my 'eagles' were happiest with the buffet.  This entertained them a bit, but certainly didn’t surprise them. 

Transitioning our conversation to a discussion of the universal decline in the level of culture among the general public, we agreed with the Marxist tenet that “The environment conditions the consciousness of society” and not vice versa.

After dinner was finished, the women started to clear the table, and my father-in-law and I went into his study.  We stopped at the open window and began to examine the lovely panorama of the Bay of Golden Horn. 

Motorboats sliced through the smooth water, facilitating the continual connection between the warships and shore services.  In the center of the harbor anchored the pride of the Russian Pacific Fleet, the destroyer Admiral Zakharov.  The beauty of the picture was marred only by the recollection of the tragedy that had recently occurred on board.

While being readied for a lengthy Pacific campaign, loaded with a full contingent of rockets, torpedoes, and artillery shells, fully supplied with canned food, flour, and refrigerators stuffed with frozen meat, tanks filled with diesel fuel, the ship and its crew awaited the order to set off to sea.

The main ship’s engine idled to generate the internal electric power needed for on-board use.  At half past midnight, the blades of the turbine of this engine, breaking away from the rotor, pierced the sturdy plating of the engine and hit a fuel line.  Rupturing the pipe, a heatproof blade flew as far as the bulkhead and, losing its kinetic energy, slapped against the deck.  Diesel fuel began to flood the engine room.  At four in the morning, a fire broke out.  The fire alarm sounded by the ship’s commander aroused not only the crew and the fireboats to fight the blaze but also all the fire trucks of Vladivostok.  They stood along the shore, and their water cannons released a veritable waterfall upon the ship, in the bowels of which the flames raged.  The threat of an ammunition explosion forced the city authorities to evacuate the population from the apartment blocks nearest the harbor.  For twelve hours, the real threat of hundreds of people perishing existed, and the fire teams spent another eight hours extinguishing the local fires.

I asked my father-in-law,

“What is the future of the destroyer?”

“They’ve been repairing it gradually for God knows how many years.  They promise that the ship will be put back into service, but who knows when that will be? In my opinion, it would be more cost-effective for the state to scrap her at the Chazhminsky shipyard. The mention of Admiral Zakharov brings a pang of discomfort akin to a persistent toothache. But let's shift our attention to something more upliftings. How about sharing the latest updates from your wing?”

"Status quo remains unchanged. Those piloting AN-12s to the European part of the Soviet Union have taken to exchanging their cargo of fish and caviar for personal gain. Meanwhile, those operating AN-26s through the Maritimes have developed a rather questionable habit of pilfering anti-icing alcohol, which is either traded to local alcoholics or consumed personally," I responded, assuming my father-in-law grasped the underlying meaning of my words, although in reality, this assumption was only partly accurate.

"Do you mean that the crew members are stealing anti-icing alcohol? But how?“ my father-in-law asked in surprise, his eyebrows raised.

"Very simple," I replied, making it clear that the Rear-Admiral should grasp the concept easily. I proceeded to explain the intricate process of these thefts to him in detail.

"On AN-26s, there are plexiglass blisters on the left fuselage. Navigators use them for precise aiming when they drop parachute troops or cargo. However, during icy conditions, these blisters accumulate ice quickly, significantly increasing drag. To prevent the blisters from being torn off in flight, a metal pipe is connected to them, allowing them to be sprayed with pure grain alcohol. Since only the crew navigator has control over the fluid flow while the aircraft is in the sky, crews exploit this loophole and pilfer it."

"But that can't amount too much. A pound or two at most," my father-in-law interjected.

"Think again. Official alcohol consumption is estimated at twenty ounces per minute. For every hour the aircraft spends below freezing  temperatures, around ten gallons of alcohol are stolen. Considering that each crew spends at least a hundred hours annually in the air in such weather conditions, that's a staggering total of three tons of pilfered alcohol a year, giving the crew ample opportunities to log alcohol usage as they want."

"But those figures are astronomical!"

"Not exactly. During the summer, crews try to be discreet, so thefts are confined to months without the letter 'R.'"

"What do you mean?" my father-in-law asked curiously.

"May, June, July, August... no 'R' in any of those. But months from September to April are a different story... So during the summer, there's an unspoken agreement among crews not to report alcohol use, although they have the legal right to do so even then."

"So this isn't limited to your wing?" my father-in-law inquired.

"From one end of the Soviet Union to the other, everyone follows the same playbook," I responded.

"And how do they distribute it among the crew?"

"The pilot-in-command, navigator, and flight engineer each get a gallon, while the co-pilot, radio operator, and cargo mechanic each receive half a gallon from each ten-gallon canister. Of course, this only occurs if the officers at headquarters haven't already laid claim to the alcohol."

"If three members get a gallon each and the other three get half a gallon each, that totals four and a half gallons. What happens to the remaining one and a half gallons per canister?"

"Headquarters, headquarters. From each of the eighteen aircraft. From every flight, from every hour spent in the clouds."

"Transport pilots have a rather interesting side business," the Rear Admiral remarked wryly about my explanation.

"They can't really complain," I responded with a hint of amusement.

"So, flying an AN-12, are you dabbling in the fish trade?" my father-in-law inquired with a tone that made me slightly uneasy.

“No.”

“Then where did the fourteen hundred American dollars come from that you gave my daughter a few months ago?” he shifted his stern gaze to the harbor, as if not wanting to alienate himself from me with it.

“The money came unexpectedly, from a different source," I answered him, briefly recounting the flight with the businessmen and their cargo.

“Be cautious with those fellows,” he said with concern in his voice. “They've bribed everyone at aviation headquarters. If they suspect you of not holding up your end, they might not physically harm you, but they could set you up, and then you might find yourself in civilian clothes, with no one able to do anything about it. Friends are friends, but big money wields influence.”

We fell silent for a few minutes, as if contemplating a shift to a new topic. The Rear-Admiral continued,

“You should consider getting into international flights. The pay is similar, but the risk is much lower. And morally, it's on better ground. Right now you've taken from some thieves, but there you'd be paid directly by the government.”

"But I'm not allowed to travel abroad, you know," a secret hope arose in me for my father-in-law's help in realizing my long-time dream.

"Is that because you've made too many enemies?" my father-in-law grinned back.

"Not too many, but the ones I have are quite influential."

"And who in your unit has taken a dislike to a high-flyer like you?" the smirk of a newly acquired relative turned into a good-natured smile.

Well, well, I thought, it's time to expose the enemies and aimed an imaginary rocket at the first of them

"The political officer, primarily—Lieutenant Colonel Leonid Skvortsov."

"What does he fly?" my father-in-law took a keen interest in my predicament.

"He's on an AN-12, serving as a navigator."

"Where does his crew typically get its caviar?"

"In Yelizovo and Lenino on the Kamchatka Peninsula, and in Leonidovo on Sakhalin Island.”

“Both Kamchatka aerodromes are situated inland, but the one in Sakhalin is almost on the coast. It falls within a zone where there's protection against seaborne incursions, thanks to a shore defense brigade under my jurisdiction. I have favorable connections in both the fish inspection and the prosecutor's office in Sakhalin. Give me a heads-up when your political officer is planning to fly to the European part of the USSR via Sakhalin.”

After these words, he fell silent for an extended pause. Knowing my father-in-law's demeanor, I grasped that our business talk had concluded. After a knock, my wife and mother-in-law entered the study.

“Mikhail,” my mother-in-law addressed my father-in-law, “why don't we take a leisurely walk along the embankment? The weather for a stroll to the port and back is truly splendid.”

“Youngsters, are you joining us?” my father-in-law inquired with a sly smile.

“Leave them be! Can't you see how your daughter is blushing? Get your coat on, and let the kids have a bit of privacy.”

“If we leave them alone, they might end up exhausted instead of refreshed,” my father-in-law said on his way to the closet, fetching a pair of casual pants and a light jacket.

“Oh, save your jests for the sailors,” my mother-in-law interjected in our defense.

They readied themselves to depart and eventually left. I approached my wife, embracing her delicate shoulders, and whispered,

"I've missed you."

Scooping her up into my arms, I carried her into the room that doubled as her study and bedroom.




Chapter 21

I had to wait for about a month for a suitable opportunity to strike back at Lieutenant-Colonel Skvortsov. The task assigned to Deputy Air Wing Commander for Flight Training Lieutenant-Colonel Malyshev was well-suited for the conditions required to obtain and later distribute a substantial shipment of fish. The assignment involved picking up twenty crates of defective parts for anti-ship missiles from Leonidovo Aerodrome on Sakhalin and delivering them to the factories responsible for their production. The delivery destinations included Chelyabinsk, Sverdlovsk, and Perm, three industrial centers of Russia situated along the Ural Mountains. The mission was estimated to take seven days.

The crew, with our Air Wing political affairs officer serving as the navigator, had covered the distance from Artem to Sakhalin in just two and a half hours. Now, they were preparing for the next leg of their journey, flying from Leonidovo to the city of Sverdlovsk, formerly known by the name of the Russian Empress Catherine the Second.


The aircraft's flight engineer securely fastened between the military crates two hundred kilograms of sturgeon caviar and one and a half tons of pink salmon. Leonid Skvortzov double-checked the barrels, settled with the local fishermen, and stepped outside to smoke by the plane's ramp.

The pilot-in-command arrived in a Jeep from the command-dispatch point. In his hands, he held a flight plan. On it was the blue stamp "TAKEOFF APPROVED" and a scribbled signature of the duty officer at the airfield.

There were fifteen minutes left before engine start. Lieutenant Colonel Malyshev stopped by Skvotzov and took out cigarettes. His hands were shaking slightly, and he broke two matches trying to light cigarette. The deputy commander for political affairs took out a lighter from his pocket and handed it to the commander, asking him,

“What's up?”

“Feeling a bit of heartache,” Malyshev replied.

“You should drink less,” Skvortzov responded.

“It's not from the vodka. No matter how much I drink, my heart has never felt this tight. And now it's so unpleasant in my soul. My pulse is racing, twenty-eight beats in fifteen seconds. Some kind of premonition. Did the fishermen tell you anything?”

“Why would they tell me anything?”

“Maybe they saw something suspicious? Strangers on the airfield, for example.”

“No, they just said that the Leontievka River is full of pink salmon and that next time they'll bring as much red fish to the plane as we can take.”

Malyshev was about to ask the political officer something else, but before he could, his attention was drawn to a black truck rapidly approaching their aircraft on the main taxiway.

Four men emerged from the truck. The driver backed the truck under the tail, while the two officers from the prosecutor’s office and the two fish inspectors climbed the metal ladder into the cargo hold.

The flight's departure was delayed by two hours as the illegally transported fish cargo was unloaded onto the parking area's concrete surface. A confiscation order was filled out for the fish and caviar. Additionally, the head of the inspection group warned of the impending consequences that awaited the crew upon their return to their home base.


While Malyshev’s crew was on his mission, documents prepared by the Sakhalin Island Prosecutor’s Office arrived at the military prosecutor's office of the Artem garrison.


Colonel Vorobiev, the Head of the Prosecution Department, summoned all the officers and noncommisioned officers who had been on the flight for an initial interview. Providing a brief outline of the case that had been compiled against them, along with customary exaggerations, he proposed that each person present compose a confession detailing the roles of all participants.

Hoping to prevent a scandal and find a way out of this delicate situation, the political officer proposed to the prosecutor,

“Could we perhaps settle this unfortunate incident among ourselves? After all, in cases of dispute, military prosecutors should be defending the interests of military personnel, especially when the plaintiff is a civilian organization.”

As Skvortsov spoke, Colonel Vorobiev's face grew increasingly red. When Skvortsov finally fell silent, the prosecutor, now purple with anger, shouted so forcefully that it seemed the windows might shatter and the ceiling collapse upon the accused,

“Military prosecutors stand for the law, not for military personnel engaged in petty theft. Let me repeat that for your understanding. Do you comprehend me?”

“Understood, Sir,” replied the political officer in a resigned voice.


The crew members, attempting to distance themselves from any culpability, placed the entirety of blame on the mastermind behind the fish operation. They provided elaborate accounts of how they had engaged with the Sakhalin fishermen and the Sverdlovsk wholesalers. However, as no directive from the Pacific Fleet Military Prosecutor, who themselves were potentially implicated in the fish operation, had been issued to Colonel Vorobiev to eliminate the operation as a whole, he signed an 'order to terminate the preliminary investigation'.

Colonel Vorobiev knew that this operation was beyond his jurisdiction. Right from the outset, it was clear to him that Skvortzov was the intended target, with the focus solely on him. However, given that the officer in question held the position of a political affairs deputy, Vorobiev understood that the decision regarding his fate would have to be made at higher levels of authority.

This is why the Artem garrison military prosecutor forwarded all the relevant documents, along with his comments, to the Pacific Fleet Headquarters.

The headquarters took particular notice of the comments provided by the prosecuting Colonel. Without further inquiry, Deputy Air Wing Commander for Flight Training Lieutenant-Colonel Malyshev was demoted to squadron commander, while Political Officer Skvortsov was reassigned to the Romanovka air base, where he would serve as a navigator aboard a reconnaissance aircraft TU-16R.

Chapter 22

The Romanovka air base is situated right on the shores of the Ussuri Bay. It serves as the home for the reconnaissance Air Wing equipped with TU-16R Badger aircraft. The primary mission of this wing is to patrol the western shore of Japan and the eastern shore of the Korean Peninsula, thereby monitoring the Sea of Japan and the Korean Strait.

In addition to housing the the reconnaissance Air Wing, the air base is also home to the Air Wing operating vertically taking-off and landing fighters, specifically the Yak-38 Forger.

Occasionally, my transport wing's crew provided radar support to the low-flying reconnaissance aircraft. Our re-transmission aircraft was positioned at the farthest end of the secure ramp and was always guarded by armed personnel.

The cargo hold of this aircraft was outfitted with specialized equipment designed to intercept potential enemy in-flight radio communications. Our pilots had access only to the pilot's cockpit, while personnel from the Main Military Espionage Department of the Ministry of Defense operated the radio-electronic equipment. These personnel typically arrived from Vladivostok two hours before take-off, departing under armed guards immediately after landing.

