1989г. МиГ-29 в Турции? Кто знает?

Цитата:

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quote:

Originally posted by <Мишка>:
самолёте , а не на симе.
И чтоб летать на самолёте без инстументов, нужно иметь я.ца размером с фотбольный мячь,а не с гретского ореха.
Блокировка!!!!!:confused::confused:?? Тумблёры.
Он мужик был, ане пацан.

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Дык Мишка, мужиков без я.иц в ВВС СССР (да и в других ВВС) не держат.Ясное дело, что он не пацан был.Просто с гнильцой.Это было уже поколение в котором стали появляться карьеристы. Поколение, выросшее в стране где герой не пилот, а завмагазином или товаровед.
Я считаю, что он гораздо хуже Эймса и ему.п. потому, что Эймс не открывал стрельбу из пистолета по людям, с которыми ещё вчера ел за одним столом.
Что же касается того, что и вояки США и СССР устроены одинаково, спорить не буду. Скажу только что в отличие от США СССР не вынашивал планов ЗАВОЕВАНИЯ.Не мы устроили ядерную гонку на выживание. Не мы стирали с лица земли города в Корее и Вьетнаме, не мы уничтожили Югославию, предварительно вымазав её в дерьме.Установив своё влияние в какой-либо стране мы начинали со школ, больниц и университетов, а не с борделей для солдат и чилийских "стадионов".Не мы, имея 5% населения заставляем мир платить дань 50% ресурсов, обрекая миллиарды людей на голодную смерть. Любой самый продажный американский предатель на этой шахматной доске выглядит лучше самого лучшего "идейного борца с коммунизмом"

Цитата:

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quote:

Originally posted by <Мишка>:

А вы нет, все друг другу поддакиваете.
Это меня больше всего развлекаеть.
Неужели нет никаких сомнений в своих убеждениях. Вам же свои власти морду набили. А вы их защищяете и привозносити.
Рассию никто не хочет поработить.
Она уже порабощёна, из нутрина

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А вот тут ты, к сожелению, прав.

Polar :confused: ia cheto ne ponal :confused: Preduprejdenie :confused: Mne :confused: Poiasni plz !!!

"Есть!!!!! товарищь полковник! МОРДУ эту я уберу, может она что то напоминает тебе когда утром в зеркало смотришь."

polar , cheto u teba zdes zdorovo poluchaetsa , etot ... potom skaju kto , tak rasgovarivaet s letchikom , i vse v poradke :confused: :) :) :) :)
Prejde chem stirat moi soobshenia , nado bilo i drugie pochitat !!! :) :)
Libo verni moi soobshenia , libo sotri vse ostalnie kotorie soderjat virajenia ne sootvetstvuiushie ustavu foruma !!!
i eshe , ia bi na tvoem meste izvenilsa !!!

"б. Оскорбление собеседника - самая тяжелая провинность и наказывается изгнанием при отсутствии извинений."
Mishka - "Есть!!!!! товарищь полковник! МОРДУ эту я уберу, может она что то напоминает тебе когда утром в зеркало смотришь." - Chto eto :confused: :) :) :)
Pojelanie spokoinoy nochi :confused: Pojelanie priatnogo appetita :confused: :) :) :)
ili vse taki oskorblenie :confused: :)

Так. :) :)
Вот что значит не быть в сети последние два дня.
Scorpion
Предупреждение, причем сразу последнее. Постинги отредактированы. При повторении подобных высказываний будешь демонстрировать уровень своего интеллекта и культуры где-нибудь в другом месте.
Желающие уточнить технические детали происшествия - высказываются дальше, любители рассуждать о зверствах советской/американской военщины отправляются в раздел "Любая тема".

Поясняю:
Как уже указывалось г-ном Герингом в сообщении от 14-06-2001 23:51, пункт 1 http://www.sukhoi.ru/forum/rules.html гласит:
1. Разрешается обсуждение любых вопросов и тем, в том числе прямые личные обращения, за исключением превосходства любых людей и групп людей над любыми людьми и группами людей по любым критериям, таким как национальность, гражданство, вероисповедание и т.д., а также физические и психические аспекты любой личности.
Поскольку Вы допустили нарушение данного пункта в части обсуждения "…превосходства любых людей и групп людей над любыми людьми и группами людей по любым критериям, таким как национальность, гражданство…", Вы были предупреждены, а Ваши сообщения, имеющие все признаки нарушения пункта 1 Правил, отредактированы.
Что же касается Вашего справедливого замечания о нарушениях данного пункта г-ном Мишкой, то могу ответить на это двумя способами:
А) Канцелярски. Указанный посетитель пользуется здесь особыми, исторически сложившимися правами и привилегиями. Претензии по поводу поведения вышеозначенного посетителя, в части нарушения Ваших прав, связанных с использованием означенным посетителем своих особых прав, принимаются основателем и владельцем данного Форума, г-ном Патриархом лично, в электронной форме, в установленном порядке ( mailto:covalent@sukhoi.ru ).
В) По-простому. Наверное, ты здесь человек новый, и не знаком еще с Мишкой. Мишка – наш парень, со своеобразной манерой общения, чувством юмора и стилем поведения. (ты на ник его посмотри!). Обижаться на него не принято, мужик он хороший. Принимать его надо таким, какой он есть, вот и все.

ia na Mishku uje ne obijaus , a vot na teba ... Na fig ti moi soobshenia ster :confused:

Ladno blin , "s vami suditsa , chto protiv vetru mochitsa" , ni kakoy u vas zdes demokratii , izvinaus pered vsemi za skazannie virajenia , 2Mishka - pered toboy izvinaus toka na 40% :) .
2Polar , esli uj sledish za poradkom tak sledi do konza !!! :)

2 Scorpion:
То, что Жигалов летчик - за это ему уже честь и хвала. Но не кажется тебе, что ты ставишь летчиков вне общих правил? То есть если ты - летчик, а я наземная крыса, то ты имеешь право плевать ин мой фейс, называть меня м...м и п...м? Я думаю нет. Жигалов первым нанес оскобление (это про "морду с форума" если ты не помнишь), и ничего необычного и ничего ненормального в том, что Мишка ему ответил, нет. Ненормально и необычно другое - ты то что ринулся не в свою драку.
Я тоже не считаю Зуева "агнцом божим" (о чем я краснореживо написал в другом топике на эту тему), но при этом я не рву в клочья всех, кто со мной не согласен и не лезу доказывать свою точку зрения до кровавых соплей.
Из-за вас с Жигаловым, кстати говоря, Мишка случайно задел меня, и мы тут уже вторые сутки друг другу "объяснительные записки" шлем. Но это уже наше дело.
Я вообще не понимаю зачем надо было создавать второй топик на туже тему. Все-равно теже ругательства и теже приперательства. Просто еще одна язва на форуме. Зачем и кому это нужно - мне не понятно.
Чистого неба!

