The Inventor

   
   My line of work always required the watchful eye of a “Big Brother” over my bustling activities. To be fair, this "relative" was not intrusive, very polite, and didn't nitpick me. His role was to shield me from dubious connections, and as a result, he'd occasionally ask questions about one acquaintance or another.
About a year and a half ago, this "brother"—who appeared in different guises each time—asked if I knew an "inventor." A week before our conversation, this so-called inventor had attempted to ram his car into the gates of a classified research institute.
 
   This homegrown craftsman, my guardian angel continued, had been arrested on the spot by armed security. A quick interrogation yielded nothing, so a specialized team in fancy suits—a couple of his colleagues—was called to the scene.

   However, even two seasoned guys with piercing stares couldn’t get a straight answer from the troublemaker during their two-hour interview.
"I'm an inventor," the taxi driver kept repeating in response to the hosts' increasingly pointed questions.

   With that, they let him go.

   However, the "unblinking eye" didn’t let the incident slip by and decided to check with a ‘specialist’ (yours truly) whether this so-called "Kulibin," who had spent the last twenty years behind the wheel of a beat-up Ford Crown Victoria, could have realistically come up with some groundbreaking aviation invention.1

   Apparently, I was the best "specialist" in aviation they could find in the region.

   I replied that I had indeed heard of this character before, having looked into him a couple of years ago at the request of mutual acquaintances. I assured the visitor in the expensive suit that the "inventor" was harmless and explained that his obsession with revolutionizing aviation was nothing more than an itch he couldn’t scratch.

   "He just never got enough flight time as a kid," I said. "And since his chances of sitting in a cockpit or piloting a helicopter are long gone, he’s trying to stay connected to aviation any way he can. So, in his free time, he fantasizes about it."

   I actually knew the "inventor" indirectly, mostly from envious people who wanted to catch him in a lie. After all, the man had a habit of telling outlandish stories, especially when inebriated and surrounded by equally intoxicated local "girls." He loved regaling the amphibian crowd with thrilling tales of his career as a pilot in ground-attack aviation.
Allow me a brief digression here.

   My dismissive remarks about women aren't rooted in misogyny. Believe me, I have my reasons. In our region, the “fairer sex” that wanders freely around consists mostly of "beauties" who have already been married to worthless local men. These "girls," having escaped the sweaty clutches of lecherous old farts, are desperately searching for new shoulders to climb upon—preferably ones that speak their native language.

   One more note, and I’ll return to the inventor.

   The term "worthless men" applies only to those locals who have "imported" themselves a Vietnamese, Chinese, Thai, or Slavic woman, bringing her into their home as a sex slave. Typically, this pathetic creature looks like this: he’s just over fifty, has a smug face, a bulging gut, and is dressed in sagging sweatpants and a knitted sweater—probably one his mother made. You usually spot this subspecies in a grocery store, slowly and proudly shuffling across the polished floor in worn sneakers, holding the hand of a frail creature with the eyes of a frightened animal. The tiny, dark-skinned woman from the tropics lags half a step behind her master, constantly glancing around, her gaze pleading for protection.
If the local, in his foolishness, has chosen a Slavic woman as his wife, the scene looks different.

   In the grocery store, he usually trails behind her, his face twisted into a displeased grimace, struggling to keep sight of his "Eurasian delight." The Slavic woman, with her refined features and bright eyes, glides like a deer between the aisles, picking out the most delicious and expensive items, completely ignoring her lawful companion.
Sorry, I couldn’t keep it brief—I got carried away visualizing these scenes from life.

   Anyway, a few years ago, some colleagues of the former pilot discreetly sent a "scout" my way to find out if the "former best, but disgraced" pilot wasn’t taking too many liberties in his stories.

   I was a little surprised by such a request and voiced my confusion out loud:
"In this day and age, with a laptop or computer in every home, knowing a person’s full name and age, you could easily clear up any doubts in a matter of minutes."

   In response, I was reminded that not long ago, I had been asked to expose the legend of two imposters. One of them claimed to be a former KGB officer. He swore that he was a graduate of the KGB Academy and a hero of the Afghan war. The other claimed to be the commander of an airship with the rank of major.

   After a short conversation with me, the first admitted he had served as a soldier on the Belarusian-Polish border, and the second turned out to be a helicopter mechanic.

   Many men are suckers for flattery, and I sometimes feel ashamed that I’m one of them. I’m weak, I admit it. When I hear the sweet melody of praise, I can’t resist, so I decided to help the taxi driver’s guild.

   I soon found out that the "inventor" had indeed graduated from a military flight academy and had actually served for three years in the Transcaucasian Military District as a pilot of a frontline bomber, the Su-17M.

   At the beginning of 1990, as the long-standing Armenian-Azerbaijani conflict escalated into armed clashes, his regiment was disbanded. The former military pilot found himself comfortably seated in the co-pilot's chair of a Mi-8 helicopter with the Sochi Aviation Unit.

   One could write a whole novel about his later life, but who would believe me? Readers would say: "He's lying again," and sarcastically add, "Well, as usual."

   So, I'll limit myself to a brief account of his life's twists and turns. After all, life’s misfortunes, as we know, always arise when luck suddenly disappears, often as a form of divine retribution for a hero’s overconfidence.

   My protagonist, however, was incredibly lucky in life. After graduating from flight school, he was assigned not to Domna—a remote location halfway between Chita and Mongolia—but to the welcoming town of Kyurdamir, nestled in the heart of sunny Azerbaijan, just a hundred kilometers from the warm Caspian Sea.
Even the bloody civil conflict between the two neighboring nations worked in his favor.

   According to the Soviet Air Force's rearmament plan, he was due to retrain that year on a new aircraft—the Su-24M. This type of trial could have ended poorly for him. A poorly prepared pilot might easily have ended up as a flight navigator, which would have automatically derailed his career progression.
But instead, with his military ID in hand, stamped with the notice of his discharge from the Armed Forces due to downsizing, and a ten-month severance pay, the 24-year-old bachelor with a distinguished surname—one shared by a famous Russian literary figure—headed not just anywhere, but to Sochi.

   The following months went even better for him. Within a week of arriving in the city of his dreams, he applied for a marriage license with the first local beauty who crossed his path.