On one occasion, while flying this aircraft on its ceiling and feeling exhausted from tracing elliptical patterns along the Japanese coast, while grappling with the discomfort of the oxygen mask fixed to my helmet, and with forty minutes still left to complete the mission, I received a coded order: "Return immediately to your base."

This was highly unusual. The surprise deepened as I encountered a group of officers awaiting my aircraft's landing. In addition to the customary espionage officers, the wing commander and chief of staff were present. Such a reception implied that something was amiss.

What have I done wrong this time? I pondered, reviewing my flight. If I have, somehow, disappointed the military espionage officers... I might as well prepare to be incinerated, like they burned alive GRU Colonel Oleg Penkovsky in 1963.

Before the propellers had fully ceased their rotation, I unfastened my parachute, tumbled out of the emergency hatch, and hurriedly made my way to report to the commander about the unexpected order to terminate my mission.

Interrupting my report, he waved his hand, seemingly signaling,

"Forget it, Grigoriev. I don't have time for this now." However, he verbally instructed,

"Grigoriev, did you hear anything unusual on the radio during the flight?"

Sensing that something extraordinary had occurred, but relieved that it didn't involve me, I responded in a concise, formal manner,

"Nothing to report, Comrade Colonel."

"If you recall anything, report it immediately."

Curious about the situation, I asked unofficially, once I realized I wasn't in trouble,

"What's happened, Commander?”

"Two of our aircraft from Romanovka were sent out to photograph the new Japanese tank transport ship. According to Japan's defense policy formulated after the Second World War, they don't have the right to build offensive weapons like the ship they recently launched. For our government to make a formal protest, they need detailed pictures of the ship. Reconnaissance aircraft located it today in neutral waters seventy miles off the Sado Island.

They flew in at very low altitude to take photographs, and your aircraft was facilitating continuous radio contact between them and fleet headquarters. Additionally, the radio espionage specialists on board your aircraft recorded conversations of the fighter pilots who were shadowing our planes.

Four Japanese F-18s followed them closely after their first pass over the ship. One pair of Japanese planes hovered over the leader, who was photographing at two hundred feet, while the second pair hung over the trailing aircraft, flying a bit behind and fifty feet higher. The cloud base in the target zone, according to the pilot of the trailing plane, was between two hundred and three hundred feet. The crew of the trailing aircraft occasionally flew into clouds, losing visual contact with the leader.

The next time the trailing plane emerged from the cloud cover, it observed a bright flash where the lead aircraft should have been and then saw the aircraft itself. The leader was spinning without one wing and was engulfed in flames. Both pairs of Japanese aircraft immediately returned to shore. The trailing aircraft, now alone, circled a few times a hundred feet above the water. It observed a dark oil slick, burning fragments, and a Japanese frigate hurrying towards the scene of the crash."


While the wing commander brought me up to date about what had happened, hoping that this information would in some miraculous way refresh my memory, the radio specialists left the aircraft under guard. 

“Grigoriev, until the arrival of the official communiqu; about this catastrophe you are not to speak with anyone about it.  This is an order, understand?”

“Yes, sir, comrade Colonel.”

“Go and take care of your post-flight duties.”

“Yes sir.”

In a week the promised communiqu; had arrived. The wing commander summoned the pilots to the Flight assignment classroom and familiarized them with its contents.

Besides the details about our spy flights, which I already knew about from the wing commander, it contained a decoding of the radio communications between the fighter pilot and the tower.  It turned out that the airbase Niigata, call sign “Sakura,” issued the following orders which were acknowledged by the pilots:

Base: “243, locate your target.”  (Pause)

Pilot: “‘Sakura,’ the target is located.” (Pause)

Base: “243, intercept your target.” (Pause)

Pilot: “‘Sakura,’ the target has been intercepted.” (Pause)

Base: “243, lock your missile on the lead aircraft.” (Pause)

Pilot: “‘Sakura,’ locked on target.”


Having finished reading the communiqu;, the commander informed us that the Japanese had recovered three of the deceased crew members' bodies and had handed them over to our representatives. The fate of the remaining three men from the fatal flight was unknown. Then the Colonel shared his perspective on this extraordinary occurrence,

"As you understand, on the magnetic tapes taken from the aircraft commanded by Captain Grigoriev, the command to destroy the target was not evident. Neither was the pilot's report about the target's destruction. From this, we can formulate three suppositions:

First, the rocket, once locked onto the target, launched itself, detached from the underwing pylon, and hit its intended mark.

Second, due to personal animosity or other reasons, the pilot couldn't control his nerves and initiated the annihilation of the Russian crew independently.

Third, the Japanese might have utilized a covert communication channel to guide their military aircraft, one that wasn't intercepted by our radio specialists.

Taking into account the quality of Japanese technology and the discipline of their forces, the first two hypotheses are highly unlikely. However, the Japanese diplomats, who will attempt to justify their actions to our Foreign Ministry, will undoubtedly lean towards one of these explanations. That's all. You're dismissed."


After leaving the classroom, the pilots gathered around me in the corridor, seeking information about the flight. Convinced that I knew only what they did, the officers went about their business, light-heartedly joking that the Soviet government could have awarded Grigoriev for "bravely sleeping" through the entire flight. I replied in jest that I was as indifferent to commendations as I was to condemnations.

I don't recall my last commendation, but not too long ago, I received my latest reprimand. Unfortunately, such unpleasant thoughts are surfacing during my final moments in the pilot's seat among the humid and hot jungle surrounding me.




Chapter 23

It was a highly contradictory case. In any normal society, one might have been commended for such an act, but in our topsy-turvy environment, they naturally took the opposite approach. Instead of being rewarded, I ended up facing consequences.

My crew was assigned the task of delivering around a ton of assorted cargo and one female passenger to the Iturup Island, a part of the Kurile Islands. I was informed at headquarters that I would spend the night on the island and return the next morning with some dismissed sailors at the end of their draft service and the same woman.

Up until August 1945, this island was under Japanese control. The previous owners had constructed several airbases on it, using the labor of Korean and Chinese prisoners of war.

We were to visit one of the most unique bases. Its uniqueness stemmed from the grim process of carving it out of the mountain range, using picks, crowbars, and shovels wielded by thousands of prisoners subjected to torment and death, spanning from the eastern shore of the island along the Pacific Ocean to the western side that jutted into the Sea of Okhotsk.

This airbase was a pilot's dream come true. The prevailing winds always blew parallel to the runway, either from the ocean or the sea. Natural cliffs, reaching heights of three hundred feet, provided shelter from crosswinds. The base had a staff of twenty-eight under the command of a Major.

The Joint Staff designated this modest airbase as a "jump-off" base. This implied that aircraft departing for oceanic military missions and returning could refuel here. The rocky runways accommodated the landing of aircraft with virtually unrestricted gross weights.

In favorable weather, the aerodrome could be spotted from twenty or thirty miles away. Approaching from the Sea of Okhotsk side, I gazed at the majestic panorama of the Bohdan Khmelnitsky Volcano, its crater veiled by a light haze. The town of Kurilsk, the island's most populous center, lay near the volcano's base. The copilot surveyed the Catherine Strait and the distant island of Kunashir. The diligent navigator remained absorbed in calculations. We chose a straight landing approach, with Vasiliev precisely pinpointing the descent point.

Approximately five miles from the aerodrome, I noticed a group of people assembled on the threshold, enthusiastically waving their hats and even tossing them into the air. It was evident that they were elated about our arrival. I've never encountered such a welcoming reception.


Flying over their heads at an altitude of forty feet, we landed and began the braking procedure. The tail gunner reported that the group was running alongside the runway in joyous excitement. A collective euphoria seemed to have taken hold of them.

When I later learned about our cargo, everything fell into place. We had brought one hundred eighty round cans of films for their theater, securely packed in thirty medium-sized wooden crates.


The aerodrome's commander greeted me warmly and entrusted my crew to his deputy's care. He then turned his attention solely to our female passenger. The wing had alerted me that this was no ordinary woman but a cashier bearing a substantial sum of money. She was responsible for disbursing the payroll for the entire aerodrome staff over the last six months. What hadn't been communicated, however, was that this cashier was also the wife of the aerodrome commander.

When the Petty officer, performing deputy duties, informed me of this, the rationale behind delegating 'special attention to 'secondary personnel' became clear. While the sailors unloaded the aircraft and the flight engineer replenished the wing tanks, I toured the aerodrome with the Petty officer.

“You don't even have a dog looking after the sheep, I see,” I commented on what I had seen.

“Where would they go off to? On these walls,” he pointed towards the smooth surfaces of the cliffs, “even rock climbers couldn't keep their footing.”

“Listen, comrade Petty Officer,” I addressed my companion, “Why did you put the cistern in front of the barracks?”

“It's our Major's invention. It's called the ‘military prison.’ If a sailor gets drunk or goes AWOL to the nearest settlement, we put him in an iron barrel. Probably you didn't pay any attention, but there are holes drilled into the lid to keep the prisoner from suffocating. The lid is bolted onto the mouth of the cistern, and the prisoner doesn't have to be guarded. It's just like with these sheep. He sits there a few days, gets fed once a day, and either howls from despair or begs for forgiveness.”

“What do the higher-ups think about this? After all, that isn't entirely legal…”

“For them, the main thing is not to have a single man die during our commander's watch. And so they turn a blind eye to his little inventions.”

“You mentioned a settlement. Is it far from here?”

“Seven miles along any shore.”

“Could we possibly visit it?”

“Believe me, Commander, there isn't a single interesting thing there.”

“Then why do the sailors run there? After all, seven miles one way and seven miles back isn't exactly a stroll in the park.”

“Some of them go for the girls, but mostly they go to get vodka in the village shop.”

“Well, there's a reason for us to visit the settlement. Judging by the number of sheep you have here, it looks like it's mutton for supper. And  as the villagers of the Caucasus mountains say, ‘Only dogs eat mutton without vodka.’ Of course, you poor fellows don't count—you have to eat mutton every day.”

“That's exactly right about our menu,” answered the Petty officer. “Muttons, red caviar and salmon. On the mainland, people may dream about salmon, but I've had enough to last me for three lifetimes.”


Two hours later, in the company of the now somewhat worn-out Major, we went by truck to the settlement with the modest name “Fisherman's Village.”

“You look a little tired, Commander. Did you have to recount the money with the cashier?”

“Three times,” he answered me with a welcoming smile and asked, “You have a sharp wit, Captain—I hope it doesn't get you into trouble…"

“There has been the odd occasion,” I answered.

“And how do you get out of it?” the Major asked me again.

“Black magic,” I was tired of the commander's curiosity and decided to change the topic of conversation.

“Does it help?” he mocked.

“Yes, but not always, unfortunately. Listen, why do we keep traveling on the edge of the water? We're already fifteen hundred feet from the shoreline.”

“You're afraid, are you?” he answered my question with one of his own.

“No, it just seems strange.”

"The sand here is very fine. When it dries, it turns into impenetrable dust. Therefore, since there are no roads on the island, only the narrow bands of wet sand are suitable for transport purposes. And we're far from the shore because right now the tide is out and on the other side of the island, on the sea—"

I interrupted him, "Yes, I can guess. The tide must be in on the other side of the island."

"That’s right." He understood that I was making fun of him, shook his head disapprovingly, and continued.

"We’ll be heading back on that side, over there—you see?" he pointed toward the shore. "Where right at the foot of the cliffs, there is the frame of a truck? That’s where my sailors decided to take a trip to see the girls two years ago. They were caught by the rushing ocean tide and barely had time to run to the cliffs, their legs sinking up to their knees in the sand when the waves began to toss their truck end over end like a toy. I didn’t bring them up on charges before the military tribunal for the destruction of government property only because they had less than a month left to serve. I wrote off the old truck as obsolete and got a new one."

By the time our conversation had finished, we had reached the fishermen’s village. Several hundred families were living there. The men were mostly occupied with catching fish from small boats, while their wives worked in the fish-processing plant.

Having bought a few bottles of vodka, I wanted to take a walk through the village, but the Major stopped me with a simple question,

"Where were you heading off to, Valery?"

"I was going to drop by the local club and take a look at the shops."

"What club? What shops?" he laughed mockingly. "There’s nothing else here."

"But where do they watch the movies?"

"You’re like a little boy, honestly. The settlement is provided with electricity by a diesel generator. I have the same sort at the aerodrome. Only I have many fewer customers, and there’s enough power for everything, including a movie projector. But they have only enough electricity to power their lights," he said, nodding his head in the direction of the low wooden huts. "They don’t have televisions or irons or any other things that use electricity."

"What do they do in the evenings, then?"

"They count their money—three times a night."

"And how do they have their kids? There aren’t any hospitals here, either."

"All the sick people and women about to give birth are taken to the regional capital, Kurilsk, along the tide by car, and if it’s an emergency, a border guard helicopter is dispatched, and they are taken by air."


Depressed by what I had heard, I was silent for almost half the way back, until my attention was attracted by the tank towers that had been set up on concrete bunkers every six hundred feet. Their large-caliber cannons seemed to follow us on our way, always keeping our vehicle in their sights.

"What is this?" I asked the Major, nodding my head toward the artillery installations.

"Those are the shore defenses of the island," he explained readily. "Beneath the tank towers, in the narrow windows of their concrete bases, machine guns are set up. The service residence is located three floors underground. It consists of a miniature barracks, a mess, a toilet, and storage for provisions. All in all, everything that is needed for independent defense. Ten sailors under the command of a Sergeant service such a complex, although in peaceful times there are only two or three men, no more. There are such complexes all over the island in direct line of sight with one another, and they can provide fire cover for each other in the event of an enemy landing.”

"Why specifically around this island?" I asked.

"You ain't getting me. They've got setups on all them the Kurile Islands that the Russians are calling home. Before the World War Two, them islands were under Japanese control, and those folks ain't ever come to terms with losing 'em. Even now, they're still giving us the cold shoulder, refusing to shake hands and make peace. Damn stubborn. But we ain't taking no chances. We need some coastal defense for our own sanity. Running the show is Rear-Admiral Mikhail Kapustin, top-notch guy."

He seemed like he wanted to impress me and tossed in,

"I'm on familiar terms with him. When he swings by to check up on his underlings, he's always crashing at my place."

"I know him too," I replied, not too concerned.

"You probably ferried him in your plane?" The Major wasn't surprised.

"Nah, never flown him around. It's just that he's my father-in-law."