*Scorpion*
Ну ладно, не дуйся. Просто на оскорбления я реагирую жестко всегда. Это не метод дискуссии.
Единственное исключение – наш enfant terrible Мишка. Так уж сложилось. Исторически, понимаешь…. :) :) :) :) :)

Cross-post в обе дискуссии:
Я искренне благодарю активных Членов Клуба и Посетителей за высказанную позицию. Я также искренне благодарен админам и модераторам за их жесткую позицию в отношении соблюдения Правил. Поскольку я буду появляться на ФОруме теперь лишь в выходные, то все остается на Вашей совести, друзья!
Если кого-то интересует мое мнение в отношении, то я его готов представить следующим образом: мне жаль человка и пилота Зуева, но мне не жаль предателя Зуева. На самом деле мое й жизни он не касался и не будет касаться, как никогда не будет касаться и Беленко, которому я никогда не подам руки. Я могу лишь повторить - "...Бог с ним!..."
Теперь немного о флейме и Мишке... Прочтите этот отрывок:
Двух молодых шанов, пытавшихся незаметно наблюдать из-за этих камней, Волкодав заметил уже давно. Один, пятнадцатилетний юнец по имени Тхалет, был из тех, кого он уложил "отдохнуть" незадолго до встречи с воинами Элдага. Второй, Мааюн, приходился старшим братом мальчишке. Волкодав не стал обращать на парней никакого внимания. Пускай смотрят, если охота. Всё равно он не делал ничего такого особенного, что Мать Кендарат не благословляла показывать стороннему человеку...
Когда ребята поняли, что обнаружены, они перестали прятаться и подошли.
- Мы радуемся, чужеземец, что вкушали с тобой от одного хлеба, - сказал Мааюн. - Ты хорошо сделал, что выручил нашу Раг.
Должен же он был сказать что-то учтивое, затевая разговор с гостем.
Младшего такие предрассудки, кажется, не обременяли.
- Одного жаль, воин ты никудышный, - заявил он Волкодаву. Мааюн дёрнул его за ухо, но больше для вида, и Тхалет вырвался: - Ты ведь и тогда и теперь нипочём не обнаружил бы нас, если бы не твоя летучая тварь, норовившая нагадить нам на головы! Чего ты стоишь в открытом бою, хотел бы я знать!
Венн мог бы спросить его, не беспокоит ли помятая шея, но не спросил. Для него давно миновали те времена, когда любой намёк на недостаточное мастерство воспринимался как страшное оскорбление и требовал немедленных опровержений.
- Может, и никудышный, - проворчал он безразлично.
- Настоящий воин бросил бы стервятникам наши трупы, а ты оставил нам жизнь, как какой-нибудь робкий трусишка, никогда не видевший крови, - продолжал юный шан. - У тебя даже нет оружия, приличного свободному человеку. Длинные мечи хороши только для полумужчин из предгорий, боящихся подойти вплотную к врагу. Ну а ножом, который ты носишь на поясе, только лепёшки маслом намазывать. Я уж вовсе молчу про ту палку, с которой ты упражняешься. У нас такими дети играют. Которым по малости лет железа в руки не дают, чтоб не порезались...
Тут Волкодав наконец заметил то, что Эврих, наверное, распознал бы с первого взгляда. А именно - оба юноши с трудом давили рвущийся наружу смех. Венн запоздало сообразил, что его просто испытывали. Разговор, несовместимый с обычаем гостеприимства, на самом деле был сплошной шуткой. Шутки Волкодав понимал. Иногда. Отвечать на них по достоинству - так и не научился.
Мааюн выдал себя первым. Расплылся в неудержимой улыбке, потом так же быстро стёр её с лица. Взрослому пристала сдержанность.
- Ты вправду великий воин, чужеземный брат, - проговорил он торжественно. - Ты не обращаешь внимания на мальчишку, хотя бы и с кинжалом у бедра. Мы с Тхалетом - приёмные дети Раг. Мы ещё как следует не поблагодарили тебя за то, что ты вернул к очагу шанов и мачеху, и нашу маленькую сестричку...
Мария Семенова, "Волкодав. Право на поединок".
Я не хочу сказать, что Мишка - "мальчишка", или что все американцы поступают только и именно так... Но попробуйте воспринять мой совет относительно того типа, к которому вы себя причисляете...
Умным я искренне советую прислушиваться к собеседнику и понимать, почему он так себя ведет. Несмотря на все свое "излишне прямое" поведение Мишка на самом деле не так прост, как хочет казаться. Подумайте об этом.
Сильным я бы посоветовал потренироваться на кошках. Четкие аргументы действуют в любой ситуации лучше - независимо от того, драка это или дискуссия, жесткие это аргументы или гибкие... Пока Мишка здесь - тренируйтесь на нем (в будущем пригодится)! :)

Вот первая глава Зуевской книги.
Остальные есть у кого ?..
Alexander Zuyev
Fulcrum: A Top Gun Pilot's Escape from the Soviet Empire
ISBN 0-446-51648-1