   Three months later, he became a legal resident of the Soviet Union’s premier resort town. His Sochi residency, combined with a degree from the Higher Military Aviation School of Pilots and three years of flight experience, secured him a job with the aviation company "Yugavia," whose helicopters were based on the outskirts of Adler Airport.

   The romance of flying helicopters with foreign tourists in the mountains was nothing compared to the high-speed maneuvering of a cumbersome, wing-sweeping aircraft in the same terrain. And financially, his previous military service paled in comparison to this new job.

   The laid-back Englishmen and chatty French tourists were far more generous than the state had ever been. The passenger “tips” he received for flights to the area around Krasnaya Polyana or Kholodny Lager amounted to more in rubles than an officer's thirteenth salary, typically handed out before New Year’s by the military finance office.

   Everything seemed to be going well, but the gods only favor those who never forget about them, not even for a minute.

   The deity watching over the flying brethren from Mount Mytikas, in the Olympus mountain range, is none other than Nikolay Yegorovich Zhukovsky—the father of aerodynamics and the author of the fundamental equation for lift. This great Russian, seated in the pilot's chair between Zeus, the God of all Gods, and Neptune, the ruler of the seas, keeps a sharp eye on aviators. He vigilantly guards those who remember that "the airplane is the greatest creation of human reason and hands, and it bows to no authority except those who understand and respect the laws of flight."

   With a bit of a stretch, we can apply the same principle to helicopters.
In early July of 1991, a group of young, sun-kissed Madrid natives decided to climb the peak of Tsakhvoa.

   At 3,346 meters above sea level, the ascent posed no major challenges and required no serious mountaineering gear. The most they might need, they were told, would be a warm sweater, a sleeping bag, and enough food for a couple of days. The Spaniards had read as much in a pamphlet they picked up at Adler Airport upon arrival.

   However, at the "Mountain Guide Company", they were informed that the peak was located in a "closed zone" of the Caucasian Biosphere Reserve. The hiking season wouldn’t officially open for another twelve days, and if any rangers caught them en route, the fine would equal the cost of their entire trip to Russia.

   Stunned by this news, the descendants of Cervantes were left speechless, while their hospitable hosts continued to "warm up" their clients:
"Instead of dragging yourselves with backpacks, tents, food, water, and pots for three days up and two days down..."

   At this point, the Iberians' faces stretched into caricatured expressions, reminiscent of the donkey-like figures from Francisco Goya's Caprichos etchings. They had neither tents nor, for that matter, pots. They hadn’t planned to spend five days in the mountains — two at most. But just as the guests were regretting their visit to Russia, the crafty agent of the "mountain guides" threw them a lifeline:

   "We can make an exception for you and arrange the climb today. All you need to do is pay for an exclusive permit at our office, and our guide will escort you back to Adler, where a helicopter will take you straight to the base of Tsakhvoa.

   Instead of a five-day hiking tour, you’ll enjoy a half-day adventure, experiencing the beauty of the Caucasus from a bird’s-eye view aboard the safest and most widely-produced helicopter in the world. In just one hour, you’ll see Sochi, Krasnaya Polyana, the Aishkha Pass, and the valleys of the Malaya Laba and Bezymyanka Rivers. You’ll land right in the upper cirque of Mount Tsakhvoa. From there, you’ll hike to the summit and enjoy the sunset. At dusk, you’ll return to camp. And in the morning, on your way back to Adler, you’ll fly over Lake Klumbachka and the Pass of the Four. You can pay for the flight at the airline's ticket office."

   The delighted Spaniards gratefully accepted the offer and, two hours later, stood at the helicopter pad in front of a graduate of the Marshal of Aviation Vershinin Pilot School. Two dozen young men and women sought shelter from the bright sun in the shadow of the long rotor blades of the Mi-8, or "Hip," as it’s called by representatives of a certain unfriendly bloc. The Spaniards' hiking backpacks were stacked in a pile under the tail boom, near the open fuselage doors.

   "How many of them are there?" the soon-to-be "inventor" lazily asked, not bothering to count his passengers.

   "Twenty-four Spaniards and one interpreter," replied the guide.

   "You're not coming?" the pilot asked.

   "No," the guide replied. "I've been there already."

   "I’m not going either," the interpreter added casually. "The guests didn’t pay for my flight, and I’m not keen on hiking over rocks on my own dime."

   "Then no one’s going anywhere," the co-pilot concluded. "I’m not taking foreigners on board without a translator."

   After these words, the interpreter explained the situation to the tourists, and a slight confusion spread among them. No one wanted to walk half a kilometer to the low airport terminal to pay for two extra passengers, and their law-abiding upbringing didn’t allow them to just offer money directly to the second pilot.

   "No problem," the thrilled Spaniards initially responded to the opportunity to fly over the mountains, but then started discussing how best to handle it. "But we don’t want to go to the terminal to pay for two additional passengers."

   "I understand ‘two additional passengers,’" the co-pilot chimed in, "and about not wanting to go to the terminal. Give me your money, se;ores. No need to bother with the airline cashier."

   The Spaniards appreciated the straightforwardness and handed the Russian pilot the cash without hesitation.

   An old minibus dropped off the crew commander and seven new passengers with their gear under the rotor blades. The seasoned helicopter pilot stepped to the edge of the tarmac and, in tradition, "drained the excess" before the flight. As he fussed with the zipper on his blue pants, hiding his "best friend" from public view, his assistant approached the new group and asked them to present their boarding passes.

   "We’ve sorted everything with the commander. Ask him for the ‘stubs.’ He’ll explain everything to you," came the reply.

   "Where are you headed, anyway?" the savvy assistant asked, sensing something.

   "To the ‘Three Bears’ base."

   "Spelunkers?"

   "Yeah."

   "Got it. Straight across the mountains, that’s about ninety kilometers, forty minutes by air. Or by bus, through Tuapse and Maykop, it’s three hundred kilometers and eight hours of bone-rattling."

   "Did you calculate the weight and balance?" the commander asked, sneaking up behind after "relieving himself."

   "Yeah," the young co-pilot turned around and responded. "Two hundred forty millimeters, eleven-point-four tons. But I didn’t expect we’d take on anyone else. With the seven extra passengers and their gear, we’ll exceed the maximum allowable takeoff weight."

   "How’d you calculate it?"