"Aha, no wonder you got that 'black magic' touch against your foes," he quipped after a pause.

"Haven't hurt any," I retorted.


Back at the airstrip, we found the sailors in the barracks catching a flick. They'd rigged up a grayed-out sheet for a screen, washed too many times. From their chatter, it seemed like it wasn't their first movie of the day. The commander shrugged at my observation,

"Don't get too amazed. First two months after a mainland plane lands, these guys gorge on three movies a day. Then, they run 'em backwards, laughing like kids. Especially when someone's sippin' something. You can picture their faces if vodka's flowin' outta a mouth back into a glass. It's a tradition passed down from the old hands to the newcomers, and no amount of bans can break it."

After chow, I asked the commander to draw up a list of the sailors shipping out tomorrow morning.

"Already taken care of," he responded. "When you fixin' to depart?"

"Ten hundred hours."

"We've got bunks for you and your gang over at HQ, for your comfort."

"Well, at least it's not a pit," I remarked, hoping he'd have a restless night with his cashier wife.

"Crafty one, you are, Grigoriev," he shot back at me, ditching a 'thanks' for my well-wishes.

Morning came, and right after breakfast, the crew headed to the plane for the flight back. Meanwhile, I buzzed the command post for take-off clearance. As I waited for a response, I peered out the window and saw the sailors hoisting my co-pilot onto a horse.

The guy had ditched his duties to go for a joy ride on this beast that was grazing not too far from their digs. No saddle, no reins, not even stirrups. Sergey was hugging that horse's neck with his arms, trying to balance while squeezing its sides with his legs.

Seeing the danger and imagining the mess if he took a tumble, I stepped out onto the HQ porch and hollered to the sailors who were having a grand ol' time at Lieutenant Kovalenko's expense,

"Cut the circus and get him off that horse!”


The commanding tone I used, coupled with the respect these sailors held for any AN-12 pilot operating in the area, spurred them into immediate action. With an attempt to capture the horse, they closed in from all directions. The startled creature reared up, and as Sergey released his grip on its neck, he aimed to clutch its mane but failed, tumbling to the ground. As he struggled to rise, the skittish horse, tossing its head and prancing about, accidentally trampled his leg under its hooves.

When Sergey recounted this episode later, he mentioned hearing the sound of his own bones cracking. Though I didn't hear that sound at the moment, I distinctly witnessed the shift from a jest to a tragedy.

The medic, who hurried over from headquarters, informed us with a sagely expression,

"The tibia and fibula are broken."

Even without his input, that was plain to see.

We transported Sergey into the barracks and laid him out on the pool table. The medic and I hastily fashioned a makeshift cast for his leg. The commander came by and handed me the roster.

"You left this document on my desk when you stepped onto the porch. Headquarters has granted clearance for your departure. However, should you consider informing them about this accident?" he inquired.

"Absolutely not."

"Why such an outright refusal, Valery?"

"Because if I do, they'll bar me from taking off. I'll get airborne without notifying them. Otherwise, he could lose his leg. It'll take at least ten hours before another aircraft is prepped in Artem, sent over here, and returns. Every hour counts for him."

"Why do you think they'll send another aircraft for him?"

"Since without a copilot I could set course for the Japanese Island of Hokkaido instead of for Vladivostok, and I’d land in Sapporo instead of Artem. I only need twenty minutes to fly to Japan, whereas it’s a two-hour flight to my home base"

"But what's to prevent you from doing that during a regular flight?"


As the sailors carried Kovalenko in a stretcher toward the plane, the Major, his wife, and I trailed behind, stealing glances at the copilot, who attempted a faint smile.

"Nothing holds me back. Yet headquarters sees it differently. Here's how the brass figures: if the Captain decides to double-cross the homeland, the rest of the crew would yank him out of the cockpit, give him a taste of rough justice, and the co-pilot would salvage the aircraft for some form of landing. But today's scenario, where I'd be flying solo, makes the whole crew my captives. I could steer toward Japan or even the moon, and they'd come along silently. Over at fleet headquarters, you can always find a bunch of jittery types who've already entertained the notion of me going rogue. No argument would secure me clearance for takeoff after such a report. Trust me, they couldn't care less about whether he keeps his leg or not. They're solely concerned with protecting their own hides. After all, if I touch down in Japan, half the rats at headquarters would be out of jobs.”


At the aircraft, he shook my hand, gave his wife a kiss, and once she had disappeared into the fuselage, he offered his parting words,

"You'll get my wife to Artem. After that, you can fly to Sapporo or even Singapore, for all I care."

"It'll be done, Commander. No worries."


Approaching my aerodrome, I requested that an ambulance be on standby upon landing. To avoid causing alarm among the wing's commanders, I fibbed, explaining that one of the passengers had fallen ill. That kind of declaration invariably guarantees a full reception, complete with the Air Wing commander present at the plane's side upon touchdown. This time, the chief of staff and a representative from the KGB joined them. All that was missing was a brass band.

When the stretcher was lowered from the plane, and the wing commander recognized my badly injured copilot in Sergey, a storm of anger was unleashed upon me. Without going into detail about the choice phrases that were thrown my way, let's just say the essence of his remarks could be boiled down to,

"Give me a quick rundown of what happened, and have a comprehensive report on the accident ready by tomorrow."

Within a few days, the commander gathered all officers holding the rank of Captain or higher and read out the decree issued by the aviation fleet commander,

"Commander Grigoriev is to be reprimanded for disregarding flight safety protocols."

As they dispersed, the officers, in their customary fashion, grumbled,

"All you need now is a reprimand from the Minister of Defense to complete your collection."

"Looks like he got a slap on the wrist again instead of a medal."

No one was willing to outright state that any reasonable person would've acted in precisely the same way.




Chapter 24

For six months, I exclusively flew to aerodromes in the Far East, each mission paired with a different copilot. Because my crew never had a chance to fully gel, I wasn't assigned to long-distance flights. But come autumn, Sergey returned from his leave, his once-broken leg having healed remarkably well. He passed his physical, and once again, we were a battle-ready team.

Concurrently, the antisubmarine aviation unit started receiving brand-new ship's helicopters Ka-27 Helix from the factory. Our wing's duty was to accompany and transport the supplies allocated to these new helicopters.


Our destination was the Bashkir town of Kumertau. These missions were monotonous, unexciting, offered no real rewards, and devoured a significant amount of time and effort. If it weren't for my crew's knack for stumbling upon escapades even where none seemed possible, we could have easily written off the months spent on this initial re-equipping process.

On one typically mundane evening, we were lounging in a hotel restaurant. Concealed beneath the lengthy tablecloth was a gallon container of pure grain alcohol, casually positioned by our feet. The radio operator would occasionally pour it into a vodka carafe, and we'd down it in shot glasses, all while enjoying the Bashkir national delicacy of mutton ribs roasted over an open flame.

In addition to us, the room was occupied by about twenty men clad in padded jackets and roughly-crafted boots, along with a very attractive woman dressed in a chic gown and Italian heels.

Three dour-looking Bashkir men shared a table with her, consuming their food and drink in silence, seemingly indifferent to her presence. Periodically, their gaze would shift toward the entrance, where young, robust men would enter and promptly exit after scanning the room.

At last, one of these newcomers strode assertively to the center of the room. Sneaking up behind the lone woman's companion, he abruptly kicked his sturdy chair from beneath him.

Caught off guard, the man swiftly rebounded to his feet, delivering a powerful punch to his aggressor's face.

A brawl erupted.

The Bashkirs seated with the targeted man discarded their cutlery and joined in assaulting the young newcomer. Three hotel lobby policemen hurried into the scene. Swinging their rubber batons, they rained blows upon the fighters, ushering them outside. The other patrons of the establishment calmly trailed the law enforcers to the exit.

As the escalating commotion from the street reached our ears, we approached the glass wall, pulling aside the curtain to witness with intrigue the unfolding mayhem outside.

Initially, the trio accompanying the young woman faced a barrage of blows from a throng of youths assembled outside. It soon became evident that they had been set up.

The chair-toppling stunt had been a crude provocation. But as the companions of the assaulted men exited the restaurant, the skirmish evolved into a clash between more or less evenly matched factions.

They battled with unrelenting intensity. I had never seen forty men so intent on causing harm to each other, all while maintaining an eerie silence, free from the usual shouts and excessive cursing. "This is probably due to the fact that Bashkirs are Muslims," I speculated.

Three policemen and the lone woman stood on the hotel's porch near the main entrance, gazing indifferently at the spectacle unfolding. The lady had enveloped herself in an angora jacket, yet it was clear that the shivers coursing through her were impervious to its supposed warmth. This could be attributed to either the cold or her apprehension.

Meanwhile, the policemen, having lit up cigarettes, conversed amongst themselves. Their overall demeanor indicated a sense of accomplishment in their mission and a belief that the hotel had been spared from devastation.

Standing beside me, the radio operator swiftly assessed the situation and requested,

"Commander, let me head out until morning."

"Go ahead," I nodded. "Just stay out of the fight."

We continued to stand by the window as before, observing as Onoprienko approached the woman from behind and whispered something into her ear. Then, with an air of seeming nonchalance, he vanished into the dimly lit streets of Kumertau. Five minutes later, the instigator of the brutal conflict followed the same path, her jacket now fastened. Convinced that no one was pursuing our radio operator, we left the window and returned to the table to continue our revelry.

The following morning, when Onoprienko returned, he regaled us with an intriguing tale.


The spouse of the beauty from the day before had been imprisoned for a staggering eight years on charges of armed robbery. Sadly, he was the only member of the thieving gang singled out during the investigation and subsequent trial. Despite the prosecutor's relentless efforts, he steadfastly withheld the identities of his partners in crime, thwarting any attempts to elevate his charges from "Armed Robbery" to "Conspiracy."

Had that been successful, his sentence could have been extended by at least an additional five years. His silence regarding his accomplices wasn't a result of camaraderie or a code of thieves' honor. Rather, the young delinquents interpreted his reticence in their own way. So, when he managed to bribe the guards and convey his directives, they eagerly pledged to comply.

He had a solitary request: to ensure that his wife remained faithful throughout his prison term. Saying 'eight years of constant surveillance' is simple enough, but in practice, executing this task was considerably more complex. The small Ural town, long divided into territories by various gangs, observed with keen interest as the incarcerated husband's gang intimidated or thrashed any man attempting to exploit the situation.

Not many dared to indulge in a night of passion with the stunning wife. Mostly, it was other bandits like her husband, albeit from different corners of the town. On occasions, invitations to the movies or a restaurant merely served as a pretext for the next clash between rival gang groups.

The prior day had played out this way—none of them had a moment to spare for her. The men were engrossed in their 'grand' affairs, while she, consumed by desire, found herself entangled yet again in someone else's affairs. Thus, when a bold stranger sidled up to her and whispered, "Follow me," she acquiesced to his commanding voice without a second thought.

As for how they spent the night, one could only speculate. Yet, judging by the radio operator's appearance, he resembled the cat that got the cream, it was evident that the fellow hadn't managed a wink of sleep yet.




Chapter 25

It's curious how, in the face of impending death, the mind mostly retrieves memories of air accidents I'd been a part of, drunken escapades, and love affairs. Was there nothing else worthwhile to replay? After all, my life comprised more than just flying, and these other experiences also had their unsavory aspects...

Each month, all pilots and engineers in our wing had to take turns serving as officers on watch. Given my own lack of discipline and moral inconsistency, it was a rarity for me to fulfill this duty without some kind of complication arising. On occasion, squads of marines or frogmen—truth be told, I'm not entirely sure—parachuted onto our base, strategically placing practice mines on our aircraft. Other times, sailors illicitly brought women into the barracks, and before daybreak, I'd be scrambling to locate them concealed under the beds.

But on this one occasion, when I was nearly through my watch without incident, just as I was reviewing the inventory of officers' personal firearms, a discrepancy emerged. One 9mm Makarov pistol and sixteen cartridges for it were unaccounted for. Consulting the records to trace the missing pistol's whereabouts, I promptly ascertained that the Petty officer assigned to remote control gate number three hadn't yet come to our headquarters to return his weapon.

In a composed manner, I endeavored to explain the situation to the engineer relieving me of watch duty. Displaying the Petty officer's signature on the receipt for the pistol and cartridges, I proposed that he take over the watch so I could head home. His response, however, was a flat refusal.

I reiterated my explanation. "You bear no responsibility. Sign off on the watch with the accurate count of weapons on hand. I'm not asking you to vouch for a pistol that's missing. The Petty officer will be held accountable. Even if he lost it, sold it, or traded it for a drink. That's not your concern."

Yet again, he declined.

"Fine," I conceded. "It's currently eighteen forty hours, and you're already forty minutes overdue for accepting the garrison duty watch. At nineteen hundred hours, the second-to-last bus will depart from the airport station. If you don't sign the watch journal within the next fifteen minutes, I'll miss that bus. I don't have a car. The last bus won't leave until twenty-three hundred hours. I've already been here for 24 hours, and due to your stubbornness, I'll be stuck at headquarters for another four hours, wasting my time.. Do you comprehend the situation?"

And his response came,

"No."

And that was the extent of it.

So, what could I possibly do with him?

"Listen here, you idiot," I said to him, frustration evident in my tone. "Soon enough, you'll be pleading with me to let you sign off on the watch.”

I retrieved my pistol (serial number MN-4683965) from its leather holster, made my way to the weapons room, and without removing the magazine from the pistol grip, I pulled back the bolt, sending a cartridge into the chamber. I disengaged the safety and, fixing my gaze on the pale engineer, fired a shot into the wall between the pistol and cartridge safes.

The engineer shot out of the watch room even faster than the bullet exited my gun. The sound of his hasty departure reverberated through the empty corridors of the two-story building.

Off he goes to lodge a complaint with the commander. Ground rat, I seethed with anger.

Dazed by the blast that rang out in the compact armory, I stood there with the pistol in my right hand. The wing's chief of staff entered the room cautiously and inquired,

"Valery, are you alright?"
"Generally speaking, yes, but my ears are still ringing."

"Then place the gun down carefully on the safe and step out of the armory."

I complied with the Lieutenant-Colonel's instructions. As soon as I emerged, he took my keys to all the service rooms, locked up the pistol room, and then instructed us to proceed to the wing commander's office.