Chapter I

Mikha Tskhakaya "Ruslan" Air Base
February l3, 1989
It was a perfect afternoon to fly. The Georgian winter sunshine poured
through the canopy warming the cockpit as I taxied the MiG-29 slowly
down the ramp from the 1st Squadron apron to the end of Runway 09. The
sky above was a deep, aching blue: ceiling and visibility unlimited.
In my curved center mirror, I saw my wingman, Captain Nikolai
Starikov, trundling along behind. As always, Nikolai maintained the
correct interval between the two fighters.
Steering with the nosewheel control button on my number two throttle,
I quickly scanned my engine instruments. Oil pressure and RPM were
identical for both of the big Leningrad Klimov RD-33 turbofans
rumbling behind me. Their tail pipe temperatures were normal.
I slid the throttles back to idle and braked to a stop at the
maintenance checkpoint. While the enlisted mechanic on the ramp
checked for leaks and verified that my control surfaces were
unblocked, I completed my preflight cockpit check. The canopy was
closed and locked. The navigation systems display in the lower left
instrument panel was properly aligned and the heading matched the
small standby magnetic compass mounted between my center and right
cockpit mirrors. I made sure there were no red lights on the caution
and warning panel. The fuel gauge read 7,056 pounds, the proper amount
for an air-combat training sortie. Now I pulled the lever at my left
hip to tighten the harness of the ejection seat.
Below the canopy the young conscript mechanic stared up, then saluted,
the signal that he had completed his checks. This was my third and
last scheduled training sortie of the day, and, as always, the
airplane was behaving well.
That was good. I certainly did not want a maintenance scrub. Although
none of my friends back in the ready room or the regimental officers
observing the takeoff's and landings from the control tower could
possibly have guessed, I had secretly planned that this training
sortie would be my last flight as a Soviet Air Force pilot.
I was glad a dogfight scenario was scheduled. Once Nikolai and I took
off' and headed west for the air-combat zone over the Black Sea, our
flight would be immediately followed by the two MiG-29s flown by our
opponents, a pair of regimental staff officers. The opponent lead was
Lieutenant Colonel Dmitri Shatravka, the newly appointed deputy
regimental commander for operations. His wingman was Major Valera
Chayka, the regimental intelligence officer. In theory they were more
experienced fighter pilots than Nikolai and me. But we had chalked up
much more air-combat training in the MiG-29 than either of these two
staff officers, and I planned to kick them both squarely in the ass on
this flight. An indisputable dogfight victory over senior officers
would be a fitting end to my Air Force flying career.
I advanced the throttles and steered carefully down the center of the
ramp, keeping well clear of the soft grassy margins. Ruslan had been
built after the Great Patriotic War on spongy, reclaimed swampland,
and was ringed by reedy drainage canals. The long, single east-west
runway was made of huge precast-concrete blocks laid side by side with
tar-line joints. In effect, the blocks floated on a wet layer of
crushed stone and gravel. Rumor had it that there were at least two
sunken runway layers beneath this one. And in wet weather when planes
exited the eastern end of the runway, blocks would shift and swamp
water would squish through the joint lines.
With my left hand I slid back the throttles to idle and simultaneously
squeezed the beavertail brake handle on the forward edge of the
control stick with my right hand. The aircraft slowed at the end of
the ramp. Working the nosewheel button, I allowed the residual
momentum to swing the plane left onto the runway. The MiG-29 taxied as
smoothly as it flew It was a true pilot's airplane, and I was going to
miss it. I stopped exactly midway between the white stripes marking
the two-plane takeoff lane on the left side of Runway 09. In my right
cockpit mirror, I saw Nikolai turn into the correct takeoff position
behind me. His nose was forty-five feet right and seventy-five feet
behind my right wingtip, close enough to follow my visual signals, but
clear of my turbulent engine exhaust and wing vortices.
Here at Ruslan we kept radio communications to a minimum between
planes in a formation and between aircraft and ground controllers.
There were American electronic ferret satellites overhead constantly,
sweeping the air for our radio transmissions. And this near the
frontier with Turkey, the problem was even more acute. That mountain
frontier only fifty miles to the south bristled with NATO electronic
eavesdropping posts.
After the MiG-29 from the 2nd Squadron that had just landed cleared
the runway, I swung my head in a wide arc, double-checking that the
runway and landing approach were free of other aircraft. The takeoff
light at the side of the runway flashed from red to green. The tower
had cleared my flight for immediate departure. I knew everyone in the
tower was watching us closely. Nikolai and I were in the 176th Frontal
Aviation Regiment's "Dogfight Masters" 1st Squadron. People expected
to see a perfectly coordinated takeoff when we flew. And I certainly
did not want to disappoint them today.
My left index finger went to the cockpit console beneath the throttles
to set the flap button in the correct takeoff position. I waggled the
control stick to move the horizontal stabilizers to get Nikolai's
attention. Then I pulled the stick back which tilted the leading edge
down, the signal to Nikolai to advance throttles to 100 percent: full
military power. I slid my own throttles open and waited the mandatory
ten seconds for the whining turbofans to stabilize with equal RPM.
Then I saw movement in my right cockpit mirror. Nikolai's plane was
beginning to slide forward, even though he had not released his
brakes. I realized one of his wheels must have been on a slippery tar
line between the concrete runway slabs, and the brakes could not hold.
There was no way he could back up now, and we risked a sloppy,
unprofessional takeoff.
This would not do on my last flight, not with all those people
watching in the control tower. As I centered the stick to the neutral
position, my right fingers popped the brakes, and I clamped my left
hand on the spring-loaded throttle release and jammed the two throttle
knobs full forward to afterburner. I was thrust back hard in my seat
by an invisible piston of acceleration. Cones of flame now pulsed from
the twin tail pipes, producing over 36,600 pounds of thrust. With my
fuel load today, the aircraft had a positive thrust-to-weight ratio.
The rear of my helmet sagged into the hard padding at the top of the
ejection seat.
The triple row of broken, white runway lane stripes flew by in a blur.
By going to afterburner, I had kept ahead of Nikolai. In my mirror his
plane was pegged in the correct position behind me on the runway. My
helmet thrust harder into the seat cushion, and I felt myself grinning
inside my oxygen mask. By a lucky quirk, this last takeoff was going
to be on afterburner, one of the most powerful experiences a fighter
pilot enjoyed. As always on afterburner takeoff's, rock music seemed
to echo in my head. Today it was the crashing rhythms of the Rolling
Stones.
My airspeed hit 100 knots and I pulled the stick back gently to rotate
the nose. One second later we were at 135 knots, and the main gear
lifted clear of the runway. This was a critical moment on an
afterburner takeoff. The hinged, perforated screens protecting the
engine air inlets had been in the down, closed position. During taxi
and takeoff, engine air was fed through inlets on the leading-edge
wing extensions below the cockpit. These louvered ducts in the gray
tapered skin of the fighter always reminded me of the gills behind the
streamlined head of a deep-ocean shark. At rotation speed the engine
airflow was transferred from these upper inlets back to the main lower
intakes as the protective screens automatically retracted. The sudden
aerodynamic shift always caused a nose-down swing, which I had to
parry with the trim button on the stick.
I retracted gear and pitched the nose up sharply to a fifty-degree
climb. As the altitude and airspeed increased, I raised the flaps and
glanced back in the mirror to find Nikolai's aircraft. He had lifted
off in perfect position behind me. I could see his left hand raised
thumbs-up to show his appreciation at my quick response in going to
afterburner.
Still on the burners, I banked left and leveled off at precisely 13,
500 feet and a heading of 270 degrees, due west toward our training
zone, thirty miles away over the Black Sea. Now I throttled back and
trimmed for an airspeed of 350 knots. Although this altitude was
reserved for westbound traffic, it was always smart to keep your eyes
open around a military airfield. The MiG-29's cockpit, perched high
and well forward on the nose, provided great visibility. And today the
view was spectacular.
The layout of the Ruslan Air Base below was typical of Soviet fighter