   "Seven tons empty, two tons of fuel—enough for an hour there, an hour back, plus a thirty-minute reserve. Add twenty-four passengers with backpacks, roughly two-point-four tons. That’s eleven-point-four total—just one hundred seventy kilograms under the weight limit for these conditions."

   He neglected to mention the translator and guide, for whose passage he had pocketed the cash. The young co-pilot hoped the commander wouldn’t bother counting heads, and he was right.

   "We’re taking these seven, too. With their gear, it’ll be about a ton. By the time we reach the pass, we’ll burn off six hundred kilos of fuel. We’ll only be three or four hundred kilos over. That’s manageable," the experienced pilot nodded toward the newly arrived passengers, then commanded in a tone that left no room for objection, "Seat the foreigners along the sides on the folding benches. Let the spelunkers sit on top of their gear—they’re used to it. First, we’ll drop the Spaniards off at the ‘cirque,’ and while they hike up and back, we’ll ferry this group to ‘Three Bears.’"

   Three thousand horsepower, hidden under the cowls of the two turboshaft engines, roared as they lifted the twenty-year-old machine off the tarmac. The commander pushed the cyclic stick forward and slowly picked up speed, guiding the helicopter over the road leading to Krasnaya Polyana. It wasn’t the shortest route to Tsakhvoa, but it was necessary. First, the captain had to stay clear of the Abkhazian border, and second, the route followed the Mzymta River, giving the helicopter the lowest possible flight profile.

   Half an hour later, after leaving Krasnaya Polyana slightly to the left, the crew continued flying along the riverbed toward its source at Lake Kardyvach. The helicopter flew just thirty meters above the twisting, turbulent stream. The engine parameters caused the pilots no particular concern. The oil temperature and exhaust gas readings were a bit higher than normal, and the engines delivered slightly less thrust than stated in the specifications, but the old commander was aware of these issues from the engineering crew and believed that if the machine was cleared for flight, nothing could go wrong.

   The Mzymta River’s course ran just six kilometers from the landing site. As they neared the upper cirque of the peak, at an altitude of 1,500 meters above sea level, the commander made a gentle left turn and began a gradual climb. The helicopter ascended at three meters per second, but the slopes of the Caucasus Ridge were twice as steep as the climb rate. The distance to the ground was gradually shrinking, and the rocky surface crept closer to the landing gear. When only eighty meters of altitude remained before the planned landing, and the wheels were just three meters from the mountain slope, the commander increased engine RPM to takeoff power and slightly lowered the nose to gain horizontal speed.

   It’s hard to say why at that moment he left the collective pitch lever of the main rotor in the fully raised position, but the result of this error was a five percent drop in rotor RPM. In level terrain, this wouldn’t have caused any problems, but in the high mountains, that slight loss was enough for the helicopter to sink, gently grazing the rocks with its wheels before tipping onto its side at a forward speed of thirty kilometers per hour.

   As the helicopter began to settle, the commander realized the danger and shut off the fuel supply to the engines by closing the emergency valves. The main rotor, still spinning by inertia, shredded its ten-meter-long blades against the mountainside, sending rocks flying, and the fuselage barrel-rolled twice before the helicopter came to a halt.

   "Is everyone alive?" the co-pilot shouted into the cabin, unbuckling his seatbelt.

   "Looks like it," came the response from one of the spelunkers.

   "Everyone, get out of the helicopter," ordered the recovering commander, slowly crawling out of the cockpit on his knees.

   The flight engineer yanked the handle of the mechanical latch on the rear doors, and the lower half fell limply onto the slope. Groaning and cursing in two languages, the passengers clambered out of the downed machine and gathered in two groups about twenty meters from the crash site.

   The commander was the last to crawl out. Limping on his left leg, he approached the spelunkers and quietly said to their leader:

   "It’s about forty kilometers to the ‘Three Bears’ base. If you follow the Malaya Laba River, you should be there by tomorrow evening. Take your things and leave now. The rescuers shouldn’t find you here."

   "I understand, commander," the wiry man in his forties replied in the same quiet tone. "Don’t worry about my group. We won’t get lost, and we won’t say a word."

   With that, they shook hands, and twenty minutes later, the backs of the spelunkers disappeared over the ridge—one the Mi-8 had failed to cross.

   No one in Adler Airport, the Yugavia company, or the tourist agency knew about the crash. And if it hadn’t been for the wives of the translator and the guide raising the alarm by midnight the next day, the search-and-rescue operation for the downed crew and passengers might have taken several more days.
But wives are the kind of people who sense trouble with their hearts. It’s very hard to deceive them. That’s exactly how it was on the night of July 4th to 5th. Almost simultaneously, two women who had never met called the city police and reported their husbands missing after flying into the mountains with foreign tourists.

   It’s hard to say which detail impressed the authorities more—the disappearance of two local citizens or the loss of two dozen foreigners—but the search-and-rescue machine kicked into high gear. At the first light of dawn, a rescue helicopter took off, tracing the path of the missing Mi-8.

   A criminal case regarding the crash was opened against several individuals. The main suspect was the crew commander. According to two witnesses—one, the driver of the fuel truck, and the other, the operator of the airport’s power supply unit—more than thirty passengers, all with carry-on bags, had boarded the crashed Mi-8 helicopter. However, rescuers brought only twenty-six tourists and three crew members back to Adler Airport.

   The investigation revealed that two Sochi residents were illegally on board. The investigators persistently tried to convince the guide and the interpreter to cooperate and testify against the accused in court, but since their businesses were closely tied to the helicopter flights of the Yugavia company, they refused to confirm the statements made by the airport service workers regarding the real number of passengers.

   No one bothered to ask the Spaniards. As soon as the commission members involved in the investigation were assured that the foreign guests had no complaints against the company, they were quickly escorted out of the country.
But really, what could the tourists from Madrid complain about? They saw Tsakhvoa, spent two fun nights around a campfire in the upper cirque of the mountain, and returned safely two days later. For most of them, the aviation incident became the highlight of their semi-wild adventure in Russia.

   The criminal charges against the co-pilot for smuggling two illegal passengers were dropped quickly. The transport prosecutor reasoned:

   “Well, the guy pocketed a couple hundred rubles—who hasn’t sinned?”