Exiting the watch room, the Petty officer stationed at control gate number three entered the building. I glared at my engineer with a mixture of resentment and anger. In the commander's office, I detailed the ordeal of being paired with an unbudging imbecile according to the watch schedule. How he had driven me to distraction with his obstinacy, and how, due to fatigue, I forgot to remove the magazine from the pistol before firing a test shot into the wall. The engineer stood there in silence. The commander gave me a critical once-over and quipped,

"Are you a fool, Grigoriev, or just putting on a show?"

Without addressing me further, he turned to the chief of staff,

"From now on, do not issue him any firearms. Send him home in my car immediately."

"We can't have anyone on watch without weapons," the chief of staff attempted to object. "Where should he be assigned?"

"Then don't assign him to the watch. Make sure he gets more missions and less time at the base—keep him as far away from here as possible. There will be fewer complications."

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he indicated that he was through with us, uninterested in dealing with the likes of someone firing their pistol within headquarters. Perhaps it was because a real scandal was brewing in the wing.




Chapter 26

The Communist Party and the elite of the KGB stood united like an impenetrable wall against any form of dissident thought, not only providing mutual support but also cultivating friendly connections on a personal level.

It was no surprise that the secretary of our party organization was the closest confidant of our wing's KGB officer. They jointly celebrated birthdays of family members, observed revolutionary and religious holidays, embarked on fishing and hunting trips together, gathered berries and mushrooms—essentially, they lived within the folds of each other's households.

Over time, affection blossomed between the party leader and the wife of the counter-espionage officer. They began to meet regularly in a rented apartment on the outskirts of town. Initially adept at concealing their secret liaisons from unsuspecting spouses, a profound emotion soon took root in their hearts, and their exchanged glances became increasingly telling to those around them. The fa;ade of friendship faded as their relationship deepened. Not wanting to prolong the inevitable, the KGB officer's wife boldly informed her husband during breakfast,

"I'm leaving you for Dmitry. We've been in love for quite some time."

Thunderstruck by this treacherous act of infidelity, the KGB Major found himself at a loss, and the only course of action he could conceive was to approach the air wing commander and reveal his familial turmoil. He hoped for support from the commander, envisioning that our Colonel would hold the party leader accountable and that together they might find a way to navigate this delicate situation, perhaps preventing the disintegration of both families.

However, the commander had different intentions. Unwilling to serve as a buffer between two opposing locomotives. Without hesitation, he promptly reported the head of counter-espionage of the Pacific Fleet and the Chairman of the Fleet Communist Party committee about the infidelity occurring within the families of their subordinates. In doing so, he brought two formidable organizations into the fray to fight on behalf of their respective subordinates.

During the war council meeting, which gathered the entire command of the Pacific Fleet, the state of readiness of all forces was assessed, and the topic of the moral and political preparedness of the aviation transport wing was addressed.

When Admiral Krasnov, the fleet commander, expressed his displeasure with the sordid affair, the chief of political affairs for the fleet rose to address the situation, stating that people had the right to fall in love, regardless of their positions.

With this simple yet elegant move, the counter-espionage arguments about betrayal and the moral indecency of political party workers lost their intended fervor. The chief of counter-espionage for the fleet chose to remain silent for now, but he did not remove the file on marital infidelity from his desk. He bided his time, waiting for his adversaries to make a misstep or perhaps preparing a calculated trap.

The scandal appeared to be subsiding. The local gossipmongers disengaged whenever the topic of the KGB officer and the party organizer was raised.

For those involved in the events, the situation seemed to calm down.

Yet, on the ninth of January, the secretaries of party organizations and political officers from all wings and squadrons stationed at Artem Airport convened in the evening at the garrison sauna to celebrate the "Day of the Massacre of Workers on Senate Square by the Tsar's Troops," which occurred more than eighty years ago. This event was a somber historical moment, marked by tragedy and loss. Party officials, of course, celebrated the Tsar's infamous response as a catalyst for the Revolution. "Bloody Sunday" was marked with dishes such as chicken in walnut sauce, shishkabob, and red wine. These Georgian culinary delights were introduced to the celebration by Sergeant Givi, the driver of our new political officer.


How a son of the Caucasus like Givi ended up serving a draft term on the opposite side of the country remained a perplexing enigma. His presence defied explanation, as if he held a secret that tied him to this distant post. Among sailors, Givi stood out with a rare quality – the ability to maintain his own counsel, keeping his thoughts and motivations hidden from prying eyes. Furthermore, he displayed an unwavering loyalty to the political officer, a trait that set him apart in a world where alliances often shifted.

The political officer had brought him along upon his transfer from the anti-submarine air wing based in Nikolaevka when he was reassigned to Artem.


Seeing Givi for the first time, I pondered, What secrets must he know to bring his own Sergeant along? Perhaps the political officer had something to hide, if he was unwilling to part with his driver in Nikolaevka. Alternatively, the Georgian may have been assigned special tasks.


The eloquent commissars, having steamed themselves thoroughly, seated themselves along a long table. A light steam wafted over their reddened bodies, and a white sheet graced the belt of each man. Before they commenced eating, each of them poured himself a glass of Georgian moonshine and emptied it to the political officer's toast, "To our meeting."

Later, they decided unanimously to switch over to red wine because the Georgian moonshine was all too reminiscent of Russian. They took turns making toasts, each one trying to outdo the rest with something new. When it was our party organizer's turn, he got up, holding up the sheet around his waist with one hand and raising a full goblet of wine, red as the blood of the workers, with the other, and said,

"To the strength of our Party!"

Not expecting such a high-flown phrase from our party leader, the comrades exchanged glances, several of them silently clapped, but they couldn't refuse to drink such a toast. The party organizer, more than plastered, added as he sat down,

"Our boss is a wonder, honestly. He didn't betray me to the KGB. I'm going to give him two bottles of wine for it. He'll sink his teeth into the KGB for me. So that they'll know that they're under the party's control and will always be our henchmen. We'll screw them the way we've always screwed them—and their wives too."

An hour after the celebration of the tragic events of 1905, a tape recording of the party leader's words lay on the desk of the head of counter-espionage and the chief political officer of the Pacific Fleet.

The fate of both the husband and the lover was sealed.

By mutual agreement of the two negotiating sides, both officers were transferred to remote garrisons with a reduction in rank.

The Party organizer for his dismissive attitude towards leadership, talkativeness, and bravado, while the counterintelligence officer for overlooking a traitor in his own house.


As my father-in-law told me later, the chief political officer was most upset by the two bottles of wine that were all his support was worth.

"Well, the party leader could have said: 'I'll present my boss with two boxes of Armenian cognac,'" he said in the narrow circle of his Admiral friends. "Then I might have forgiven him for his drunken bravado. But nobody ever put my price so low before. I'll grind the little snake into powder."

And that's just what he did.

And so, in the year that I served with the transport wing, the entire party organization and counter-espionage management were replaced. I didn't have any more open enemies. It was time to go on international flights once more.

Yes, I completely forgot. My worst enemy of all was still alive.

And that enemy was myself.


Because, even when the capricious Lady Luck turned her face towards me and eliminated my enemies, I made such a face at her that she was startled and turned away again.

Well, it doesn't matter, I thought. Turn away all you like. I'll approach you from the rear, bend you in half and have you from behind.

But now, let's move ahead to the next trip. To new adventures. This time not far away. In Romanovka. It was just at this time that the new vertical landing craft appeared, the YaK-38. It would be interesting to see how they took off and landed without taxiing.


Chapter 27

We taxied to the apron designated for arriving crews, positioning ourselves under the wing of the aircraft while waiting for the cargo loaders to bring the intended cargo for transportation.

A fighter plane taxied past us, heading toward a square launch pad covered with metal sheets about a hundred yards away. Upon reaching the pad, the plane halted, its nose aligned with the wind. From our vantage point, we observed the pilot opening the ascent shutters and adjusting the nozzles of the vector-thrust engine into a vertical position. Gradually increasing the revolutions per minute of all four turbines to their take-off settings, he smoothly lifted the aircraft from the ground, hovering at a height of fifteen feet. The noise was so intense that conversation was impossible.

As the nozzles of the vector-thrust engine pivoted for forward motion, the plane slightly lowered its nose, moved ahead, and suddenly nosedived. In the midst of this dive, the ejection seat catapulted the pilot upward. The aircraft struck its nose against the iron sheet, breaking into two pieces and immediately erupting in flames. Two fire trucks stationed nearby quickly inundated the wreckage with foam.

Initially, the pilot descended by parachute at a relatively safe distance from the crash site, but the wind swiftly carried him perilously closer to the raging inferno.

Recognizing the inevitability of landing in the flames, he pulled the parachute lines towards himself, reducing the chute's drag, and accelerated toward the concrete launching pad. The parachute fell alongside him, but the wind inflated it anew. The pilot was dragged towards the blazing wreckage by the lines, inching closer to the burning spilled kerosene.

A team of three firefighters carried a thick hose, creating a broad spray of water as they advanced. Upon reaching the pilot, one of the sailors bent down, grabbed him by one leg, and with a determined pull, dragged him across the concrete runway, attempting to distance him from the flames.

The pilot's helmeted head, adorned with a dark visor, gently bounced on the concrete surface. His arms hung limply on either side. The metal strap of his pilot's watch, visible on his left hand, covered by a black leather glove, protruded slightly. Within seconds, it was yanked off and left lying on the ground. Spotting this, one of the firemen dropped the hose, hastily picked up the watch, and stowed it in the pocket of his flame-resistant coveralls.

The rescuers moved away to a safer location, sitting beside the motionless body. After a brief examination, they signaled for medical assistance by waving their hands. The ambulance swiftly arrived from its designated spot.

In a wave of relief, I thought to myself, This means the pilot has survived.

The entire accident lasted no more than two minutes, but left a painful impression on me, since it reminded me of my own recent catastrophe. 

The accident which had happened before our eyes did not change our flight plans in any way.  Taking on the cargo designated for us we took it to the Mongokhto airbase and returned home by evening.

The entire extraordinary incident took no more than two minutes, but it left a heavy impact on my soul, stirring unpleasant memories of my own crash and my father's difficult fate, which had flown in these same regions more than a quarter century ago.

At the northern end of the runway was the parking area for incoming planes. From there, a splendid view of Peter the Great Gulf opened up, stretching a mere four hundred meters to the west of the airfield. It was over these waters that my father's promising career had come crashing down in the late fifties.

In those days, First Lieutenant Grigoriev served as a navigator on a bomber  Il-28 Beagle and was stationed at the Maykhe base. Although the Korean War had ended several years earlier, tensions in the region were still so high that the fleet's command paid close attention to the combat readiness of the minelayer and torpedo aviation crews.

Regular training sessions, closely resembling combat conditions, were conducted with remarkable frequency, alternating with surprise drills. During one of the fleet exercises, the bomber formation in which Grigoriev-senior served was put on alert, and the crews were ordered to conduct a "torpedo attack against a wake behind a target ship's stern" at the range located between Bolshoy Kamenny Bay and Muravyev-Amursky Peninsula. In practice, this involved towing a buoy on a long cable that created a foamy wake. Dummy torpedoes, devoid of explosives, were meant to pass as close to the buoy as possible and hit the awaiting torpedo boats' nets.

On the route to the range, the three crews formed a wedge with three Il-28s. In the lead aircraft was the flight commander, Captain Zvyagintsev, and the flight navigator, Captain Malyugin. The left wingman was First Lieutenant Andreyev, his navigator was Lieutenant Grigoriev. To the right of the lead aircraft flew First Lieutenant Vlasenko and Lieutenant Fomin.

Approaching the sea range, when according to the navigator's calculations there were still forty kilometers to the target, First Lieutenant Andreyev gave the order,

"Open the bomb bay."

The clean-shaven Lieutenant Grigoriev objected,

"Too early. We're four minutes away from the target."

"Open it without reasoning! The squad leader reported seeing a wake beyond the target. Vlasenko also opened the bomb bay."

"Bomb bay is open," my father reported.

"Drop it!" the commander shouted.

"Too early," Grigoriev pleaded.

"Release it. Their torpedo is already on the water."

"And ours is on its way too," responded the navigator, thereby crossing out his career.

After closing the bomb bay doors, he asked his commander with a hopeful tone,

"Aleksei, did you see if Vlasenko and Fomin dropped the torpedo?"

"I didn't see their torpedo; as soon as we dropped ours, we immediately turned around. We didn't have time for them."

Upon returning to the airfield, all three crews were promptly arrested.

After a week of investigations, the squad commander was released from service without pension entitlements, the wing's navigator faced a military tribunal and was never seen again. The navigator of the right wingman, Lieutenant Fomin, was promoted to the position of a flight navigator, while Lieutenant Grigoriev received a warning for his substandard performance, worded as "For an attempt on the commander of the Pacific Fleet."

And it all came down to this: the lead aircraft's crew mistook the wake for Admiral Fokin's boat, which at that moment was crossing Peter the Great Gulf, en route from Ussuri Bay to Bolshoy Kamenny Bay.


By mistaking the wake for the target, they launched a training torpedo attack against their military superior, prompting their left wingman to do the same. Similarly, during the investigation, it was revealed that the crew of First Lieutenant Vlasenko did open the bomb bay doors, but did not release the torpedo. Navigator Fokin categorically refused to follow the flight commander's orders. However, flight data recording systems at that time were rudimentary, and there were no tape recordings of crew communications. Only the pilot and the navigator themselves, along with their airborne radioman, knew what they had discussed and how they reached the decision to keep the torpedo in the bomb bay.

Therefore, First Lieutenant Vlasenko neither received commendation nor punishment, and Lieutenant Grigoriev did not report his disagreement with his commander's decision to drop the torpedo.

At that time, an unfounded attempt to shift the blame onto his crew commander could have only worsened Grigoriev's situation. And so, Grigoriev continued to serve for almost thirty years, receiving stern reprimands from the Commander of the Pacific Fleet, and eventually retired from his position as a flight navigator in the anti-submarine squadron, despite showing potential for at least a divisional rank.


"Yes, Herodotus was largely right with his concept of cyclical development of history," somber thoughts me into philosophical contemplation. "History does indeed develop in a spiral. I would even introduce what they say in our circles, a correction for the wind. Because the spiral of development not only ascends but also has a linear-progressive component. Therefore, in about a third of a century, in the same places, the son of a navigator - a pilot, will face his own 'full package' of challenges, deservedly and undeservedly."

