Zinoviev

 Based on a true story. With thanks to Lt. Colonel Boris Sanochkin.

It was a crisp February day in 1967 and the air was ablaze with thundering kerosene. Captain Zinoviev allowed himself a satisfied chuckle as the wheels of the Mig 21-PMF lifted off the runway and the brutal 60 kilonewton thrust of its Tumansky R11F2S-300 engine pushed him into the backrest of his zero-altitude ejector seat. 

Many young boys grow up wanting to fly fighter jets. Few of them ever do. Fewer still get to fly brand spanking new ones. Fondly known as the Balalaika for its shape resembling a traditional Russian guitar, this aircraft was the pinnacle of Soviet aerospace technology.

Zinoviev banked onto the planned heading and eased off the throttle as he approached the formation of other Migs. There were six of them altogether in Labour Banner Flight, and his call sign for the mission was Labour Banner Fiver. All of the aircraft were fresh off the production line in Lukhovitsy, just south of Moscow. He wondered if the other pilots had hangovers as bad as his. They’d spent the previous night in Minsk, taking in what the city had to offer (mainly in the form of alcoholic beverages). This was the second and final leg of their mission to deliver the jets to their new home with the East German Air Force at Templin, near Brandenburg. 

He admired the other Migs as he joined the formation. They looked magnificent in their freshly-painted GDR livery, their camouflage standing out against the cloud-studded sky.

As the flight wore on, the incongruous boredom of flying an interceptor on a ferry flight had set in. Abakumov in Labour Banner Two requested permission from Wing Commander Abramovich to break formation for an aerobatic manoeuvre. The request was granted and he pulled up into a graceful barrel-roll, then slotted back into formation with only a few minor adjustments. Not to be outdone, Zinoviev requested permission for his own manoeuvre. Abramovich clicked the PTT, the radio equivalent of a nod, and watched as Zinoviev’s Mig soared heavenward like a homesick angel. 

At the top of his barrel roll, with the other aircraft mere specks below him, Zinoviev did a full aileron roll. He needed a bit of fancy footwork on the rudder to keep the nose straight and the return of the barrel roll was a bit trickier than he had expected. He scanned the sky as he tried to finish off his display as smoothly as he could. He’d returned to level flight at the same altitude but the other planes were nowhere to be seen. They couldn’t be too far away, hidden by one of the scattered clouds they were intermittently flying though. He cursed his failure to arrive back in formation the way Abakumov had. Was he even on the right heading? He’d definitely messed up somewhere. He checked his compass and noted that he’d deviated from his track by about seven degrees. As he was busy calculating a new vector to intercept the others, Wing Commander Abramovich came over the radio: “Labour Banner Flight, destination change. Cancel Templin. New destination Cottbus. New vector two four niner, descend flight level one eight zero.”

Now Zinoviev had to intercept aircraft that were out of sight, turning and descending. He’d never been to Cottbus, either, and didn’t know what it looked like from the air. The other pilots called their acknowledgements as he scrambled to compute what his new heading should be. He’d just about figured it out when the commander’s voice came crackling through his headphones again: “Zinoviev?”

“Ah, yes, copy new vector Cottbus Labour Banner Fiver,” he responded, grimacing. The moving geometry in his head collapsed as his working memory became saturated. 

“Change frequency one zero two decimal six for Cottbus approach.”

“One zero two decimal six Cottbus approach, ah, Labour Banner Fiver,” then, once his thumb was off the PTT, “Okay Viktor, just fly the aeroplane.” He felt sweat accumulating at the base of his headphones as he dialled in the Cottbus frequency. He figured if he followed the commander’s vector with a two degree compensation for his track deviation he’d still be able to get close enough to Cottbus to spot it from the air. Minutes ticked by, accompanied by the steady roar of the Tumansky engine. He scanned the sky but there was still no sign of his comrades. He searched the ground from horizon to horizon but all he saw were fields threaded by rivers and spackled with small towns. Had he missed it? Had he overshot? He throttled back and banked the Mig into a rate one turn so he could get a better look at the ground. Just over a minute into the turn he noticed an airfield off to one side. His scowl softened and he tried not to let his sense of relief come through in his voice as he made the radio call: 

“Cottbus approach, Mig two one Labour Banner Fiver, permission to join for zero two zero?”