   It wasn’t worth imprisoning the young man over such a small thing. But the Yugavia management wasted no time in firing him. They revoked his civilian aviation pilot’s license as soon as they learned he wouldn’t be prosecuted.

   The charges against the commander were also dropped soon after. He managed to pin the blame on the engineers. According to the captain, confirmed by the nomograms pasted into the engine logbooks, the engine adjustments were recorded but never actually carried out. The helicopter had been cleared for mountain flights despite the engines having a persistent 880-pound (400 kg) thrust deficit.

   The accused engineers also found a way out. They presented calculations showing that, even with the specified thrust deficit, the Mi-8 should have been able to reach the required altitude. The wheels could have only touched the mountain slope under those weather conditions if the helicopter’s landing weight had actually exceeded the allowable limit by 2,046 pounds (928 kg).

   For the prosecutor, it was a closed loop. There were no guilty parties because proving the helicopter was overloaded was impossible due to the physical absence of the extra passengers. The helicopter was written off, the commander was sent into retirement, and the co-pilot was left alone—with his beautiful wife, but without a job, a profession, or even a home.

   
   The gods tried to remind the young man of their existence, but as it turned out later, he misunderstood the signal and decided to swing from one extreme to another.

   One of Svetlana’s school friends, Boris Mikhailovich, had taken advantage of the post-Soviet chaos and was planning to move to the United States permanently. However, he kept postponing his departure for a significant reason.

   The story of their friendship was anything but straightforward. The young man had harbored tender feelings for the beauty since his teenage years. But back in school, he was too plain to catch her attention, and in 1984, he left to study 200 miles away at the Novorossiysk Maritime University. No, Borukh Markovich—his official name after graduation, as written on his birth certificate—wasn’t planning to become either a navigator or a ship mechanic. He had enrolled in the Department of Maritime Transport Management, Economics, and Law, and by the summer of 1991, he was working as a legal advisor at the Sochi Commercial Sea Port.

   His mother was pressing him to make a decision. The big family was waiting for both of them across the ocean. Uncles, aunts, cousins—they couldn’t understand why their talented Boris was hesitating. Why wasn’t he joining them in Brooklyn? But truth be told, some relatives had their suspicions and whispered amongst themselves that it was all because of the shiksa. Rumor had it that a Russian girl had turned his head, though she was already married to some military brute.

   Borukh Markovich wasn’t expecting trouble—he was just hoping for a miracle. The fourth principle of Judaism says: “A person’s life is of absolute value.” Therefore, wishing death upon his rival was not an option. Misfortune, maybe—but not death. And after three years of regular synagogue visits, his prayers were finally answered.

   Dropping by Svetlana’s parents’ apartment for a brief visit to offer sympathy after the recent stressful investigation, he found the couple sitting at the kitchen table with a half-empty bottle of vodka. The young legal advisor burst into a passionate tirade:

   "Are you both out of your minds? Life is just beginning, and you’re already throwing in the towel. You think you’re failures, that life has crushed you right at the start?" He continued by quoting a classic, "But have you even tried to fight back? Have you done everything you can to break free from the iron grip? Survive even when life seems unbearable."

   Svetlana's secret admirer didn’t mention the source of his inspiration—there was no need for his friends to know he could almost recite Nikolai Ostrovsky by heart. Instead, he casually dropped that he was soon trading the azure shores of the Black Sea for the mesmerizing ocean beyond. And in passing, he hinted that he was willing to help the couple move in the same direction. Seeing the genuine interest in their eyes, the legal advisor offered a simple solution:

   "Divorce the current husband—marry Boris—move abroad as newlyweds—divorce after the move—remarry the original husband—then bring him over too."

   Under normal circumstances, the pilot would have punched the guest in the face for such an offer. Who, after all, would willingly hand over his wife to a secret admirer, even for a few months—or possibly years? But the couple was going through a dark period in their lives, and they gave in to the devilish temptation.

   Pilots are a passionate bunch and often make rash decisions, partly due to the nature of their work. "Better to do something quickly, even if it’s not entirely right, than to do it perfectly but too late"—that’s the kind of wisdom experienced instructors drill into young pilots in their early training. In fairness, there were times in their careers when this simple wisdom had saved their lives. But on the ground, sitting in the kitchen with a bottle of wine or vodka, it might have been wise to think three times before agreeing to such a plan.

   Six months later, when the abandoned pilot asked his ex-wife about her plans to divorce Boris, he didn’t get a thumbs-up or a simple rejection. Instead, he received a not-so-friendly gesture—the middle finger, flipped at him from across the ocean.

   Realizing that Borukh had masterfully swindled him, our hero resorted to drastic measures.

   "I’ll rip off Janus’s two-faced head," the future "inventor" vowed, having no real idea who the Romans had actually named Janus after. He then paid for a tourist trip to New York.


   The Soviet aviation marvel, the Ilyushin Il-62, was considered the most reliable aircraft—at least from Kaliningrad to Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky. Its range was unsurpassed by Soviet standards. However, even this plane couldn't make it from Sheremetyevo in Moscow to John F. Kennedy Airport in Queens, New York, without a refueling stop. According to the flight plan, the stop was scheduled in Gander, Newfoundland. But with 250 days of dreadful weather each year, and without onboard navigation systems meeting ICAO's first category requirements, it’s best not to rely on Gander as a stopover.

   As our Il-62 passed by Prince Christian Sound in Greenland, the captain informed the passengers that tiny Gander was closed due to weather conditions and the plane would instead refuel in Halifax, the capital of Nova Scotia.

   At 370 miles per hour (600 km/h) over the Atlantic, time stretches painfully long. Flying westward, chasing the setting sun, the daylight hours increase by about one and a half times. If a passenger’s rear is squeezed into a narrow seat, their waist cinched by a seatbelt, with no TV to watch and no sleep due to the bright sunlight, they have a lot of free time. What can they do with it? Drink, if they’re in business class, or think, if they’re in economy. And if a pilot has time to think, you can expect wiser decisions than usual.

   By the time he left Sheremetyevo, the pilot’s determination to "rescue the beauty from the clutches of the beast" had already begun to wane. A new plan formed: to reach the American shore and disappear into the concrete jungle of New York City. However, after learning that the plane would bypass Gander, this plan underwent revision.