The Yak-38 crash that occurred at Romanovka Airfield on that day did not alter our flight plan in the slightest. After loading the cargo designated for us, we took off towards the strait, gained altitude, turned over Ussuri Bay, and set our course for the Mongokhto airbase. As we flew over the Romanovka garrison, I gave the plane a slight tilt from the right wing to the left, paying homage to the heroes who served in that 'dump'.




Chapter 28

Upon returning home, news awaited us.

An order had arrived from the Pacific fleet headquarters to prepare two crews for a flight to Vietnam. One of them would embark on a one-month mission there, while the second would be prepared as a backup for unforeseen circumstances. Our crew, once again, was not included among the candidates.

After the morning planning session at the air wing commander’s office where this news was first announced, the chief of staff, with a sly smile, answered my question about why my crew had been overlooked for a foreign mission,

"You've just returned from Mongokhto. I can't include you in the planning for another long-distance flight."

To label my one-day flight with two stopovers as a long-distance flight was at least somewhat inaccurate. We didn't even request financial compensation for the mission, which amounted to two rubles and sixty kopecks, at a time when a single US dollar on the black market cost at least five times as much.

But it was pointless to argue with him. He understood the situation well, and so did I.

I didn't engage in the established system of offerings and gifts, nor did I go hunting or fishing with the chain of command. I didn't spend hours with them in the sauna, discussing the merits and demerits of the new female telephone operator or secretary. I wasn't a member of the narrow circle of "trusted men.”

But to be honest, even if I had gone hunting or fishing with the commander and the chief of staff of our wing, the choice would still not have fallen on me. My competitors were Lieutenant Colonel Vladimir Popov, the forty-year-old deputy wing commander for combat readiness, and Major Sologub, the commander of my squadron, who had been flying the An-12 for over fifteen years.


I arrived at the squadron aircraft parking area with the news about the foreign assignment. The crew was waiting for me on the aircraft. After seeing off the gunner and cargo mechanic, we gathered in the pressurized passenger cabin for a strategy meeting.

First, I explained to my guys what the business trip conditions entailed. The command promised those who would fly to Vietnam to fully maintain their pay at home. Cover all business trip expenses, such as food, accommodation, and local transportation. Plus, pay fifty American dollars for each day spent abroad. This amounted to, accounting for one day of travel there and one day back, one thousand six hundred dollars for each crew member.

"To earn that much at home, you'd have to work for sixteen months," I concluded. "I welcome your suggestions on how we can get our share of this pie without regretting it later."

Following naval tradition, I gave the floor first to the youngest member of the crew, Sergey Kovalenko. My copilot said,

"We'll need to give presents to all the supervisors involved in making the decision about who will undertake the mission."

I started listing the officers involved in the decision, counting them off on my fingers,

"So, according to your opinion, we should buy them presents. The wing commander, the chief of staff, the political officer, the communications supervisor, the chief engineer, and the KGB officer. Are you volunteering for the delivery? No? That's what I thought. Radio operator, your turn. Present your plan."

"I propose that we wait until the crew and the aircraft for the mission have been selected, and then sabotage that aircraft," suggested Petty Officer Onoprienko.

"What a brilliant plan!" sneered the flight engineer. "First of all, if they catch us, we'll be arrested immediately. And secondly, if they don't catch us, they'll simply take our undamaged aircraft away and give us the broken one. They'll keep us occupied while our colleagues are making real money."

"That's true—it's definitely the wrong approach. Gennadiy, what do you think we should do?" I asked Rybnikov.

"I have no idea," said flight engineer.

“Navigator?"

Vasiliev shook his head silently.

"Then if you don't have any ideas, then sit and listen to a brief lecture on chess strategy," I began, settling back in my chair. "There are three fundamental pillars of success in the chess opening. The first pillar is rapid and purposeful mobilization of forces. That's what we're engaged in right now. The second is the distribution of pawns. Of course, I don't consider you to be pawns, but it's still my job to see that you are in the proper positions. The third pillar is control of the center. We will strike suddenly and without warning at the most central piece. I'll explain to you now what this means.

The departure to Vietnam is scheduled for next Thursday, exactly one week from now. By dinnertime, the wing command will decide who will be the flight crew and who will be the backup. They will only have four and a half days to get ready. Half a day today, Friday, Monday, and Tuesday; probably five if Saturday is used to prepare.

On Wednesday, the day before departure, a board of inspectors will arrive from headquarters in Vladivostok to assess the readiness of the selected crew for the mission. That means that we have to strike our blow at the flight crew on Monday and at the backup crew on Tuesday. Then the commanders will have no choice but to send us to Vietnam.

By tomorrow morning I'll expect your proposals about how to eliminate our competitors. We have three days. You, navigator, can start your preparations for the flight. Try not to attract any attention to yourself. But bear in mind, if we do succeed in grabbing this mission, it will happen at the very last minute, and you won't have any time then to prepare. I won't involve you in the secret operation to ensure our material well-being.

But you guys," and here I swept my eyes over them, "think about where their weak spots might be. And remember, fortune comes to those who act, not to those who sit around on their asses."


The next morning brought us nothing new. Before the morning formation to receive the orders of the day, my guys didn't respond to my questioning glance. Sending the engineer to the aircraft to undertake the two-hundred-hour maintenance check, I summoned my copilot and asked him to concentrate his attention on how the happy fellows who were to represent the Motherland abroad were keeping an eye on their flight documentation.

On Monday, the two crews that were free of the responsibility of carrying out the government mission flew to garrisons in the Far East on two-day missions. My crew used the time to complete the technical check of the aircraft. One crew was on leave, and two crews were preparing to fly to Vietnam. There were six altogether. There was only one small task remaining to be done: to eliminate the last two crews.

After dinner, the rumor circulated among the wing that the copilot of the crew preparing for the international flight couldn't find his pilot log book. Before the evening formation, he searched the entire headquarters, but the most important document, which testified to his pilot's qualification, didn't turn up anywhere.

At seventeen hundred hours, with the wing in formation, our Colonel delivered an educational speech in the tradition of the Second World War. He spoke of the universal human laws embodied in the moral codex of the builders of communism, about the fraternity of pilots; he even reached the point of mentioning the slogan: ‘Die if you must, but save your friend.’ I listened to him, but I couldn't see what he was driving at. Was he telling us to shed our blood for someone, or what? But I was wrong. The Colonel asked us to remain on duty after the end of the workday formation and to search for the missing document in the environs of the headquarters.

The officers and non-commissioned officers without urgent tasks divided the designated area among the squadrons, sectioned it off, and began meticulously searching for the missing logbook inch by inch.

Two hours later, as twilight settled over the coastal region while the sun still shone over our country's capital, while the English were having lunch, Americans were still waking up, and the Papuans of Tonga were getting ready for bed, a humble engineer responsible for electrical equipment maintenance spotted the logbook.

The vital document floated in the muddy muck that sank deep into the earth near what remained of a long-abandoned bomb shelter. An equally rusty lock hung on its rusted barred door. The key had been lost long ago, and even the officer's name responsible for the bomb shelter's inventory, written on a plaque hanging from the door, was unknown to our forty-eight-year-old Colonel. Observing this scene, the wing commander ordered the search to cease and dismissed the personnel to go home. There wasn't any talk about recovering the logbook; it would have been futile to try. Time was too short to reconstruct it now.

The Colonel scanned the officers surrounding him, identified his deputy among them, motioned him over, and said,

"I'm sorry, Vladimir, but someone tricked your copilot. He won't have time to prepare a new pilot logbook in the two days left before the flight, and the board of inspectors won't allow him to fly in that case. So, instead of waiting for their decision, I'm removing your crew from the flight and giving your copilot a reprimand."

"What's the reason?” The deputy commander asked in surprise.

"For not diligently maintaining his flight documentation,” spreading his arms to the sides apologetically answered the wing commander.

"Can we get a replacement copilot? Why punish the whole crew for someone else's dirty trick?” Clinging to the last hope, like a drowning man at a straw, asked the Lieutenant Colonel.

"Higher-ups require that a crew flying abroad must have previously worked together. They won't allow a single pilot to be replaced."

"Who will fly in our place?" Vladimir inquired of his superior.

"As it was initially designated as your backup, the crew of Squadron Commander Major Sologub will take over.”


After concluding the uncomfortable conversation with his deputy, the Colonel gestured for me to approach. When I was almost face to face with him, he spoke in a low voice,

“I have the next best news for you. Tomorrow morning, your crew will begin preparations to fly to Vietnam as the backup crew. You will be on standby and subject to evaluation by the fleet inspector's board. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. May I go?"

"Go. Wait, not yet."

I stood rooted to the ground and turned around.

"Where were you all day today? I didn't see you at headquarters even once."

"I was on my aircraft. We were conducting a comprehensive maintenance check."

"Okay then, you can go."


Tuesday was consumed by intensive and expedited preparations. We were three days behind the primary flight crew, yet we had to be ready to face the board by Wednesday morning at nine o'clock.

The flight route posed a real challenge. We couldn't reach Vietnam by taking the eastern route. Due to fuel constraints, bypassing unfriendly China and traveling by sea was not feasible. The Chinese, displeased with our military presence near their southern border, denied permission to traverse their territory for refueling. In order to reach Vietnam, our crew had to navigate across half of Asia. The navigator gratefully patted my shoulder for giving him a heads-up about the potential upcoming mission.


On his work desk lay a stack of maps, including half of the Soviet Union from Vladivostok to the capital of Uzbekistan, Tashkent, as well as maps of Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Burma, Laos, and finally, several maps of Vietnam itself. Most of them were already prepared. I asked him with admiration,

"Vasiliev, where and when did you manage to get all this done?"

"I did it at home on Saturday and Sunday," answered Vadim.

"What a hero!" I was genuinely pleased with him.

"Don't be so modest, Commander. You haven't been twiddling your thumbs either," he said, hinting at the log book which had turned up in the bomb shelter.

"That was Kovalenko's work. I merely turned his head in the right direction."


At the end of the working day, I was leisurely making my way along the path to the Airport-Artem bus stop. A crowd of our officers was ahead of me. When they reached the highway, they split into two groups. The larger group turned in the direction of the airport and set off on foot. The smaller group, including me, crossed the road to wait at the bus stop. Among those who headed for the airport, I spotted my squadron commander and his navigator. Until today, they had been the backup crew. But this morning, they had been named the main flight crew, and we had become the backup.

Well, then, guys, are you heading out for a beer? To celebrate your new assignment? Well, that's where they'll catch you off guard, I thought with a mischievous joy. Just let me get to the dormitory.

The bus dropped me off at Sevastopol Street, and I hurried to my temporary lodgings. My living conditions in Artem were much better than when I was in the Elizovo garrison in Kamchatka.

First of all, I was living by myself. Secondly, I was staying in married housing, which allowed me to come and go without being noticed by the dormitory supervisor. And thirdly, like all other pilots-in-command, I had a phone. And I could call my father-in-law, my wife, or even Svetlana Mukhina directly, bypassing the military telephone operators.

But at the moment I didn't have time for them. The main thing was for the chief political officer of our fleet to stay at his post. Of course, I could have reached him at home, but this would involve a telephone operator, and I would have to give my name. I wanted to remain anonymous.

I entered the room, locked the door behind me, and dialed the telephone number of the chief political officer. I got lucky for the second time that day. Despite the fact that it was already after six, the General was still at his desk. As soon as he picked up the receiver and identified himself, I reported to him,

"Comrade General, the crew that is scheduled to leave the day after tomorrow for the international flight is currently reveling at the international airport bar.”


I had deliberately painted the bleakest picture possible, describing their indulgence in alcoholic beverages. Who would be there to draw a line between a bottle of beer and two or three shots of vodka?

The gears were now turning. For the chief political officer, receiving such a signal was akin to a dog getting a command in the K-9 Corps. And so, "Sic 'em!" We would have to wait until tomorrow for the results.

As I rubbed my hands together in anticipation of good news, the General got in touch with the commander of my wing and ordered him to locate the commander of the AN-12 squadron and his navigator immediately. He was then to report where they had been found. Expecting unfavorable news, the Colonel contacted both men at their homes. Their spouses, alarmed by the phone calls, responded that their husbands hadn't returned home from work yet.

They must have gone to the airport, the Colonel guessed.

The beer bar at the airport was the only place where the military patrols  didn't hassle officers drinking in uniform. The commander walked in and immediately identified the men he was searching for among the couple dozen Petty officers and officers. The Majors were sitting at the same table, with two empty and two full steins of beer in front of each of them. Approaching, the commander said,

"I'll be waiting for the two of you in my car at the main entrance."


In complete silence, they drove to wing headquarters. The Colonel was eager to vent his feelings about his subordinates, but he refrained from launching this tirade in front of his driver.


In his office, the commander unleashed his anger. He raged for several minutes, then picked up the receiver of the direct line to the chief political officer and reported that the two officers who had been sought were in his office.

"Where did you find them?" the General asked.

"In the airport bar," the Colonel replied. "But they aren't drunk at all," he attempted to defend them.

"Yeah, sure," the General replied sarcastically. "I suppose they were there just for a cup coffee and a piece of cake. You can save your fairytales for tomorrow because you'll be telling them to the Fleet aviation commander."

The Colonel hung up the receiver, his gaze filled with despair looked at the pale faces of the pilots caught in the act, and said,

"Why are you standing there? Go back to the bar and finish your beer if you were in such a hurry. Now that snot Grigoriev will be heading to Vietnam instead of you."


The next morning, the squadron commander had a short phone conversation with the commander of the fleet aviation, during which our Colonel convinced the General to give the crew of the squadron commander an opportunity to show their degree of readiness to complete the task before the inspectors. The fleet aviation commander respected our Colonel and agreed to give the offending crew a second chance.

"So far, no changes in the mission plan. Let the inspection commission, based on the results of tests of competitors, decide who will fly to Vietnam," he addressed the senior officers who accompanied him from Fleet headquarters.


The much-feared fleet-ordered evaluation board verified the readiness of both crews.

Not giving particular significance to the backup crew, the board awarded us the highest marks. It's possible that our score was inflated. The Colonels from headquarters might have taken pity on the underdog backup crew, which had to complete such an extensive task in such a short time.