regiments. Hangar and maintenance facilities and the pilots' ready
room were strung out along the parking apron that ran on an oblique
angle to the runway. I could see the regiment's aircraft parked in
pairs along that apron. Regimental headquarters was near the far
eastern end of the runway, a good twenty-minute walk from the squadron
areas. There were two control towers near the western end of the
runway, one to handle air traffic, the other for the engineering and
maintenance section.
The duty-alert building, which had its own small dormitory and dining
room, stood close to the air traffic control tower There were four
fully fueled and armed duty-alert aircraft parked separately just
inside the taxi ramp. Normally the alert planes were parked on their
own apron right beside the duty-alert building. But that apron had
been ripped up for repaving, a repair that could take months, using
lazy, inefficient Stroybat construction troops.
In principle, the alert section could be airborne within five minutes
of an order to scramble, in half that time if the pilots had been
pre-alerted and were ready in the cockpit waiting to start engines.
The explosive ordnance and missile maintenance shops were also near
that end of the runway. Both the PPR missile shop and the RTB nuclear
weapons storage and assembly sites stood within their own guarded
compounds. The RTB facility was surrounded by a high wall capped with
barbed wire and guarded by a separate contingent of troops who
reported directly to the Strategic Forces Command in Moscow
I gazed down at the familiar scene I would probably never see again.
The base arrangement was designed to efficiently facilitate flight
operations. Given this widely dispersed layout, however, nonflight
operations - the mundane bureaucratic housekeeping chores of military
life - were often inconvenient. From this altitude I could still make
out the clunking old bus on its infrequent circuit of the base. It was
turning onto the main road to the officers' housing complex a mile and
a half away. Usually the rickety bus was out of service because of a
lack of spare parts or the terrible maintenance habits of the
conscript soldiers responsible for it.
Division regulations prevented officers with their own cars from
driving on the base because some might steal fuel. Fat chance. No one
wanted the base gas. One of our staff officers was a true Socialist
"entrepreneur" He stole so much gasoline and watered it down with TS-1
jet fuel kerosene that the stuff couldn't be safely used in a car. So
we often had to ride bicycles or waste time walking when we were
summoned from the ready room to regimental headquarters or took our
turn in the simulators.
The base slid past below. Closer, the city of Mikha Tskhakaya was a
jumble of orange tile roofs surrounded by citrus groves. To the north,
the towering wall of the Great Caucasus range stood, icy white and
silent, marking the boundary between the Republic of Georgia and the
Russian Federation. The Caucasus were splendid mountains, higher and
more rugged than the Alps of Europe or North America's Rockies. Some
Swiss fellows I'd met skiing up there told me the Caucasus had more
spectacular and dangerous runs than the Alps. I could believe that.
I shifted in my seat to stare south over the left wing. The Maliy
Kavkaz mountains of the Turkish frontier were only half as tall as the
Caucasus, but their summits were still crusted with winter snow. Below,
the wide Rioni River glinted in the sun, meandering through the green
coastal marshland toward the Black Sea ahead.
Enough nostalgic sight-seeing. It was time to verify that my cockpit
was ready for a simulated dogfight with Lieutenant Colonel Shatravka.
The training scenario called for us to use all three of our air-combat
weapons systems: the long-range R-27 Alamo radar-controlled missile,
the shorter range R-73 Archer infrared-homing missile, and the inboard
GSh-301 30mm cannon mounted in the left fuselage below the cockpit.
These weapons would rely on all three of the MiG-29's modern sensor
systems: the pulse-Doppler radar, the infrared search and track system
(IRST), and the laser range finder. On training sorties the radar
missiles were simulated by a small electronic pod mounted on the
inboard pylon of my left wing. The sensor head simulating the infrared
seeker of the Archer missile was in the inner pylon beside it.
We always flew with a full load of 30mm cannon ammunition - 150 shells
- even on training flights. So it was important that the master arm
switch on the weapons sensor control panel remain in the off'
position. Once, a zampolit political officer had become confused on a
bomber-intercept sortie and had turned on the master switch, thinking
he needed that circuit to activate his gun camera. Apparently he had
been too busy studying Marx and Lenin to read his aircraft manuals and
hadn't realized the cannon was loaded, even on training flights. The
cannon had chattered off fifty rounds before the zampolit realized his
mistake. Luckily, like most of his kind, the political officer was a
shitty pilot. So he hadn't shot down the Tu-16 bomber
I checked out my aircraft for mock combat in the recommended manner,
working from left to right, starting with the missile-select button on
the number two throttle, then moving to the systems on the left, lower
left cockpit console.
The MiG-29 was a "fourth generation" fighter that could engage or
evade the best NATO aircraft at extreme or short ranges, throughout a
wide flight envelope. Its powerful and complex weapons were linked to
equally sophisticated sensors. Now I had to verify that I had chosen
the correct weapons systems, and that the sensors, both the radar and
the infrared search and track system, were ready for combat.
As the IRST would probably be used second, in the close-combat phase
of the engagement, I began with the long-range radar missile control.
The armament control panel was at the forward head of the left cockpit
console. I flipped the lock-on switch to "friend," which meant the
radar could track and lock onto another Soviet aircraft, hopefully in
this case, either Lieutenant Colonel Shatravka's or Major Chayka's
MiG-29. If I had left the switch in the "enemy" position, the radar
would have recognized their coded SRZO aircraft identification signals
and not operated during the mock dogfight. I now verified that the
munitions fusing system was set in the vozdukh "air" position, before
moving on to the radar modes panel on the left forward instrument
board.
In air combat today, combined aircraft closing speeds can total Mach 4
and the engagement can slash through 45,000 feet of vertical airspace
in less than a minute. So human senses and reflexes can be inadequate
to detect and defeat the enemy. Modern air-combat tactics, both Soviet
and Western, call for a fighter pilot to destroy the enemy at extreme
distances - "beyond visual range" - before that enemy's stand-off
missiles could be launched on friendly targets. A powerful and
versatile radar is absolutely essential.
And the MiG-29's improved NO-193 pulse-Doppler radar was a versatile
and sensitive sensor and tracking system. But there was a lot of
controversy about this radar in the Soviet Air Force. In intelligence
briefings, I had learned that the radar was code-named "Slot Back" by
NATO, which believed Soviet spies had stolen the basic technology from
America's Hughes Corporation. As they did about so much else in the
modern arsenal of the Soviet Union, the Americans apparently chose to
believe we had just slavishly copied their innovations. This was only
partly true. Soviet scientists usually let their Western counterparts
invest years and billions of dollars in basic research, which the
Americans then dutifully published in their open aviation magazines.
What detail was not available in the press, the Soviets then obtained
through spies. Only then did Soviet designers set to work to modify
and improve on the basic Western technology.
But the NO-193 radar was an interesting variation on this theme. The
Soviet design bureau did, indeed, benefit from espionage. But after
the equipment was perfected, the KGB discovered that a Soviet
electronics expert who helped design this radar was actually working
for Western intelligence. Not only had he fed our design details to
the West, he had actually sabotaged the initial capabilities of this
important system. The original NO-193 was very sensitive and could
detect fast-moving targets at extreme range, but the set's computer
was incapable of holding the lock-on needed for missile launch. When
we first tested this radar during the combat evaluation of the MiG-29
in 1985, my colleagues and I had been deeply disappointed in the
capabilities of the "advanced" look-down, shoot-down pulse-Doppler
radar.
A year later, after this Soviet traitor had been caught and executed,
electronics technicians descended on our base to quietly install
modifications to the radar, which allowed it to retain lock-on much
more efficiently. Our Intelligence Directorate hoped that their NATO
counterparts still believed the MiG-29's radar was crippled by the
sabotage of the Western mole.