   The decision to stay in Canada fully matured at Halifax Airport. Seeing the interior of the international terminal, our hero thought:

   "If a city of just 300,000 people has an airport fancier than any I’ve seen in my own country, how must the city itself look?"

   Dazed by the spacious terminal, the young man decisively marched toward the office of border control to turn himself in.

   The next twenty years passed in a blur, like a single day. Waking up at 10 a.m., driving from 11 a.m. to 1 a.m., with a quick shot of 5 ounces (150 grams) to relieve stress, and then eight hours of sleep. No days off. Twelve months a year. His rest breaks were spent waiting for passengers, standing in line with other cabs outside shopping malls or supermarkets.
It was during these short pauses that the idea for a revolutionary invention was born.

   While the immigrant cabbies discussed the rare but sensational crimes in Halifax or the latest gas price hikes, the former ground-attack pilot, with experience flying rotorcraft, had an epiphany: to create a hybrid aircraft that combined the features of both planes and helicopters.

   “If you multiply the fame of the Wright brothers by the popularity of Igor Sikorsky and add the experience of a humble cab driver who’s flown both planes and helicopters, all the Nobel Prize winners will choke with envy,” thought my hero.

   After five years of contemplation, pencil sketches, and carving wood models, he created five or six designs and a wooden prototype of a vertical takeoff and landing aircraft.

   It was with this "creation," which he named FTA, that he attempted to ram the gates of a closed research institute with the bumper of his car during that fateful spring.

   Two and a half years have passed since that incident.

   On the day of the October Revolution anniversary, while the older generation gloomily downed shots of vodka in their tiny kitchens, reminiscing about the 99 years wasted in the fight for the bright future of the global proletariat, the most influential cab driver in Halifax—my story’s hero, the "Boss of the Russian Mafia"—was celebrating his 60th birthday. Fifty guests, plus a few children, gathered at a Chinese restaurant he’d rented for the evening. The birthday boy greeted each couple at the door and seated them according to his plan.

   He seated me next to a man in his fifties. My neighbor was tall, well-built, with a smoothly shaved head and a three-day beard. To my left, the birthday boy politely pushed in a chair for my wife.

   To the right of my neighbor sat his wife, holding an infant in her arms, with two more children from her previous marriages seated beside her. The celebration had yet to begin, and not all the guests had taken their seats when my neighbor, looking at me grimly, offered a drink. I tossed back the shot and poked my fork into a plate of "Old Forest" salami.

   "Sergey," he introduced himself, and after a pause, added, "Bunin."

   I immediately knew who I was dealing with and introduced myself in return. His stern face instantly transformed. I hadn’t seen such a drastic change in expression in a long time. It was as if, for a moment, he saw a glowing halo above my head.

   "It can’t be," he said with genuine surprise and joy. "I’ve wanted to meet you for so long. People have told me you’re the only one who can help with the project of my life."

   "What project?" I asked, feigning indifference as I speared three thin slices of salami and sent them down to accompany the first shot.

   "I’ve invented a revolutionary piece of aviation technology. A vertical takeoff and landing aircraft."

   “I saw something like your invention in person about 30 years ago in Saki, Crimea. And even earlier, back in 1980, at Pristan Airfield in the Far East,” I said.

   “No, I’m not talking about those jet-guzzling carrier-based fighters. My invention is unique. I’ve come up with a very interesting design where a propeller, placed in front of the wing, blows air over it, generating enough lift for the plane to take off from a standstill,” Sergey replied.

   “How long have you been working on this invention?” I continued playing the role of an uninformed person, as if hearing about it—and him—for the first time.

   “Almost five years.”

   “That’s a long time not to get disillusioned,” I said, and added mercilessly,
 
   “You know, Sergey, the other night I was visited by a muse, and these wonderful lines came to mind:

                "Under the blue skies,
                carpets of snow gleamed in the sunlight;
                the dark woods stood stark,
                while frost-tipped fir trees glistened,
                and a frozen river shimmered beneath the ice.

   But when I woke up in the morning, I was deeply disappointed to remember that these words were written nearly two centuries ago by Alexander Pushkin.”

   “Why do you have to be like that?” he responded, like an offended child. “I’m serious about this. I’m telling you, aviation history has never seen anything like it.”

   “Aviation history has seen a lot,” I said. “Ever heard of the ‘Flying Pancake’?”

   “No.”

   “Well, in the early 1940s, the Americans wanted to create a plane that could take off from any transport ship. The company Vought, founded by Chance Vought, who had been the chief engineer for the Wright brothers, worked on it. Along with the lead designer, Zimmerman, one of the developers was Igor Sikorsky. They first built a lightweight version of the ‘Flying Pancake,’ weighing about a ton, with two gasoline engines, each producing 80 horsepower. The low-speed propellers blew over the pancake-shaped fuselage. The plane could actually take off almost vertically and hit the performance specs set by the designers.” I paused and poured us both a drink.

   “What was the overall idea?” Sergey asked, absorbed in the story.

   “They didn’t have enough escort ships for convoys heading to England across the Atlantic. The idea was to place the plane on any old floating tub. That way, they could fight off Admiral D;nitz’s U-boats. By the end of 1945, the design bureau had completed two full-scale metal planes, each weighing eight and a half tons. In testing, they reached speeds of 470 miles per hour (760 km/h), with a range of about 1,060 miles (1,700 km) and a service ceiling of 32,800 feet (10,000 meters). The rate of climb was 50 feet per second (15 m/s). And do you know what they did with them?”

   “No.”

   “They scrapped one and sent the other to an aviation museum.”

   “Why?” the ‘inventor’ asked, surprised.

   “Because the war ended, and nobody needed a plane like that anymore,” I answered.

   “Mine’s still better than that ‘pancake’ from the '40s or the British Harrier from the '70s,” Sergey persisted. “A lightweight, high-speed strike aircraft with low fuel consumption. That’s what I’ve invented.”

   “You mentioned the propeller will blow air over the wing, so the plane can take off from a standstill, right?”

   “Yeah.”

   “And the wing—what shape is it? A round pancake too?”

   “No, mine’s a straight wing.”

   “Big surface area?”

   “It’ll be a triplane with a 50-foot (15-meter) wingspan, tapering from 10 feet (3 meters) in the middle to 6.5 feet (2 meters) at the wingtips.”