The deputy fleet commander, who had chaired the inspection, entered the wing commander's office and reported the results of the crew's readiness assessment. Then he promptly called his superior and relayed the report. The Pacific Fleet aviation commander ordered him to pass the phone to the wing commander.

"Where did you find your lads yesterday?"

"In the beer bar, Comrade Lieutenant-General."

"Then tomorrow the backup crew will take the flight. Based on my deputy's report, it seems they're no less prepared than the main crew."

He hung up the receiver. The Colonel frowned and whispered,

"It does seem a bit odd that the backup crew would be so well-prepared…"


After the inspectors’ board had departed, I was summoned to the wing commander's office. In the presence of my squadron commander, the Colonel announced that by the General's decision, the state mission would fall on my shoulders. He expressed his belief that despite my youth and limited experience, I would execute my orders honorably.


Leaving the office, I felt like the Roman triumvir Octavian Augustus after receiving the highest honors from the Roman Senate for his invaluable personal contribution to a decisive victory over the enemy. I now had to make sure not to display my overwhelming happiness to those around me.

My service in this air wing will not ended after this mission to Vietnam. And though I am the son-in-law of a Rear-Admiral, I'm far from being Augustus, the great-nephew of Julius Caesar. I have to return within a month. How would I be received? It's difficult to say today. Likely, someone analyzing the situation would uncover our scheme, but they wouldn't be able to prove anything, I thought than. As Vyshinsky, the Attorney General of the Soviet Union under Stalin, once said, ‘Confession is the queen of evidence.’ And I never confessed to anything.




Chapter 29

I ran from the regimental headquarters to the aircraft parking area. Just a trivial eight hundred meters. In the airtight cabin of the plane, the co-pilot, navigator, flight engineer, and radioman were playing preference. The gunner and the airborne equipment technician were engrossed in backgammon.

"We're going to Vietnam," I exclaimed, entering the cramped cabin. "That's the good news. The slightly worse news is that we have very little time for preparation."

"We're ready," the navigator replied lethargically, reluctantly setting his cards aside.

"We're ready for the flight, not for a business trip. And those are two big differences. So listen to the mission. Sergey," I turned to the co-pilot, "As soon as you change into civilian clothes, head to the children's food store and buy as many packs of 'Happy Baby' powdered milk as possible. No fewer than a parachute bag."

My co-pilot nodded silently.

"Radioman and gunner, your task is to find and buy sea water desalination devices, also as many as possible. Vadim, you're in charge of condensed milk, get as much as you can. Gennadiy, I remember you have a contact at the supply depot, buy military naval shirts from him. And the rest of you," I scanned my subordinates, "Scrounge around the corners. Anything uniform that hasn't been worn out, we need it on board by tomorrow."

"Commander, what's with this peculiar selection of supplies? Sea water desalination, baby food, condensed milk, and naval shirts?" Radioman  Onoprienko asked me.

"Nikolay, have you been to Vietnam? No, you haven't," I answered myself on behalf of the radioman. "And neither have I. But experienced transport personnel say that we can easily exchange two or three kilograms of desalination equipment with the Vietnamese for a VCR or a video game console. Two cans of condensed milk can easily be traded for a bottle of rice vodka. One naval shirt is equivalent to five bottles. You understand? We won't be allowed to bring alcohol through customs in Tashkent, but condensed milk is fine. And the customs officers won't be able to hassle us about the shirts. Got it?"

"So, we're going to specialize in electronics and alcohol, is that right, Commander?" Vasilyev asked me.

"Vadim," I responded affectionately. "We're going to specialize in money, and what brings us the money doesn't matter. Personally, I'd prefer pearls and gold jewelry for women, but if I see that we can earn more with electronics, then we'll focus on electronics. I consider the discussion closed. Disperse to your homes. I'll see you in the flight cafeteria for breakfast at six in the morning."

Five minutes later, only the flight engineer and I were left under the plane.

"Gennadiy, we need to talk," I said to Rybnikov when he locked the entrance door.

The aircraft mechanic was still on the stairs in front of the door, struggling with a plasticine. He was trying unsuccessfully to attach two strings with his seal. The plasticine had melted in the sun and spread in different directions under the pressure of the brass seal.

"Just spit on it," I advised Gennadiy.

"I already spat, it didn't help," Rybnikov replied.

"No, no. I mean, just forget it. Nothing will happen to the plane overnight."

"Well, yeah. The duty officer at the parking lot will even wake me up at night if he sees that the plane isn't sealed."

"Fine, don't worry about it. Listen, can you get some mercury overnight?"

"Mercury?" Rybnikov asked me in surprise.

I nodded.

"Why do you need mercury?"

"It's the most valuable barter product in Vietnam. I don't know why they need it, but they say it's more valuable than gold over there."

"Commander, I can probably get mercury, but firstly, it's more expensive than gold here, and secondly, maybe we shouldn't get involved? It's a really dangerous substance. Think about it, if we're caught with children's food or sea water desalination equipment at the border, we'll get away with reprimands, but if we're caught with mercury, we'll all be arrested. Or worse, we could get poisoned."

"Alright, forget it. Let's leave it for now. For the first time, what I mentioned earlier should be enough."


On Thursday, we made our way to Tashkent with two refueling stops. After spending the night there, completing customs procedures and border checks, we took off and directed our course towards the Pakistani city of Karachi. Carefully navigating around the mountain peaks, whose sharp snowy summits nearly brushed against our wings, we aimed to reach the distant Indus River as swiftly as possible.

Not too long ago, a Chakolovsky crew from the elite Air Division on the identical plane had tragically crashed in this mountainous region on their return from Hanoi.

During their final flight from Karachi, the Moscow crew encountered a severe thunderstorm while passing between Peshawar and Islamabad at an altitude of twenty-four thousand feet.

Instead of assisting the crew in avoiding icing zone, the Pakistani Air Control service insisted on strict adherence to the flight corridor.

Hemmed in by mountainous terrain and deprived of freedom to maneuver, the crew found themselves facing a broad expanse of hail. In a critical decision that came too late, they attempted to turn back.

The cooling systems of three out of four engines were pierced by ice pellets the size of chicken eggs. When the third engine faltered and the propeller automatically began to feather, they all confronted the stark reality. There was no evading the malevolent fate that had descended upon them. In those last agonizing four minutes, their descent from twenty-four to fifteen thousand feet reverberated with a chorus of vehement shouts and fervent exclamations, each word charged with unfiltered desperation. They flung questions at the unyielding skies, demanding answers from their aircraft, from the clouds, and from the mountains, acutely aware that these answers would remain forever elusive.

'Where are you going, you damn bitch?' 'No way out now!' 'Not like this!'

Their words, stripped of pretense, carried a weight of impending doom. They were not the prayers of the righteous, but the furious protests of men staring into the abyss, defiant even in the face of the inevitable.

With seventy-five percent of their thrust lost, the aircraft banked and descended at fifteen thousand feet, ultimately crashing into a mountain near the city of Chitral.

The crew cursed everything and everyone as they realized their impending fate. Even for those accustomed to such situations, like the members of the investigating board, the recorded curses were chilling to hear. One can only imagine how it felt for the pilots who listened to the tape during the meticulous analysis of the tragedy. Words would fail to capture the experience.

Typically, crews face their demise in silence. The pilots fight to save the aircraft until the very end, while the rest of the crew holds steadfast faith in pilots' abilities.

Occasionally, they crash into a mountain in cloudy conditions, with no opportunity to even press the microphone button. However, sometimes a pilot will utter a curse word one or two seconds before impact, realizing that escape is futile.

This word is expressed in various ways, such as "this is the end," "that's it," "it's curtains," or "argh!"

Losing faith in survival at such an early stage is rare. After the second engine failed, the Moscow crew had little chance of survival and they understood it. As the oil pressure dropped in the third engine and the propeller began to feather automatically, they all recognized that their inevitable curse had arrived. And it will take them all with it. Thus, they spent their last four minutes of flight cursing in the face of death, descending from twenty-four to fifteen thousand feet.


"It would not be remiss to recollect that the crew that perished had in their hands the precise weather forecast for the route they were following. But either they were stricken by greed (for if there were an unplanned stopover in Karachi they would be paid fifty dollars for the hotel) or else the Russian habit of taking a chance, playing a perilous game of Russian roulette. Nobody knows. Only one thing is clear: they took a conscious decision to fly through the thunderstorm, with no alternate airport in their flight plan.

Having reached Karachi without incident, we refueled and, taking off again, set course for the Burmese city of Mandalay. Flying over the central part of India, I couldn't help but recall another unfortunate incident involving my fellow countrymen.

In the expanse below, six Russian comrades found themselves ensnared in a disastrous business venture, their fate sealed within the confines of an Indian prison, amidst the company of lice-ridden local criminals.

The tragic tale unfolded when the crew of a light transport plane AN-26 was chartered by British patrons in Sri Lanka. Departing from the city of Trincomalee, nestled in the northern reaches of Ceylon, their mission was to ferry crates to the Indian city of Madras and relinquish the cargo as planned. However, upon reaching the Indian coastline, the client issued an abrupt order for them to descend to "fifteen hundred." As soon as the aircraft leveled off at the designated altitude, the red lamp in the cockpit indicated the opening of the cargo ramp. Skillfully correlating the map with the terrain below and well-versed in the cargo discharge mechanism, the client released the crates into the jungle.

Yet, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding between the measurement units employed by Her Majesty's subjects and the "comrades" from Eastern Europe, a fatal error was committed. The cargo proprietor intended for the crew to descend to fifteen hundred feet, while the Russian pilots interpreted it as fifteen hundred meters.

These crates, jettisoned from the aircraft at three times the intended altitude, floated down by parachute to a location far from the anticipated site and landed into the hands of government forces. Inside the crates, as one might deduce, lay weaponry.

The plane landed without incident in Madras, the Englishman settled his dues with the pilot in cash, and subsequently disappeared. Yet, that very evening, the Indian security police apprehended the entire plane crew at their lodging.

The Indian Supreme Court cast a grim judgment upon all six, branding them as accessories to the insurgents, and it was only the historically amicable relationship between the Soviet Union and India that forestalled the blade of the executioner.


Here I was again, lost in my thoughts during the flight. The copilot was asleep, the radio operator had headed into the pressurized passenger cabin to play backgammon with the flight engineer, and the interpreter assigned to us was managing the communications.

As I glanced at the foreign language specialist, I considered his role. Now there’s someone with an easy job. It's not even a job; it's a breeze. He only flies abroad and doesn't seem to have any other visible responsibilities except speaking English with the ground. Well, there is one hidden duty: to meticulously document everything the crew does while abroad and provide a comprehensive report on their activities to military counter-espionage upon their return. Thankfully, I wouldn't have to fly with him over Vietnam, since all the air traffic controllers in the Democratic Republic were trained in the USSR and could communicate in Russian.

We crossed over Bangladesh, with about an hour of flying time remaining until Mandalay. There, we would refuel, and if there were no delays due to adverse weather conditions, we'd promptly continue our journey to Hanoi.



Chapter 30

The first morning in Vietnam, we acquainted ourselves with the local military authorities and the magnitude of the task that lay ahead.

As anticipated, this wasn't a vacation trip. Daily flights were in our future, threading through a country that was minuscule compared to the vast expanse of the Soviet Union. Short hops were more suitable for smaller planes like the An-26, but frequently the cargo was so voluminous that fitting it into our cargo hold posed a challenge, let alone the An-26's hold, which was one-third the size of ours.


My assignment this time was to transport air conditioners from Haiphong to Ho Chi Minh. The dispatcher had warned me in advance that it would be a matter of loading as many as possible. Curious, I inquired, "How many are we talking about?"

"A shipment arrived from Odessa by sea. You can imagine the quantity of air conditioners that could be loaded onto a Handymax bulker with a deadweight of fifty thousand tons," he replied.

Upon leaving the dispatcher's office, a crowd of locals immediately surrounded me. I couldn't fathom how they had come to know about my upcoming flight. The Vietnamese seemed to possess uncanny awareness. They were well-informed about my intended destination and were pressing money into my hands from every direction, hoping to persuade me to carry them to Ho Chi Minh. I navigated through the crowd toward the airport hotel, and just before reaching the entrance, the crowd halted as if an invisible barrier had been erected between us.

This barrier was the sentry, a Vietnamese soldier standing watch with his automatic rifle. A barely noticeable movement of his Kalashnikov barrel in the direction of my potential passengers caused them to involuntarily retreat a couple of steps, like monkeys entranced by a boa constrictor. I found amusement in the comparison, recalling Kipling.

I located my copilot, Sergey, at the hotel and took him aside onto the street. I pointed out the group of Vietnamese seated on the ground and instructed, "Create a list of passengers interested in flying with us tomorrow. Let them know we're heading to Ho Chi Minh via Haiphong. Collect their fares and tell them to be here by eight in the morning. Is that clear?"

"Partially. How many passengers can we accommodate, and how much should we charge them?"

"They're quite slender," I estimated their average weight to be around a hundred pounds. "I reckon we can squeeze around thirty into the ten-seat pressurized passenger cabin. As for the fare, charge them as much as they're willing to pay. Also, there's one more thing: I'll have a female passenger of my choice, so include her on the list without charging her. She'll compensate me in her own way later."

"Can I get one too?" my assistant inquired dreamily.

"Next time."

Sergey headed to his room to retrieve a blank passenger list while I approached the awaiting Vietnamese. As I crossed the invisible threshold, they all jumped up and started talking at once. My expression contorted as if I had a toothache, and then I placed two fingers to my lips and let out a piercing whistle. The crowd fell silent instantly.

"Do you understand Russian?" I questioned them.

All the potential passengers nodded, and a few even tried to mimic, "We unnerstan, we unnerstan, commanduh..."

"Thirty people will go. Who? Decide among yourselves."

I scanned the group and spotted an attractive girl. I motioned for her to come over, and she obediently approached, eyes cast downward and carrying a basket in both hands.

"Are you a student?" I inquired.

She nodded, keeping her eyes lowered.

"Would you like to visit your mother for the holidays in Ho Chi Minh?"

Instead of replying, she simply nodded silently. I gently lifted her chin, raising her face to meet my gaze. By local standards, she could even be considered beautiful. The only thing that gave me pause was her petite size. She barely reached up to my shoulders.