I now quickly configured the radar modes panel. I planned to attack my
opponents from below, so I turned the Delta-H switch to the number two
position, which would set the antenna scan for anticipated targets
about 6,000 feet above my flight level. Then I turned the radar modes
switch to auto and the hemisphere switch to forward hemisphere. The
radar's computer would automatically take over the search and tracking
of up to ten targets. This computer measured their relative speeds and
ranges by Doppler effect, analyzed their closing angles, and presented
the target in threat-priority order on the clear rectangular Plexiglas
head-up display (HUD) above my main instrument panel. On a modern
fighter the HUD was the pilot's closest friend, the simplified window
into the dense network of sensors and computers jammed into the nose
of his aircraft. I left the radar in the nakal standby position,
warmed up and ready, but not actively scanning the airspace ahead, so
as not to be detected on an opponent's radar-warning receiver
The coast was coming up fast, and I would soon have to contact
Brigadier, the Ground Control Intercept center in the bunker beside
the regimental headquarters back at Ruslan. A battle-control officer
at the Brigadier GCI center would be working with Nikolai and me
today, feeding us data on the "enemy" formation we would engage.
Lieutenant Colonel Shatravka's flight would be directed by another
controller sitting at a radar console in the same room as mine, but
using a different radio channel. Today I had Senior Lieutenant Vitaly
Shevchenko as my battle-control officer. I could picture those fellows
down in "the pit," craning forward in their chairs, glued to their
radar screens. These engagements were not simply fought in the
cockpits, the battle-control officers always reminded us. They got
just as excited as we did.
At the upper right-hand corner of the main instrument panel, I
deliberately pointed my finger to verify that the master arm switch
was definitely off. But I did switch the weapons control system modes
switch to radar, thus completing the linkage of the entire Alamo
missile circuit.
Another setting for that switch was shlem, "helmet," which I would not
be using today, but Shatravka would. This was the helmet-mounted sight
(HMS), a Soviet innovation that used a pair of infrared sensors
mounted on the pilot's helmet to track and lock onto targets for the
Archer missile. You could achieve this lock-on simply by turning your
head, not the entire aircraft. Intelligence officers had briefed us
that the Americans had either been unable to perfect such a system or
considered it superfluous. This was nonsense. There were many
occasions in a close-in dogfight where the IRST sensor mounted in the
clear Plexiglas dome forward of the canopy lost lock-on while the
pilot could still see his target above or below. The helmet-mounted
sight gave the Soviet pilot an extra set of sensors that could save
his life one day. And the HMS was easy to use because the weapons
computer linked the helmet sensor data directly to the swiveling IR
seekers in the Archer missile nose.
In a close-in dogfight we had learned to fly with the missile trigger
on the control stick depressed. If either the HMS or main IRST sensor
in the nose dome locked on a fast-closing target, the computer would
automatically fire the missile. These computer-aided sensors were much
faster than human reactions. So there was no danger of missing a shot
on an enemy slashing past your nose at supersonic speed because your
reactions were too slow to pull the trigger. The beauty of the helmet
sight was that you could kill the enemy, even if you did not have time
to swing the nose of your plane to bear on him. The system was a
quantum improvement over the traditional IRST sights I had trained
with on the old MiG-23.
Having prepared the radar-homing and infrared missiles, it was time to
set up the gun. After adjusting the cannon rate-of-fire control and
gunsight for the thirty-five-foot wingspan of the opponents' MiG-29, I
squeezed the gun trigger to verify the system on the HUD. A
funnel-shaped column of broken white lines appeared, wide end highest,
with the small "11" symbol above it. The afternoon sun glare was bad,
bleaching out the data on the clear panel of the HUD, so I pulled up
the thick, smoked-glass sunshield plate to shade it. Now the
electronic compass rose, indicating 27, due west, and the altitude and
airspeed data showed in crisp computer-white digits. I was exactly at
13,500 feet and my airspeed was pegged on 350 knots. The large "27" in
the lower right center of the HUD indicated I had two armed Alamo
radar-homing missiles.
My final stop on the instrument panel was in the right corner, the
SPO-15 radar-warning receiver. When I activated the receiver's control
panel on the right front cockpit console, the rings of green, yellow,
and red threat lights surrounding the stylized aircraft symbol on the
display flashed like the lights on a New Year's tree and the beeping
warning tone sounded in the cockpit. The SPO-15 was now active. Any
opponent's radar, or missile-guidance radar on the ground, sweeping my
aircraft would appear on the display and a warning beep would sound in
my earphones. The instrument was quite sensitive and would give me the
bearing, relative power, and type of radar that was scanning me. If
more than one enemy radar was active, the receiver would display the
most dangerous threat by priority.
I had completed my cockpit air-combat setup just as we crossed the
marshy coastline. I was now thirty miles from Ruslan and switched
radio channels from 7 to 6.
"Brigadier," I called my GCI controller "Three five zero with 351 on
channel 6."
My call sign for this three-month period was 350, and Nikolai's was
351. Actually our official five-digit call sign was prefixed with 48,
but few Soviet military pilots used all five numbers.
"Ponyal," Vitaly's crisp professional voice replied. "Roger, 350,
altitude 13,500 feet."
Now we popped up to 15,000 feet to intersect the oval air-combat range
fifteen miles offshore. I banked left and headed south toward the far
end of the circuit where Nikolai and I would hold orbit in the combat
air patrol (CAP) sector just north of the Turkish frontier buffer
zone. At this speed we covered the twenty miles in less than two
minutes. Just as my distance measuring equipment and radio compass
indicated I was in the CAP zone, Vitaly's voice sounded again in my
headset.
"Three five zero, you are in the holding zone."
"Ponyal."
I was never much of a talker on the tactical radio net. Some fellows,
especially zampolits, were real chatterboxes. They were so nervous in
the cockpit and so uncertain about controlling these powerful
airplanes that they called out every bank and turn, every new heading
and altitude change, as if they were air-control cadets in a classroom
simulator, not Soviet combat pilots. The radio range of the
electromagnetic spectrum might be invisible to human eyes, but
certainly wasn't to modern electronic scanners. Overly talkative
pilots tended to forget that NATO ferret satellites and even the
American AWACS radar planes could track you by your voice
transmission. This might have been my last fight, but I still intended
to maintain my own high professional standards.
I turned again onto a westward heading and checked my mirrors to make
sure Nikolai was tucked up nice and close. There he was, in perfect
position, less than 150 feet from my right wingtip. We both had on our
navigation strobe lights at 100 percent power. This was a little trick
we used to distinguish our flight from the "enemy" on a training
sortie. One of the weakest points in Soviet training was that we did
not often fly against different types of aircraft representing Western
fighters, as did our American counterparts.
For a moment I stared at his plane, absorbing the rakish beauty of the
powerful fighter. They say that function dictates form in both natural
and human design. And just as Nature had evolved the predatory shark
with smooth, hydrodynamic curves, the designers at the
Mikoyan-Guryevich OKB had produced an aerial predator with a long,
sharp nose, knife-edge wings, and the powerfully tapered fins of its
vertical and horizontal tail surfaces. I loved this airplane and it
would be hard to leave it behind and find another life.
But my decision to leave the Air Force was final. As much as I loved
flying, I could no longer serve the Soviet government and the system
where everything was based on lies, deceit, and personal and
institutional corruption.
"Three five zero," Vitaly called.
He wanted an indication of the tactics I planned for the air-combat
engagement so the ground controllers could be certain there was no
gross violation of safety standards. His request meant that Shatravka
and his wingman had already crossed the coast and turned north for
their own holding zone, about forty miles from ours. The safety
regulations called for our flight to maneuver at odd-number altitudes
- 3,000, 9,000, or 15,000 feet - while Shatravka's flight used the
even numbers.
"Plan Number Four."
"Roger."
I was about to begin my last dogfight as a Soviet fighter pilot.