   “And what’s the weight you’re planning to get?”

   “Three tons empty and around eight tons at maximum weight.”

   “How many engines?”

   “Two.”

   “I don’t get it. One propeller, but two engines?”

   “Yeah.”

   “Turboprops?”

   “No, jet engines.”

   “Two jet engines spinning one propeller?” I asked, incredulous.

   “Yes.”

   “This is some serious nonsense,” I swore, earning an elbow in my ribs from my wife.

   “You don’t get it because you haven’t seen the model,” Sergey replied, fully confident in his genius.

   “Did you calculate everything mathematically?” I tried to shift to a different angle.

   "Doing the math isn’t my job. When I show my sketches to the right people, they’ll appreciate the concept and get someone to handle the calculations,"
   
   Sergey calmly countered my latest attempt to reason with him.

   "But do you at least remember the formula for lift?" I was starting to understand that my conversation partner wasn’t exactly grounded in reality, but I wanted to give him one more chance—after all, the idiot could still be me.

   "Here we go," my wife whispered under her breath, sensing where this was headed. Until now, she had been fully engaged with her glass of wine and her plate, but when she heard the mention of the formula, she paused and slightly tensed—at least that’s how it seemed to me.

   "No," he admitted honestly.

   If the woman I’ve been married to for thirty-six years hadn’t been the daughter of a "Distinguished Pilot of the USSR" and former commander of the Saki reconnaissance aircraft regiment, and if the man she’s lived with and suffered through all these years hadn’t spent his life flying from 1978 to 2009, she might not have reacted at all. But she let out a quiet chuckle and gently set her fork down on her plate. Our conversation was getting more and more entertaining for her, and she was no longer interested in dinner.

   Sergey, the lift equation has only four physical components and one constant. And if we’re talking about taking off and landing at sea level or close to it, only one of those components changes."

    "I don’t get what you’re saying."

    I’m talking about speed, Sergey. Neither the wing area, the lift coefficient, the air density, nor that little two in the denominator changes for a specific plane sitting on the ground. Only horizontal speed, squared, affects the lift. So, Sergey, how big does your propeller need to be, and how fast does it need to spin to get an eight-ton biplane off the ground?"

   "The propeller will be twelve meters in diameter to cover most of the wing with airflow," he replied.

   "Sergey, do you know the rotational speed of a helicopter rotor?"

   "Yeah, just under 200 RPM," he said.

   "And for turboprop engines?"

   "I don’t know."

   "Around 1,100 RPM. And what do you think limits that speed?"

   Silence.

   "It’s the speed of the propeller tip. Under no circumstances can it exceed the speed of sound. Understand? So when you get home, calculate the maximum speed your propeller can spin. Then, remember how fast the compressors in jet engines rotate and figure out what kind of gearbox you’ll need to reduce those high RPMs to power a low-speed propeller. While you’re at it, think about your wing area. I can tell you, even after a drink, without seeing your model, that what you’ve described won’t fly. The wing area of a biplane that size isn’t enough to lift eight tons off the ground without a takeoff roll."

   "But can I still call you? Or maybe invite you over?" Sergey asked, undeterred.

   "Sure. Anytime."

   At home, I started thinking that maybe, in a drunken haze, I had crushed someone’s dream, and my wife chided me for being pretentious. Once again, she was trying to persuade me to be more humble when dealing with people.

   “When are you going to Canadianize yourself?” she asked. “Why couldn’t you just praise him for his love of aviation, say a few polite words, give him some solid advice, and then forget all that nonsense?”

   Men who have spent half their lives married are no strangers to their wives’ complaints, so I didn’t argue and hoped we’d never return to this topic. But I was wrong.

   At the end of January, Sergey called and suggested meeting to discuss the project. His confident voice informed me that I had already been added as a co-author of the invention. I was slightly taken aback.

   “As soon as you have a couple of free hours, I’ll bring over the model and the blueprints for the FTA,” he said. “But before I show them to you, you’ll need to sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

   “I’m not signing anything,” I replied. “Don’t even think about it.”

   “It’s just a formality. My lawyer advised it,” he said, as if mentioning a lawyer would somehow sway my opinion. “We prepared a simple two-page contract between you and me. Just sign at the bottom of each page, and then we can dive into the detailed discussion.”

   It’s not just that I’m meticulous about signing documents, but I also had no desire to be involved in his project.

   “That’s because you haven’t seen my invention yet. It’s still in its early stages, of course, but to finish the design and create a flying model, I need to find $300,000. The money will go towards computer modeling, developing the engines and propeller, and marketing the plane.”

   “Sergey, stop,” I said, remembering my wife’s words about Canadianizing myself and trying to be as gentle as possible. That’s why I ignored the subtle hint about wanting me to invest in this “groundbreaking development.” “Sorry, but I just don’t have the time. I work for the government eight hours a day, five days a week, and in the evenings, depending on the weather, I’m either at the pool or on the tennis court.”

   “It’s a shame, of course, but without the signature on the agreement, I can’t show you the model.”

   “Don’t worry. If this is your baby and you truly love it, you’ll find a way to bring it to life.”

   “Maybe you could introduce me to your fellow pilots? They could give me their expert opinion.”

   “I can’t, and they won’t,” I replied. “First of all, I’ve been with the Navy for the last eight years and have lost contact with all my pilot friends around here. Secondly, none of them have formal engineering education. They know aerodynamics even worse than you, and they’ve never heard of theoretical mechanics, material resistance, or thermodynamics. They were only given a brief overview of turboprop engine theory, and they weren’t taught propeller theory at all. So, compared to them, you and I aren’t just ‘non-engineers,’ we’re practically Oleg Konstantinovich Antonov and Mikhail Leontievich Mil.”2,3

   “What do they know then, and why don’t they crack up every other flight?” Now that was a genuinely good question.

   “They know the aircraft operating manuals almost by heart, and the emergency procedures are memorized down to the punctuation. And by their second year of flight school, they’re trained to fly at a first-class level.”

   “That can’t be true,” he said, incredulous.

   “By the sixth month of flight training on a specific aircraft, the requirement for everyone is to fly a minimum of 60 missions under an 800-foot (240-meter) ceiling, day or night. On multi-seat planes, there’s no position for a co-pilot in the crew roster. Everyone’s a commander. They fly every day, whether it’s a Hercules, Hornet, Buffalo, or Aurora.”