Sergey approached from behind and quipped, "Your taste in lovers keeps getting younger, Commander. Soon you'll be scouting kindergartens."

"No, Sergey, you've got it wrong. She's already mature enough; she's just small."

"A little bigger than local monkey."

We both burst into laughter. I took the girl by the neck, turned her toward the future passengers and announced to everyone to prevent any potential scandal before takeoff, "She'll be joining us tomorrow morning."

The Vietnamese responded with understanding chatter in their own language, and the student dropped to her knees, taking my hand in her palms and kissing it. I carefully lifted her to her feet and, looking directly into her eyes, murmured softly, "You'll have plenty of time for kissing me—and not just my hand."

I wasn't entirely sure if she understood the implications of my words, but she nodded so vigorously in agreement that I half expected her head to fall off.


The rest of the evening and the early hours of the night were spent under the mosquito netting that hung over my bed. By morning, she was sitting near the hotel entrance, as if knowing not to disturb me, having slipped out of bed once I had fallen asleep. Perhaps fearing I wouldn't recognize her, she'd spent the entire night waiting on my doorstep.

Well, we had both achieved what we wanted.


"I waited for Vasiliev and went to have breakfast. While devouring rice with meat, I philosophized about the Vietnam War, sharing my insights with the navigator.

"Vadim, do you know what the Americans were dying for in Vietnam fifteen years ago?"

"For an idea," Vasiliev replied with a mouthful. " They despise the Marxist ideology, which advocates the seizure of factories and plants from capitalists and their transfer into the hands of the working class. And, by the way, Karl Marx believed that land should also be expropriated from large landowners and distributed among farmers."

"You guessed wrong," I retorted. "We're flying for an idea. Understand?"

"Why? I, for example, fly for money."

"You can't call our salary money. It's more like peanuts."

The rice was delicious, but the conversation topic seemed more appealing to me. I pushed my plate away, wiped the grease from my lips with a napkin, and continued,

"I've long wondered why American soldiers fought so passionately for the government of South Vietnam. What the hell did they need that for? Of course, when crazy politicians make loud statements about fighting for democracy against the communist plague all over the world, they discuss their economic interests in private. But what drove average Joe from Texas or Michael from California to throw grenades at machine guns in the tropical swamps never quite made sense to me. They weren't defending their home Mississippi from bloodthirsty Russians; they were protecting the stinky Mekong River, carrying brown water with the refuse of Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia."

"And did it dawn on you?" Vasiliev asked as he continued to eat rice.

"It hit me tonight. They were fighting for free sex. It suddenly struck me that here, you can sleep with underage girls or other men's wives without consequence and for free, that a prostitute here costs no more than five dollars. Proposing to a girl to sleep with her is just as safe as asking for the time."

"We won't be thrown in jail for that either in Russia," objected the navigator.

"No doubt about that. But one out of every four will slap you. Two out of four will get offended and walk away or tell you off, and only one will give you what you want. And that, my friend, is only twenty-five percent. Not great odds. Plus, the first half of the night, you'll listen to her stories about how she's not what you might have thought about her. And that you're the exceptional man she couldn't refuse. But even in such a scenario, we should consider ourselves lucky."

"Why?"

"Because in the States, it's a nightmare with this stuff. Men are afraid to even compliment a woman. If those women there sense anything, they immediately call the police or their lawyer. They call it sexual harassment. A terrifying thing."

"And prostitutes?"

"For two dollars a minute? Not everyone can afford such luxury. The minimum is a hundred bucks an hour. How much can you indulge in at those prices? So after a wild night with the local girl, I realized that the American men were willing to shed blood for free sex. After all, we cut off their world-famous brothel, known as Cuba, in '61. They were ready to start World War III out of anger. And then Vietnam on top of that. Can you imagine the losses? How much they must hate us for it. Ideology doesn't matter to them, Vadim. So, it turns out women come first and ideology second."

"Well, you've drawn quite the conclusions. Finish eating and let's go," said the navigator.

"The rice is already cold. And we're running out of time," I replied.

We approached the aircraft. Our passengers were in their seats, the co-pilot had settled matters with the supervisor of the Hanoi Airport's military sector, and we took off for Haiphong with the cargo.


There were no taxiways at all at Cat Bi Airport, a seaport city. After clearing the runway, we found ourselves on a small patch of asphalt in front of a weathered terminal building. On the vast English letter 'H', painted in white on the black asphalt, two captured American M54 cargo trucks loaded with crates of air conditioners were waiting for us.

As I left the aircraft, a First Lieutenant approached me in his tropical uniform—blue shorts and a short-sleeved shirt made him resemble a boy scout leader. He informed me that he was assigned to accompany the ten-ton cargo to Ho Chi Minh, and that the Vietnamese dockworkers were delayed for some unknown reason. I directed the flight engineer to have the passengers assist with loading the cargo.

"I was told I'd be traveling alone with the cargo. Where did all these passengers come from?" the First Lieutenant inquired.

"One more question like that, and you'll load the entire ten tons by yourself," I cut him off, not allowing him to intrude.

"I apologize, Commander. I didn't think before asking," he quickly retreated.


Returning from the meteorology office, the navigator handed me the weather forecast graph with a somber expression. After glancing at the document, I asked, "Did you arrange for an alternate airport?”


"Yes, I did. Cam Ranh. But I don't recommend taking off at all. A warm front will be moving in over Ho Chi Minh City as we approach."

"All the fronts are warm here," I retorted, smiling at my own jest.

"Take a closer look at the forecast. Listen," he took the forecast from me and began reading aloud. "Heavy precipitation, wind speed of forty knots, gusting up to fifty; cloud base at three hundred feet. Visibility during precipitation is three hundred feet. Possible lightning," Vadim emphasized the last phrase as he concluded. He placed the weather bulletin into his working binder, squinted his eyes, and still hopeful to dissuade me, asked once more, "Why take the risk? Let's postpone the departure until tomorrow. Remember the Moscow crew that crashed in Pakistan? They had a similar forecast."

"I thought about them when we were flying over the area where they perished. But our situation is different. Consider where we can accommodate these little jungle adventurers. After all, we took their money to transport them to Ho Chi Minh."

"We'll take them back to Hanoi."

"But how will we return their money? The chief of the Hanoi Airport military sector won't give back the twenty-five percent he took for signing our flight assignment."

"We'll borrow it from someone and return it when we've earned enough."

"Let's say we manage to find the money and refund the passengers. But tomorrow, all of Hanoi will be talking about what lousy pilots we are. You won't be able to explain to the Vietnamese what a warm front entails for the aircraft. We can't return or stay in Haiphong. We've crossed the point of no return. We've crossed the Rubicon and burned the bridges behind us. There's only one direction: forward. Plus, we have an alternate airport—the Moscow crew didn't. If we can't land in Ho Chi Minh, we can land at the Cam Ranh military airbase. Don't forget: there's a lot of Russian female personnel there—waitresses, nurses, and financial clerks. They're probably tired of their men by now. So we'll be like fresh meat when we arrive." I paused. "Do you know anything about Cam Ranh?"

"No," Vasiliev replied, still frowning.

"Then listen, and I'll give you a history lesson about the base while 'the ants' are struggling with the air conditioning units."

We moved away from the aircraft and sat on the grass at the edge of the concrete taxiway, seeking shade beneath tropical trees. Settling in comfortably, I began my narration,

"The Americans built the Cam Ranh base at the deepwater port of Cam Ranh Bay in the mid-1960s, utilizing it as a site for bombing the Viet Cong-controlled territory."

"I'm familiar with the base's location," my navigator interrupted. "Tell me why they needed it. Didn't they have enough carrier-based aircraft?"

"During the Vietnam War, B-52 bombers took off from this base. These aren't just lightweight attack planes like the A-7 Corsair II. The disparity in their bomb capacity and flight range is significant. The Americans attached great importance to this. The U.S. President himself, Lyndon Johnson, visited the base shortly after its construction. During the opening ceremony, he declared that the Stars and Stripes would fly over it forever."

"I think whoever wrote that speech for him was playing a game. A politician of his stature should have accounted for the possibility of withdrawing forces from Vietnam," Vadim remarked.

"The end of the war was still far off. The peace treaty was only signed on January 27, 1973, and the North Vietnamese continued to fight the South for another two years. For now, just listen about the base; we can discuss the politics when we return home."

Inwardly, I compared myself to our political officer. The comparison was decidedly in my favor. I knew much more about global politics than our Lieutenant-Colonel did.

I'm indispensable, I thought, I should at least be a General.

Chuckling at my absurd notion, I continued speaking,

"Later in Cam Ranh, the Americans initiated their initial experiments with trained dolphins, equipping them with explosives and paralyzing gas balloons to target enemy vessels and scuba divers. Years later, their State Department declassified data revealing that dolphins were responsible for eliminating over sixty Viet Cong scuba divers attempting to sabotage American battleships anchored at the bay."

"Our specialists are training dolphins in Crimea as well, although there's no adversary to use them against," the navigator added.

"I'm aware of that, but I believe the scope of their activities pales in comparison to what the Americans achieved. Despite the ban on hunting marine mammals, the US Congress granted the US Navy permission to capture up to twenty-five dolphins and sea lions annually for national defense purposes."

"Valery, you mentioned that the dolphins killed around sixty Vietnamese scuba divers, but do you have any figures on how many enemy combatants they killed in total? Have you come across any data on this?" Vadim inquired.

"Not from our sources, but I spoke to a local officer here. He informed me that official figures stated around a million casualties, but the actual number was closer to three million. After the American evacuation from Vietnam and the end of the Vietnam War, our government hoped the Vietnamese would lease the base to us."

"Why would we want it? If you look closely, our own bases barely have enough resources for sustenance. Now we're considering setting up a base so far away?" Vadim grumbled with a sense of pessimism.

"That's a valid question. Just keep your voice down, otherwise, we might be shown the door sooner than we think – not just as flight crew members, but as suspects for spreading anti-Soviet sentiments. Why do we need the base?

I can explain.

The Cold War wasn't over yet. Remember what the party leader said at the meeting: 'We are surrounded by enemies.'
But let's get serious; our side truly desires to station our ships off the coast of Vietnam, which wouldn't shift the balance of power in the Pacific theater. The USA has bases in the Philippines, Japan, and South Korea, but we have one in Vietnam. However, our comrades-in-arms in Vietnam didn't exactly rush to express gratitude for the years of weapons supply and the efforts of our pilots who battled Phantom jets over the tropics. The Vietnamese only agreed to hand over Cam Ranh to us due to the Chinese. They decided to teach them a lesson in 1979 for overthrowing the Chinese puppet Pol Pot in Cambodia.

On February 17th, units of the Chinese People's Liberation Army crossed the border into Vietnam, and after a month of clashes with reserves, they were swiftly approaching the capital. The Vietnamese didn't deploy their regular army in this peculiar war. They believed that employing their battle-hardened troops in the minor border conflict could escalate it into a full-scale war against another socialist nation..  A session of the Communist Party Political Bureau was called in Moscow, and a decision was made to send a special envoy to Beijing with an ultimatum for the Chinese 'hegemonists.'

While the Chinese army assaulted the Vietnamese reserve trenches, units from the Trans-Baikal Military District executed a simulated 'psychological attack' at the Soviet-Chinese border, and Pacific Fleet warships steered toward the Yellow and South China Seas. Beijing promptly heeded the warning and withdrew its troops from Vietnam. As a result, on May 2nd, 1979, our side entered into an agreement with Vietnam for the use of the Cam Ranh military base as a support point for fifteen operational squadrons of the Pacific Fleet, effectively a free lease arrangement for twenty-five years. The squadron's area of responsibility encompasses the southern Pacific Ocean and the entire Indian Ocean. It would be a wasted opportunity not to spend some time there – we can even go swimming. I've heard the water is splendid," I concluded.

"How do you know all this?" my navigator asked, clearly impressed by my knowledge.

"You should take a look at the Truth newspaper every now and then, Vadim. But it seems like you only read Playboy and Penthouse."

"Should we fly there right away then?" Vadim inquired.

"No, let's first try to get our passengers to Ho Chi Minh and unload the cargo," I replied.

"Well, you're the commander, it's your call."

A flight engineer approached us. He handed me a stack of pink banknotes featuring the kind face of Ho Chi Minh.

"What's this?" I asked Gennadiy, while tucking money into the pocket of my jumpsuit pocket.

"Dongs," Rybnikov replied.

"I can see they're not dollars. Where did this sum come from?" I frowned.

"While our passengers were moving three hundred air conditioners. I drained fifty gallons of kerosene from the underbelly tank and sold it to the truck drivers who brought us cargo. They had a barrel with them. They said they carried it just in case."

"I commend your resourcefulness.We could always attribute the shortage of that amount of kerosene to headwinds,” I felt relieved. “Is the cargo secured? "

“Yes. The crates are secured, and the passengers are in their seats.”

"'Then damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead!' As Admiral David Farragut famously declared," I exclaimed, and made my way into the plane.




Epilogue


We saw the first signs of the approaching warm front seventy miles from our intended landing point. Cirrus clouds began to appear in our path. I contacted the airport dispatcher for the current weather report. The supervisor of military sector flights at Ho Chi Minh Airport informed us that there was no rain on the runways yet, but it was anticipated at any moment.

Initiating our descent, we navigated beneath the mass of overhanging clouds. Our primary concern was to avoid flying into the storm activity associated with warm tropical fronts, as the powerful lightning could damage the aircraft electronics. Despite the challenging conditions, I requested a straight-in approach, hopeful for a successful landing.

With approximately fifteen miles remaining to the runway, large raindrops started pelting the cockpit windshield. It was becoming evident that landing before the heavy rain would be challenging. I made the decision to descend to my minimum altitude of one hundred eighty feet.

"Sergey, see if you can spot the approach lights on the runway," I directed Kovalenko. "I'll try to maintain the glide path amidst this turbulent wind."

The aircraft, weighing sixty tons, was tossed around like a small boat in rough waters. The erratic wind shifts made it difficult to maintain the correct approach heading. I counteracted the aircraft's movements by continuously adjusting the control column left and right. The rain was so intense that the windshield wipers couldn't clear it even on the highest setting. Descending to less than three hundred feet, I was prepared to execute a go-around and make another approach. My left hand rested on the engine levers, ready to increase the thrust to take-off power once we reached our minimum altitude.