The Tumansky continued roaring, and that was all he heard. He tried again, and again got no response. He figured Cottbus approach was having radio problems. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence at East German airbases. If he didn’t waste any time, he’d be able to land soon enough after the others for them to possibly not even notice that he’d got himself temporarily lost. 

“Cottbus traffic, Mig two one Labour Banner Fiver, transmitting blind, joining downwind for zero two zero.” Zinoviev shrugged at the ensuing radio silence and started configuring the new jet for landing. He allowed himself a moment of envy for its future East German pilot. He’d be going back to Russia as a passenger in a boring old Antonov. Then, gathering his wits, he banked the Mig onto base leg, followed by finals, and planted it al-dente onto the runway. He’d delivered it, albeit a few minutes late, without a scratch. 

But as soon as the nose-wheel touched down, he noticed something off. The whole airfield didn’t seem right. There was a grey Boeing 707 on the apron. He scanned the other aircraft. No Tupolevs, Antonovs or Migs. No GDR insignia. No sheaves of wheat or hammer-and-sickles anywhere. He glanced at his knee map as he began to apply the brakes. It leapt out at him: TEGEL AFB. He was in West Berlin! At a NATO airbase!

He had to get out, but the Mig was now well below V1 and there wasn’t enough runway left anyway. It seemed like everybody there had already noticed him. Airmen were running toward the end of the runway and he heard a civil defense siren starting up over the noise of the Tumansky spooling down to idle. By now he was going slowly enough to be able to turn around at an intersection with a taxiway, but he noticed in the small rearview mirror on the canopy frame that there were already trucks on the way to block the runway so he couldn’t leave the same way he had come in.

He weighed his options. If he was arrested and sent home, NATO would keep the plane, jam-packed with state-of-the-art Soviet technology. He’d be in a gulag or a ditch somewhere with a bullet in his head within days. It was defection or death, and they were equally repulsive thoughts. He absolutely had to get out. He turned the aircraft hard to the left, gritting his teeth at the awful possibility of having a wheel come off the hard surface and sink into the grass. He watched the trucks turn onto the runway one by one and race towards him. He had to time this perfectly, and trust a completely new system that, as far as he knew, had never been used operationally. As the last truck sped onto the runway, he pushed the throttle up to sixty percent and started to roll directly towards them. Suddenly, he steered onto the rapid-exit taxiway and again onto the taxiway running parallel to the runway. As soon as he’d straightened out, he pushed the throttle to maximum and reached for a switch he didn’t have on the Mig he normally flew. It was labelled форсаж: afterburner. 

The acceleration was eye-watering. It took all his concentration to keep the jet pointed straight down the narrow taxiway. One of the trucks had turned around and was rushing back to block him but by the time it arrived, Zinoviev’s Mig was in the air, a candescent shaft of violet flame thrusting it skywards. He’d made it. He was sure nobody would chase him. The Balalaika was famously fast, but more importantly, NATO would never risk aggressive action in Soviet airspace, which Tegel was surrounded by. Now that he knew exactly where he was, getting to Cottbus would be easy, but facing the music there would not. He grimaced at the thought, but took some comfort in the fact that whatever trouble he was heading for, it couldn’t be worse than if he’d been captured.  

The landing at Cottbus was the best kind: uneventful. He spotted the other Migs in a large open hangar and taxied past the East German airmen who had already gathered around to admire them. His jet came to a stop in the last empty space. The ground crew welcomed him and as soon as he was out of his flight suit, he was shown to the bar to join the other Russian pilots for a much-needed beer (which would conveniently hide the alcohol on his breath from the previous night). When he arrived at their table, the wing commander fixed him with a steady gaze. His eyes were like granite, his face expressionless. 

“I have spoken to ATC and this has already gone to the top. Even General Antoshkin now knows what you just did, Zinoviev. The brass in Moscow are furious. They have given me the responsibility for punishing you.” Zinoviev’s heart sank. Abramovich continued: “Your landing at Tegel is the most moronic, outrageous thing that anyone in this squadron has ever done. That is a minus one.” He sipped his beer, set it down and looked Zinoviev in the eye again. “Your take-off at Tegel, we have all agreed, is the most epic, badass thing that anyone in this squadron has ever done. That is a plus one. The score is therefore zero. Finish your beer you degenerate. We’re already on our third.”