On this leg of the holding orbit, I was flying parallel to the Turkish
coast. The narrow band of green, backed by winter-brown foothills
below snowy summit ridges, was the frontier of imperialist NATO, the
sworn enemy of the Socialist Motherland. But to me, those mountains
represented freedom. This CAP zone was only twenty-five miles from the
frontier. It would have been so easy to tell Nikolai to take the lead
because I had "problems with my radar." Then, as he pulled ahead, I
could have chopped my throttles, slid off on my left wing, and dove
for the sea. Once below the GCI radar horizon, I could have applied
full military power and dashed into Turkish airspace undetected.
Certainly Vitaly in the GCI bunker would not have been unduly alarmed.
He knew my dogfight Plan Four called for me and my wingman to
separate, with Nikolai staying high while I dropped below Vitaly's
rival battle-control officer's radar sweep.
I actually felt my left fist close on the throttle knobs and my right
index finger slide onto the radio call button on the control stick. It
would be so easy. For a moment I hung there in the clear winter
sunlight, balanced as if on a pivot. Then I recalled the NATO code
name for the MiG-29, "Fulcrum," tochka opori. How appropriate. At this
instant my life and this top-secret Soviet aircraft were indeed
balanced on a fulcrum.
Then, from nowhere, I heard the words of the Military Oath of Loyalty
I had taken as a brand-new cadet on Armavir's sunny Lenin Square
eleven years before. After swearing to defend the Union of Soviet
Socialist Republics with courage and discipline, "until my last
breath," I had chanted the final phrase of the oath, my unwavering
voice joining those of the three hundred young men around me.
"And if I should break this solemn oath, then let me suffer the severe
penalties of Soviet law and the universal hatred and contempt of the
Soviet people."
As a kursant of seventeen, those words had stirred a deep emotion. My
loyalty to the Soviet State had been unshakable. I had firmly believed
that the Soviet Union, led by its Communist Party, was the most
progressive and humane nation in history. And if young men like me
defended that State and its Party, the Soviet Union would lead the
suffering peoples of the world to a new dawn of harmonious prosperity.
I had loved my country and my people. And I had been absolutely
certain that nothing could ever make me betray them.
Now, as a First Class pilot captain in the Soviet Air Force, I was a
different person. I now understood that the Soviet State, manipulated
by a tiny clique of corrupt Party criminals and their accomplices in
the military and "Organs of State Security," maintained the cruelest
and most repressive system in human history. But my loyalty to my
people had not changed. The final phrase of the oath still bound me.
Suddenly my radar-warning receiver beeped and the forward right
quadrant flashed with green and yellow. Shatravka's search radar had
just swept us. From the band of intensity lights, I knew he was still
at extreme search range, too far for a lock-on. But our two flights
were closing fast. With Nikolai tucked up so close, we were presenting
only a single target echo on both airborne and GCI radar. And I hated
to relinquish this advantage too soon. But in a closing engagement
with radar-homing missiles as the initial weapon, a pilot who
stubbornly tried to retain a minor perceived advantage would not
survive very long. The Alamo accelerated to Mach 5 and was damned hard
to shake.
Suddenly Nikolai's voice sounded in my earphones. "Na mnye. He's got
me." Shatravka's radar now had a solid lock on Nikolai's aircraft. It
was time to split our flight.
"Nachalie," I ordered Nikolai. "Let's go."
I chopped the throttles back to idle, pulled the stick hard left, and
hit the air brakes. The fighter rolled onto its left wing and dropped
toward the sea. As I fell, I looked quickly back over my right
shoulder to see Nikolai banking hard right in a fast, high-G break at
our original altitude of 15, 000 feet.
By turning perpendicular to the threatening Doppler radar, Nikolai and
I hoped to break Shatravka's lock-on before his computer authorized
missile launch. Doppler radar depended on differential speed to
generate a target. We had abolished that speed by turning hard right
and left, perpendicular to the enemy radar. If Nikolai could keep this
angle for twelve seconds, the logic memory of Shatravka's radar
computer would be overpowered and the lock-on broken.
My own gambit was a variation of this tactic. As I dove west, I would
be invisible to Shatravka's Doppler radar. And I knew that the GCI
radar used by his battle-control officer had a seven-second scan
sweep, and that two complete scans were required to register a solid
target blip at this range. So, if I could be down below the GCI radar
horizon within fourteen seconds and maintain my own perpendicular
aspect to the enemy flight, they would have lost me. And when they
picked up Nikolai again, they would naturally assume that blip
represented both of us, still flying tucked-up tight. Air combat was
not a gentleman's sport. You had to be deceptive to survive.
Ten seconds later I slid my throttles forward to eighty percent and
pitched up to slow my rate of descent at the official minimum maneuver
altitude of 1,800 feet. I sagged in my seat. The rubber bladders of my
G-suit inflated, squeezing my belly and thighs to keep the blood from
rushing away to my legs and causing gray-out. But today I planned to
go much lower to avoid radar detection.
I pushed the throttles to ninety percent and eased the nose over. In a
moment I was down on the deck, only 600 feet above the softly rolling
blue swell of the sea. Now I was invisible to both Vitaly and his
rival controller's radars. And Shatravka was too preoccupied searching
for Nikolai up at 15,000 feet to sweep for me down here. That was my
game plan, which also included using the sun to mask my position.
Because on these clear winter afternoons, anyone flying low to the
west was difficult to see against the glinting surface of the water.
My airspeed had now hit five hundred knots and I swung onto a
northeast heading of 050 degrees. After forty seconds I pushed the
throttles to full military power and pitched back to a steep gorka
climb. I turned my oxygen control to full pressure, 100 percent, pure
oxygen. In the high-G dogfight I expected, I would need all the oxygen
the system could deliver to prevent diminished vision. Again, my
G-suit hissed as the bladders inflated hard against my midsection. Now
I turned my radar modes switch from "standby" to "illuminate." My HUD
lit up with a swarm of parallel white lines, electronic glowworms
marching to the commands of my radar computer. These were target
blips, most of them false returns. The radar quickly sorted through
the clutter to reveal an authentic target block on a bearing of 010
degrees, ten miles ahead, at least 6,000 feet above me.
That was either Shatravka or his wingman, or both. I hoped they were
still searching for Nikolai's bait.
The rectangular radar cursor jumped from one group of glowworms to
another, and finally settled on a fast-moving blip crossing from left
to right. I was climbing a bit too steeply for easy visual
acquisition, so I had to strain forward against the Gs to peer around
the HUD. There he was, a gray dart, sweeping straight and level to the
south at 12,000 feet altitude. I saw no flashing navigation strobe and
knew the target was not Nikolai.
On the inner throttle knob, I clicked the white button to activate the
radar lock-on system. Once the radar computer calculated the target's
course and speed, the data would be fed to the Alamo missile's
radar-seeking nose sensor. The computer would interrogate the entire
system for verification, and the friendly, synthesized female voice of
"Rita" would sound in my earphones announcing, "Pusk razrayshon.
Launch is approved."
When we had received our new aircraft, four years before, Rita's voice
had been a scratchy monotone, hardly the sexy companion most pilots
wanted. So we had asked Natasha, one of the maintenance dispatchers,
to rerecord all the announcements of the female voice warning system.
She had the sweet voice of a television star. Now as I topped 9,000
feet, I heard Natasha's recorded voice announce, "Launch is approved."
I flipped over the missile trigger to arm it and squeezed off two
simulated Alamos. I wasn't squandering weapons. If you launched only
one of the big missiles, the unbalanced load on your wing pylons
limited your dogfight maneuverability to a maximum angle of attack
(AOA) of only fifteen degrees. I wanted a full twenty-four-degree AOA
when I mixed it up at close range.
Now that I had acquired Shatravka visually, I switched to his radio
channel as a safety precaution. I also intended to probe him
psychologically. Even as my simulated missiles were electronically
converging on Shatravka to "destroy" his aircraft, I unveiled my next
deceptive gambit.
"Rubege odin," I called, a message I knew both Shatravka and the
opponent battle controller would also receive. "Radar lock-on."
I wanted them to think I was still at maximum lock-on range even