"I see the runway lights at one o'clock," Sergey reported with a tone of relief.

"You're a bit too early for the runway lights; the threshold is still six hundred yards away," noted the navigator.

Wanting to believe my copilot, I initiated a right turn and subtly moved the control column away from me. While still banking, I lowered the aircraft's nose and aimed it towards the approaching high-intensity lights.

Before I could fully level the wings, a massive jolt struck the plane, causing it to list further to the right. Swiftly shifting the engine levers to the "take-off" position, I turned the control column to the left and pulled it towards me. The propellers adjusted their pitch to cut through the dense, moist Vietnamese air. The aircraft begrudgingly responded to the controls, and we began a gradual climb.

"Thank goodness we're still in one piece," remarked Onoprienko.

"I thought it was the end for us," added Vasiliev.

"Team," the cargo mechanic's voice came from the cargo hold, "this isn't the end. It's just the beginning. The entire right main landing gear has been torn off. All four wheels are gone. There's a hole in the fuselage, about nine square feet in size. Hydraulic fluid is leaking from the severed lines.”

"Then we won't be able to retract the landing gear," the flight engineer's voice was filled with concern.

I grasped the implications immediately, though I refrained from verbalizing them. Landing on a single main landing gear was an uncharted territory, as it wasn't a practiced scenario during training.

Landing without nose gear was relatively straightforward – touch down on the main gear and gently lower the nose by pulling back on the control column until the aircraft slows down. Landing with no landing gear at all was simpler – glide down onto the belly and slide to a halt. But a single main landing gear posed a unique challenge. Well, we'll figure it out when we reach the alternate aerodrome.


"Navigator, provide the heading for Cam Ranh," I calmly requested, aiming to restore a sense of stability to the tense atmosphere in the cockpit.

"Forty-five degrees," Vadim responded, his tone tinged with apprehension, foreseeing the difficulties ahead.

"Copilot, inform the flight controller that we're diverting to the alternate."

"Well, you so much wanted to visit Cam Ranh, Valery," Vadim commented.

"Yes, under different circumstances. Enough of that for now; let's focus on saving what we have."

As we flew from Ho Chi Minh to Cam Ranh, I pondered over what we might have encountered.

"Vadim," I addressed my navigator, "what's your take on what happened?"

"If you're asking about the landing gear, I'm certain that we struck the iron post of the approach lights. I told you that the lights Sergey saw couldn't have been the runway lights. I believe the shifting wind played a cruel trick on us. We ended up slightly lower than we should have been and collided with one of the aerodrome lighting fixtures."

"Your analysis seems to make sense," I replied, a sense of melancholy in my voice.

Approaching Cam Ranh, the flight controller instructed us to circle until our fuel reached emergency levels. Additionally, he briefed us on certain characteristics of the landing strip and its vicinity, saying:

"The American engineers designed the runway to prevent rainwater from flooding it. They constructed wide ditches on either side of the rounded runway, and beneath these ditches is a drainage system that carries water away through concrete pipes. These pipes, about five feet high, are spaced every three hundred feet along the runway. They're your main concern. But if you land where the aerodrome maintenance plans to ignite a fire, even if you slide off the runway due to uneven braking, you'll halt before reaching the pipes."

"Will the fire be easily visible?" I inquired as we continued circling at an altitude of three thousand feet above the base.

"The maintenance service is set to burn a stack of old tires. The pillar of black smoke will be visible even from across the ocean. Better yet, it'll be the tires of the American strategic B-52 bombers that are on fire. So don't worry; concentrate on your landing strategy."

Ten minutes before touchdown, the aerodrome maintenance ignited the rubber tire fire. The thick black smoke would have obscured my view if the wind hadn't shifted it to the side of the runway. If not for that, I wouldn't have been able to locate the base, let alone the landing spot.



The First Lieutenants Goncharov and Nikolishin were chopping an electrical cable two hundred meters away from the runway in dense shrubbery. Their tropical shirts were soaked with sweat. Chopping the American multi-core cable with axes wasn't easy. They had dug it up just yesterday evening and were hurrying to finish the task before their fellow seamen found out about the location of this "golden vein."

"Igor," Nikolishin said to Goncharov, "look at the smoke rising above the airfield. Maybe someone crashed?"

"Who could have crashed when nobody took off or landed at the airfield? Use your brain a little. Can't you hear that idiot circling above the runway for half an hour? They probably lit a fire for him. Chop your side faster, I'm almost done with mine.”


Lack of hydraulic fluid prevented me from extending the flaps, so I executed a low approach to the runway. Over the threshold, I instructed the flight engineer to shut down all four engines. Now, we were entirely reliant on our inertia and the force of gravity.


However, at this glide angle, the aircraft was also subject to what they call ‘ground effect’. That aerodynamic phenomenon that all pilots know about but can't explain to their wives.

My plane slipped along three feet above the concrete and refused to land. Having streaked an additional one thousand feet, it touched the runway with the left main landing gear. I immediately turned the control column as far as I could to the left, attempting to keep the aircraft on one wheel as long as possible.

Yet, the plane ignored my command. It struck the right side of the fuselage against the runway, producing a horrible screech reminiscent of the roar of a severely wounded, dying monster. It then flew into the ditch that had been so prudently dug by the enemy, and at an enormous velocity, it struck its glass nose against the concrete pipe.

That’s it, I said to myself.


But I spoke too soon. 

Looking over everything that was on my right, including what were now the former members of my crew and the remnants of the pilot’s cockpit, I slowly turned my head to the left.  Not very far from my half ruined aircraft, two trucks stopped.

A fire truck and a street watering truck stood ready, with the latter serving as an additional water source for the fire truck.

One Petty officer, a courageous soul, dashed towards the crash scene while clutching a fire extinguisher. As the brave man approached, he swiftly climbed onto the roof of the watering truck, then leapt onto the plane's wing, sprinting in my direction.

Aha, there’s the reason the firemen have come.  I didn’t smell the smoke at first—that means one more sense has returned to me for a bit—the sense of smell.  We’re not on fire, but we’re smoking. 

That's the scent of burning cotton, I recalled. It indicates that the interior lining of the fuselage is also smoldering.

The Petty officer with the fire extinguisher, without paying me the slightest attention, turned the red cylinder upside down and smacked it against the side of the fuselage.  But not even the smallest stream of foam appeared in his hands.  Since he hadn’t achieved any effect from his action, he tossed the red balloon onto the ground.  He cursed horribly and roared at the sailors milling below for them to give him the fire hose. 

I wonder,

Where he got the fire extinguisher?  Maybe he took it off the wall of headquarters when he was running to our rescue.  He managed the hose much better. 

Having soaked me and my dead fellows with water for some reason, he directed the stream against the door to the pressurized passenger cabin.  Out of the cracks in the door smoke was streaming.


Two officers ran up to the airplane with axes. They hesitated and stopped about two meters away from me.

"Igor, chop a hole around the window!" Nikolishin shouted. "There are no structural elements there in the fuselage."

"Don't teach the father how to have children," Goncharov replied and swung the axe forcefully, hitting the aircraft's skin.

Nikolishin stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend.


Apparently the smoldering didn’t have enough air until that point.  After the first blows, an acrid smoke spurted out from the holes they had cut and tongues of flame appeared.

"Comrade Colonel!" a youthful high-pitched voice sounded. "The plane is on fire."

"Then put it out, damn it!" the garrison commander shouted in response.

Having made an opening large enough to fit the fire hose through, the sailors flooded the passenger compartment until there were no more signs of smoke.   

Soon the water in the fire truck ran out. The Colonel, who had been observing the rescue operation from a distance, hurried to the driver's cabin, pounded on the door with his fist several times, and growled at the sailor who had appeared,

"What the hell are you standing there for? Immediately hurry for more water!"

But the truck couldn’t move away.  Because the hoses were badly connected a large quantity of water had gathered beneath its wheels.  The ground beneath the truck had softened, causing the wheels to spin and the truck to sink deeper and deeper into the soil. 


The firemen stopped working on the aircraft and began to drag out the fire truck.  The sailors got a thick metal cable from somewhere, which had a hook at either end.  They attached one end to the watering truck, and the other to the fire truck, and the watering truck jerked to a start.  The cable parted and whipped over the heads of the frightened men.

Goncharov hurried off to a certain place and returned with a ladder. Once he reached the side of the fuselage, he climbed up and peered into the passenger compartment. The sight left him astonished. He directed some choice words towards the seamen and firefighters present, then ordered them to remove the bodies of the Vietnamese from the fuselage.


There were only two stretchers available. The bodies extracted from the pressurized cabin were transported on them from the aircraft to the runway.  There a doctor checked for the heartbeat of each Vietnamese in the hopes of finding at least someone who might have remained alive.  But the scrawny Vietnamese bodies were lifeless.  The sailors tossed the dead people one after another onto the concrete and ran to get the next one. 

If I could have spoken, I would have said to them,

“Guys, there’s no need to rush.  Anyone who wasn’t choked to death by the smoke drowned when you were extinguishing the smoldering cotton.”

But of course they weren’t the ones at fault.

A hoist drove up.  Men with cutting torches began to cut through the twisted metal to free my pilot’s seat. Everything that remained of my copilot Sergey and the flight engineer Gennadiy had already been obtained and removed long before.  They decided to tackle the navigator’s remains later.  They swarmed around me without noticing that I was following their movements.  They were afraid to look me in the face.  No one wants to look into the open eyes of death.


They seemed to have cut through everything. A voice yelled,

"Start lifting!"

Rescuers attached a hook to the headrest of my seat, and the crane operator carefully began to hoist me up on the long derrick of the hoist. I hung downward by the straps of my pilot seat. The pain, which had temporarily eased, was renewed tenfold.

While observing the damage wrought on the aircraft and the work of the rescuers, I had forgotten the sorry state of my own body. Involuntarily, I moaned, protesting against such unbearable torture.

"The commander is alive!" word passed from one person to another.

The mobile hoist lowered me between the ambulance and the pile of thirty yellow-skinned corpses. The doctor, feeling for my pulse, shook his head and said to the nurse who knelt next to me,

"Hurry, Larisa. We might not get him to the hospital if we're not quick."

He started to cut away the chair straps with his scalpel, and the girl began to cut off the parachute straps. Then they placed me on a stretcher in the ambulance, and we rushed along the aerodrome's taxiway on my final journey.

The nurse sat beside me on a portable seat, wiping the perspiration from my forehead with a sterile napkin.
Larisa's eyes filled with tears as she managed to tell me that the gunner who was in the tail had survived uninjured. The First Lieutenant accompanying the cargo had made his way to the gunner shortly before the emergency landing and was also alive, but he had broken both legs when jumping from the tail cockpit. The cargo mechanic who had been in the cargo hold had been killed by the air conditioners that had broken away from their moorings.

I was grateful for her tears of sympathy, falling hot on my hand. For imploring me not to die, but to wait until we reached the hospital, where they could surely save my life. For the fact that in my final moments, this beautiful girl, Larisa, was sitting beside me.


I passed away in the ambulance, with only two hundred yards left to reach the intensive care unit.

I chose not to cling to this life.



Post Scriptum

My soul slowly ascended to the heavens. It sawly unconscious the weeping nurse leaning over me, the nervously smoking doctor  constantly cursing. It moved away from the earth, and the entire Vietnam was visible when my ephemeral body turned its face towards space. And from out of nowhere, the Apostle Peter came towards me, sternly asking,

"Valery Grigoriev, answer on the Day of Judgment, how is it for you, a person born in sin, who lived a short life therein, committed several tragic mistakes, taking away more then three dozen lives, to remain beloved not only by those who knew you closely, but also by those who encountered you once or twice?"

And my soul answered, "No matter what Christianity says about the soul being created by God, it's not true. Twenty percent is childhood psychological traumas, thirty percent is encoded in the genes from parents, and the remaining fifty percent is shaped by the surrounding society. And I am not guilty of anything, Apostle. Although I deserve hell according to Christian laws."

"Do you really remember childhood traumas?" the Apostle asked.

"I remember everything and can tell you if you command."

"Tell me about the earliest one; I want to understand how far your memory goes into childhood."

"I was five when our family lived in the same Artem from which I took off to Vietnam," began the soul.

"Skip the details, I know where you took off from, at what cost, and how many innocent lives you took with you, unable to control your greed," Peter sternly interrupted my soul. "Get to the point."

Even in death, my soul stood firm, unafraid of Apostol's attempts to intimidate. Ignoring Peter's threatening tone, it remained calm and continued,

"My twenty-five-year-old mother decided to take a break from her thirty-year-old husband and five-year-old son. She was planning to fly six thousand miles to a ski resort, despite never having skied before, let alone on mountains. My father, her twenty-year-old brother, and I accompanied her to the bus stop along the roadside. Mother was walking ahead, father held my hand from behind, and my uncle, carrying her suitcase, brought up the rear of our procession. The drunk driver in the dump truck grazed the front bumper against the suitcase my uncle was carrying. In mid-air, the suitcase broke four of my father's ribs and threw him into the ditch. And since I was holding onto my father's hand, I ended up in the ditch with a broken leg.

As a result, my father, with broken ribs, my uncle with a dislocated arm, and I, a five-year-old with a broken leg, ended up in the hospital, and she managed to board a plane and flew to the resort for a month.

I don't want to talk about my father at all.

Both of my parents lived their whole lives only for themselves.

There you have fifty percent of me, a mix of trauma and genes. The consciousness of a young person in society is shaped by society's attitude towards them. And if the fundamental rule of human behavior in the environment is the law of the jungle, according to which a person is a wolf to another person, then the new member of society grows up as a wolf. And a wolf in the jungle recognizes only its own kind and is ready to kill any outsider to the death. That's where the second half of my consciousness comes from, or soul, if you prefer it that way, Peter. After the death of my first crew, I found myself in jungles that not even Mowgli could have dreamed of in his worst nightmare.

This is why everyone who was in my close or distant circle loved me. After all, I not only amassed everything for myself but shared my wealth with others. Both spiritual and material."

"You haven't hidden anything; I commend you,” Peter said. “However, the weight of your good deeds, like saving the second pilot's leg in the unit, but as for sins, they are too numerous to count. Thus, you have flown your last flight. Ahead of you lies only a fall into hell. Farewell, Grigoriev."