   “How do they manage that?”

   “That’s not a conversation for the phone,” I replied and hung up without saying goodbye.


   The climax of this saga came just a week ago, and it happened completely out of the blue. I was sure that after the implicit rejection I’d given Sergey in January, I’d never hear about the "new breakthrough in aviation" again. But how often in life do we turn out to be wrong?

   A phone call on a Friday evening usually means one of two things: either someone’s inviting you to drink at their place tomorrow, or someone’s inviting themselves over to your place to drink. I’m always happy with either option.

   On April 7th, as I was watching yet another British detective series, the phone rang:

   “Hello, it’s Sergey Bunin. Remember me?” came the cheerful voice of my aviation-enthusiast friend.

   “You’re hard to forget. You’re like your old Su-17—charging straight for the target without even maneuvering. Planning to hit me with your project again?”

   “Yes,” he laughed. “But this time, I’m dropping all the preliminary conditions and I’m ready to come over right now to demonstrate my invention.”

   “What happened to the secrecy of your project?” I asked, surprised.

  “I had two specialists from Toronto visit me. They gave me a patent for the invention and confirmed that no one in the world has patented anything like it,” Sergey said confidently.

   “Congratulations! But did they say whether it would actually fly or not?” I asked, not doubting for a second that it wouldn’t, even without having seen it.

   “They said they couldn’t judge that since they’re not aviation experts. They’re from the patent office. They recommended I do computer modeling, which they said would cost around thirty to forty thousand.”

   “Well, go ahead and do it. Raising that amount to bring your life’s dream to reality shouldn’t be too hard,” I encouraged his enthusiasm.

   “I still want to show it to you first and hear your thoughts on the project after you’ve seen the FTA model. Maybe you’ll change your mind and want to contribute your knowledge.”

   “Sergey, what knowledge? What are you talking about? The fact that we ‘passed by’ each other in parallel dorms 40 years ago only makes for good storytelling at dinner parties among non-professionals. Our knowledge is so limited that we can barely explain to a layperson why airplanes don’t flap their wings in flight—and even that’s only because someone once mentioned Bernoulli’s principle in passing. I’ve heard my fellow pilots drop Bernoulli’s name hundreds of times when explaining flight theory, and each time, their audience’s eyes lit up in admiration.”

   “I’ll come over anyway. Just give me your address. It’s important to me that I see your reaction when I show you the model.”
“Fine, come by at 2 p.m. on Wednesday. I’ll take the afternoon off work so we can discuss your airplane,” I gave in, and as soon as I hung up, I got an earful from my wife.

   “Do you really need this? You knew back in November that impossible is impossible,” she said, with a hint of reproach.

   “I couldn’t say no. Besides, I’m curious to see how far a man’s love for aviation can take him when he didn’t get enough flight time in his youth,” I replied, satisfied with myself.

   I prepared for the upcoming meeting with Bunin as if I were the one presenting a project to a panel of experts. First, I refreshed my memory on propeller theory, then I gathered data on the latest developments in light and medium turboprop engines. During my flying career on this side of the world, I had operated several types of Pratt & Whitney engines, but I had forgotten the exact weight and thrust specs. Knowing that I would shatter the designer’s dream of high-speed flights with his invention, at least tempering his ambitions by half, I prepared tactical and technical data on a dozen top commercial and military helicopters.

   The jewel of my portfolio was a set of efficiency graphs for various engine types.

   He arrived at my house exactly on time. At 2:00 p.m. sharp, without a prior call, he drove up the driveway leading from the street to my garage, popped open the trunk from inside the car, and pulled out a large cardboard box—about 24 inches (60 cm) on each side. I watched all this through the semi-transparent curtain of the living room window.

   Climbing the stone steps to the front door, Sergey used his nose to press the doorbell since both hands were occupied, and I let him in. I was beginning to like him more and more—he was starting to feel like a kindred spirit. A local would never think to use their nose in such a situation; they’d place the box on the porch and press the button with a finger, while a mailman would knock on the door with their foot if carrying a package.

   Kicking off his sneakers by hooking one toe behind the heel of the other, Sergey stepped into the hallway without hesitation and headed straight for the kitchen. Placing his box on the dining table, he ceremoniously opened it and carefully pulled out the model of his invention.

   For those readers who aren’t used to taking storytellers at their word, I can send a photo of this marvel upon request. As you’ve probably guessed by now, this story is almost entirely factual. But for those who trust me as the author, here’s a detailed description of this "gravitsapa" (an absurd flying machine). I must admit, I want to savor this moment and describe it in my own words. I have one goal: to see if I’ve succeeded in painting a picture in your mind of what the FTA plane looks like, or if I’ve failed to create the image for you.

   On my table stood the following:

   Imagine a Mi-2 helicopter. Now, if you were to chop off the cockpit right before the external fuel tank with a giant cleaver and remove the engines from the fuselage, you’d get an exact replica of the pilot's cabin. Mounted on a short vertical strut above the rear of the cabin was an enormous elevator. From the design, I figured it was a "canard" configuration. I deduced this when I realized that the horizontal stabilizer, placed in the front, had no control surfaces.
“You want this 12-meter elevator to act as both a lift-generating surface and an elevator at the same time?”

   “Yes!” he exclaimed, pleased. “It’ll be just like the Typhoon fighter. I’m glad you figured out that it’s a canard configuration.”

   I remained silent, holding back the torrent of questions tearing at me for the moment. Behind the horizontal stabilizer stretched a long, thin fuselage, at the front of which was mounted a giant propeller. Its three thin blades looked exactly like those on a wind turbine. Behind the propeller were three wings, the middle one attached to the fuselage. The upper and lower wings were connected to the middle one by vertical struts.

   “A triplane?” I exclaimed.

   “Yes, I analyzed your concerns about the possible lack of lift, revised the design, and added another wing.”

   “Got it.”

   In the middle wing section, under the vertical stabilizer, there were two jet engines. From the center of the rear edge of the lower wing, a slanted strut extended to the ground, forming a frame with a horizontal beam that ran from the back of the cabin. From the bottom rear corner of the frame, another strut extended at a 45-degree angle to the table surface, ending in a wheel. The landing gear design was bicycle-style. At the wingtips of the lower plane were two vertical struts supporting the entire structure to keep it from toppling over.