though I had already launched.
Then, as my simulated missiles closed on Shatravka, I called, "Range
Two" and "Range Three," as if I had just launched my missiles.
"Enemy on the right," I heard his controller warn.
He banked into a diving roll toward me in a vain effort to break my
lock-on. But it was too late. He was already dead. As I had hoped,
Shatravka was blinded by the afternoon sun and unable to achieve
"tallyho," visual contact.
Now I planned to kill him again, first with my infrared missiles and
then with the gun.
I switched the sensor control knob from "radar" to "close combat
infrared" and my HUD lit up with IRST target imagery. Shatravka was
still banking into me, and I hoped that we were closing too fast for
him to use his helmet-mounted sight. But my standard IRST sensor in
the dome on my nose was tracking him. The two narrow vertical range
lines of the IRST lock-on zone hung in the center of the HUD. My
finger was poised on the missile trigger as I banked hard right into
his approach. As soon as the gray blur of his aircraft entered the
"ladder" of the lock-on zone, my headset buzzed with launch approval
and I squeezed the trigger. A simulated Archer was on its way.
"Pusk," I called, announcing a lock-on launch of an Archer. Shatravka
was "dead" again. Actually, had I fired a real missile, he might have
survived, but his plane would have been destroyed. The R-73, which
NATO called the Archer, was almost impossible to evade in these close,
highly dynamic encounters. The heat seeking sensor head was linked to
its own logic memory system that resisted IR decoy flares. And because
the missile employed a thrust vector system, it could turn inside any
known fighter, no matter how skilled the pilot. An Archer literally
followed its nose straight up the tail pipe of the enemy to explode
inside his engine. But the missile's warhead was relatively small. We
called it our "humane" weapon; it killed the enemy's engine, but not
the pilot, who would hopefully be able to eject even after a solid
hit.
Shatravka was still closing, and I rolled harder with him to keep his
aircraft locked on. The beauty of the new Archer was you could engage
these rapidly converging targets head-on. I still had a good tone, and
another simulated missile automatically launched.
"Pusk," I called again.
Shatravka slashed past me in a transonic blur. I retarded my throttles
to idle and pulled back hard on the stick. Once more I was pressed
into my seat, and I saw the G-indicator on my HUD increase from 6 to
7.5. I was using this high-G energy to reduce speed and minimize my
turning radius. Shatravka was out there somewhere below to my right,
in his own high-G "arcing turn", trying to maneuver for missile
lock-on.
I kept the stick full back against my left thigh, and the aircraft
pitched up toward a low-energy turn with the nose reaching the maximum
maneuverable angle of attack, twenty-four degrees. The stall limiter
immediately engaged, knocking the stick forward in my hand and
reducing my AOA. I had achieved my goal of bleeding off energy and
reversing course well inside Shatravka's wider turn radius.
Just before a full stall, I jammed the throttles to afterburner and
kept the stick in my lap. The Fulcrum accelerated, thrusting me
against my ejection seat. I managed the best turn this Fulcrum had to
offer and arrived at his six o'clock.
He had made the common mistake of relatively inexperienced MiG-29
pilots. By keeping his power settings too high, Shatravka flew
wide-radius arcing turns, allowing me to get inside of him. I had been
flying this powerful Fulcrum as long as any regimental line pilot in
the Soviet Air Force. I had learned how to manage my energy and not to
arc. It was not how fast you flew through the sky but where you placed
your aircraft relative to your opponent in order to achieve a quick
kill.
Shatravka now banked into a tight diving barrel roll and I rolled with
him. It was time to kill him with the gun. The horizon spun crazily
past my canopy, and I was aware of the altitude digits winding down on
the upper right corner of my HUD while my airspeed increased
dramatically on the opposite corner. But, like a hound, I had a taste
of blood in my mouth. Reaching instinctively with my left hand, I
flipped my weapons sensor zone switch to "narrow field of view" so
that the IRST scanner would lock on quicker. The gunsight aiming
circle wavered across Shatravka's aircraft, and I eased my nose up and
right to move the fixed cross hairs on the HUD to overlap the circle
and the opponent fighter. I had set the fire-rate switch to "burst,"
which meant twenty-five 30mm rounds would fire for each second my
finger was on the trigger. The GSh-301 was a very accurate cannon.
When the enemy was within that aiming circle, locked in the cross
hairs, he was dead. This cannon simply did not miss.
I saw a bold 'A' appear on the left margin of the HUD and knew my
laser range finder was probing him with an invisible finger, feeding
the firing solution into my weapons computer. At this close range I
hoped that Shatravka did not look back over his shoulder and catch the
laser full in the face. He was an arrogant bastard and a Communist
true believer, but I certainly didn't want to blind him with my laser.
Still he rolled, and still I kept behind him. Almost, but not quite.
Shatravka's gray fuselage slid into the aiming circle. The cross hairs
straddled his cockpit and wings. I heard the steady tone of laser/IRST
lock-on. Now.
I squeezed the gun trigger on the stick. "Ogon," I called. "Firing."
Just as I killed my opponent for the third time, I heard Nikolai call,
"Pusk." He had killed Major Chayka with a missile.
Too late, Shatravka finally did something intelligent. He chopped
power and dropped off in a leaf spiral toward the sea, hoping I would
dive past him into his own IRST kill zone. If I hadn't been
anticipating his maneuver, I would have lost him. But I had already
cut my own throttles and used the air brakes to stay behind him.
"Ogon," I called for good measure.
My flight was victorious. I heard Shatravka's gruff, sullen voice
announce he was separating. The dogfight was over, and he and his
wingman headed north to complete their own individual training
maneuvers. Nikolai was scheduled for cannon runs on the Kulevi coastal
poligon rectangular weapons range. He checked in with GCI and received
an altitude and vector back to the coast.
I was alone over the Black Sea, still only minutes away from Turkey.
But I shook my head, rejecting that final temptation. I knew the
Ruslan GCI was watching me on radar, so I leveled off and proceeded
with the remainder of my scheduled sortie maneuvers.
I completed one fast, tight climbing combat turn and rolled into a
hard right bank on the second. As the G-indicator on my HUD blinked to
8, I dragged the throttles back and centered the stick, letting the
airplane mush into level flight without completing the turn.
I breathed deeply and licked my dry lips. It was time to begin the
deception.
"Brigadier...350." I made my voice hoarse and hesitant, then groaned
and spoke through clenched teeth, as if in severe pain. "Finished...
finished mission. I have a sharp pain in the back."
I groaned again and let my breath hiss audibly in my mask.
Vitaly replied immediately. "Shto? Povtari. What? Repeat."
"Pain... in the back." Again I groaned, more softly now.
"Can you control the airplane?" Vitaly's voice was on the edge of
panic.
"I can."
"You are cleared for a straight-in approach. Switch to tower
frequency, channel 7."
I turned due east and aligned my radio compass needle on the Ruslan
beacon. With the throttles set at eighty-five percent, I maintained an
airspeed of 350 knots. I would be back in less than five minutes. As I
crossed the coast, I opened my oxygen mask and jammed three fingers
far back into my throat. I wanted to vomit to make the show even more
convincing. But I could not. This was more than ironic. As a young
cadet flying L-29 trainers, I had almost been grounded for airsickness
and had to conceal my nausea by puking into a plastic bag and hiding
it. Now when I needed a convincing display of vomit on my flight suit,
I could not produce, even though I was gagging hard.
The city of Mikha Tskhakaya appeared in the green citrus groves and
marshes ahead. I saw the long Ruslan runway. The straight-in approach
was easy. And I decided not to overdo the deception by wobbling on
final.
After I touched down and popped my tan, clover-shaped drag chute, the
tower called, asking if I wanted to park on the emergency ramp.
"Negative," I replied. "I can taxi to the squadron apron."
As I turned left onto the taxi ramp, I saw the flashing orange lights
of the ambulance and the white jackets of the emergency medical crew.
I also saw the faces of the squadron and regimental officers. They
looked grave. Obviously Vitaly had announced I was in bad shape.
I let my shoulders sag in the ejection harness and tried to a55ulne a
suitable expression of pain and disorientation. My whole future now
depended on my ability to convince the medical staff I had received a
serious injury in this last, violent dogfight.