   After finishing my inspection of the model, I asked Sergey if he had ever heard of the concept of static stability and its application in aviation. He said he didn’t understand where I was going with this. From his answer, I couldn’t tell whether he knew that the cornerstone of flight safety for any aircraft is its ability to restore its flight path parameters without pilot intervention. So, I clarified:

   “Do you know that on traditional airplanes, the horizontal stabilizer generates negative lift? This is compensated by positioning the center of gravity ahead of the center of pressure applied to the wing.”

   Silence.

   “Okay, let me ask a simpler question: Why did you decide that the ‘canard’ configuration is suitable for your aircraft?”

   “Because the rear part of the plane is already heavy. I’ve got two engines back there,” he said, sounding quite pleased with himself.

   I realized that my guest had no real understanding of aerodynamics—he didn’t even remember the basics—so I decided to shift the conversation to engines, since he’d mentioned them.

   “Why are your two engines positioned so far from the propeller? With this setup, you’ll need to install a long shaft running through the fuselage and place a complex gearbox in the rear to reduce the engine RPM by a factor of fifty. Do you realize the kind of load that will be transmitted through that shaft?”

   “On helicopters, the drive shafts transmit power to the tail rotor just fine,” he countered.

   “You’re forgetting that helicopters use tail rotors for control, not propulsion. And second, have you thought about the fact that as soon as your two horizontally-mounted jet engines fire up, they’ll immediately start pushing the plane forward? And your plane is standing on thin struts in the middle of a forest clearing, where a recon unit is preparing to storm enemy bunkers. There’s no runway for it to accelerate on, and the only way to keep it from moving is to tie it to a tree.”

   “You could attach small wheels to the struts, like on that American bomber,” he said, thinking hard, trying to recall the type of plane.

   “The B-52 Stratofortress?”

   “If that’s the one with eight engines, then yes. But I didn’t quite get the whole recon unit in the forest example—what was that about?”

   “It’s a pretty clear example. You said it yourself: a lightweight, high-speed strike aircraft with vertical takeoff and landing, designed to support infantry under conditions of limited enemy air defense. So, I just modeled the situation.”

   Here’s the translated and adapted version of your text, keeping the technical discussion and humor intact:

   “Alright, I get it. You’re right. Instead of the two jet engines under the tail, I’ll put one turboprop engine up front, near the propeller, and move the horizontal stabilizer to the back. But I’ll have to sacrifice speed,” Sergey conceded.

   “You weren’t going to achieve speed even with the jet engines,” I replied.

   “Why not?”

   “There are two factors that will prevent you from going over 400 kilometers per hour with this design. First, the straight, thick-profile wing—especially since you’ve got three of them. The drag will be enormous.”

   “I’ll make the wing profile thinner and give it some sweep,” he responded quickly.

   “You’ll lose lift then, and the plane won’t get off the ground without a horizontal run.”

   “I’ll make the wing wider.”

   “You mean, increase the chord length?”

   “Yes.”

   “But then you’re heading down the same path as Zimmerman, and in the end, you’ll wind up with a ‘flying pancake,’” I continued without pausing to avoid getting lost in a pointless discussion. “And second, the efficiency of a turboprop engine. Its maximum efficiency, about 80%, is reached at 360 kilometers per hour. Beyond that, it declines steadily. By 600, its efficiency drops to around 30%.”

   “Fine, my strike aircraft will fly at speeds closer to 400.”

   Feeling overwhelmed by such serious topics, I quoted Dmitry Bykov, whose life views I don’t respect but whose poetic talent I admire: "That’s great, but... why?"4

   “Why build this whole contraption when modern helicopters can fulfill your aircraft’s mission more effectively? Here, take a look,” I said, sliding a folder of tactical and technical data on Western military helicopters across the table

   “What do you mean, ‘why’?” Bunin frowned.

   “Why build this whole contraption when modern helicopters can fulfill your aircraft’s mission more effectively? Here, take a look,” I said, sliding a folder of tactical and technical data on Western military helicopters across the table. “This has everything that’s been produced worldwide in the last 20 years. But you know what? I don’t have time to go through the whole lineup with you, so just focus on the Apache AH-64D ‘Longbow’ version. Pay attention to its speed and weight characteristics, as well as its loadout options. I have a strong suspicion that you’re trying to offer the world a replacement for this helicopter.”
Sergey silently grabbed the efficiency graphs from the table, scooped up the pile of helicopter specs, and gave a sideways glance at the thin stack of papers, blank side up. Then he asked:

   “And what’s this?”

   “Comparative specs of turboprop engines and contact info for Pratt & Whitney. Unless you’re planning to revolutionize the engine industry as well, this might come in handy.”

   “Thanks,” Sergey said, picking up one of the photos of his invention and placing it in front of me. “Here, I’m leaving this with you. Maybe looking at it will change your mind, and you’ll join the project.”

   “I’ll think about how I can use it,” I replied. And by writing this story, I’ve kept my word.


Footnotes:

1. Ivan Kulibin (1735–1818) was a Russian inventor known for his mechanical ingenuity and pioneering ideas. He created advanced clocks, bridge designs, and even a mechanical prosthetic leg. Often seen as a symbol of inventive genius, the name "Kulibin" is used in Russian culture to refer to someone with creative but often impractical ideas.

2. Oleg Konstantinovich Antonov (1906–1984) was a Soviet aircraft designer, best known for founding the Antonov Design Bureau and developing a wide range of transport aircraft, including the Antonov An-2 and the world’s largest cargo plane, the Antonov An-225. ;

3. Mikhail Leontievich Mil (1909–1970) was a prominent Soviet aerospace engineer and founder of the Mil Moscow Helicopter Plant. He is renowned for designing some of the most iconic helicopters in history, including the Mil Mi-8 and Mi-24, widely used in both military and civilian aviation.

4. Dmitry Bykov (b. 1967) is a contemporary Russian writer, poet, and journalist. He is known for his sharp social and political commentary, as well as his literary works, which include novels, biographies, and poetry. Though controversial in his views, he is widely regarded for his talent in Russian literature