Я уверен что вам всем, без иключения ОЧЕНЬ тяжело читать это,(написанно не простым англ. языком), но всётаки клёво описано всё.
Данила спасибо.
Хотя у меня есть его книга
в мягкой и твёрдой обложе(последнея подписана им)я сижу и читаю эту первую главу тут.
В ней много есть ответов на наш спор.
Читать просто интересно как,...... ну скажем фантастику.
Конечно большую заслугу этой книги идёт писателю Малком МкКаннэлл=(Маканэл).
Который ПОМОГ Зуеву :)
Я уверен что сам Зуев никогда б не смог довести её до читаемой кондиции.
сВолочь

Что я могу сказать?
Бензин в огонь не налью (он и так в огне)
А МОЖНТТттттт.............. :) !!!!!!
(послать Диабло куда положенно=домой в пекло
он всётаки 666 и как видно совсем новенький тут :) )
Ааааааааааааааа не буду .....я.

Ты прав Сатана!!!!!!
сВолочь
PS
(больше писать не буду на эту нудную тему)

Цитата:

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quote:

Originally posted by <Мишка>:
Я уверен что вам всем, без иключения ОЧЕНЬ тяжело читать это

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Ну,не всем,допустим :)...

Цитата:

---

quote:

Originally posted by Han:
2 Scorpion:
То, что Жигалов летчик - за это ему уже честь и хвала. Но не кажется тебе, что ты ставишь летчиков вне общих правил?

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ИМХО,правильно,потому как Летчик есть Высшее Авиационное Проявление! :)

Извините не местные ! Но прочитал про угон МИГ29 в 89 году и решил высказаться !
Слава богу! Свалило это существо, к таким же многояйцевым в США! В 89 у нас, наступила свобода слова, так что политических мотивов не было! Просто крыса украла головку сыра и рассказала, как геройски она это совершила! Если ты когда либо служил (хотя по твоим высказываниям можно с уверенностью сказать, что все твои познания об армии и войне получены из книг ), то знал бы что когда на твоих плечах погоны, то есть элементарная воинская честь и неважно в какой стране ты служишь! Не нравиться страна- вали, а воровать эта – крысятничество! В штатах любой, который как-то поучаствовал в скандале - пишет книгу, вспомни Монику! (как я строчила и Била) и как геройски она это делала! Он самый обыкновенный перебежчик и предатель!

to Diablo:
"Хорошая мушка,парень...Смени муш.." :) Хех..Т.е-смени ник,парень..Не любим мы тут таких ников..

Тов.Старший Офицер Flogger дело говорит :)
Действительно,лучше смени...
(Ты не видел как Флоггер бросает ФАБы с кабрирования 105гр :)...из стратосферы.Без бомбового прицела.То есть вообще без прицела....и попадает.Даже в корову :) :) )
Резюме?
Ник есть всеобщая потребность не только его обладателя,но и окружающих товарищей,в лице Посетителей,Членов Клуба,Офицеров,Старишх Офицеров Клуба и даже самого(вздымая перст) Патриарха Всея Авиационного Рунета :)