Собещаков Юрий Михайлович : другие произведения.

The Story of One Flghht

Самиздат: [Регистрация] [Найти] [Рейтинги] [Обсуждения] [Новинки] [Обзоры] [Помощь|Техвопросы]
Ссылки:
Школа кожевенного мастерства: сумки, ремни своими руками
 Ваша оценка:
  Instead of a preface.
  
  
   In that year, everyone was indifferent to the fact that Russians were killing each other, fighting on both sides of the Armenian-Azerbaijani front.
  
   No one noticed the September visit of the Pope to Latvia.
  
   And as for the fact that the United Nations adopted Resolution Eight Hundred and Sixty-Three, endorsing the establishment of peace in Mozambique, even those who were supposed to know about it didn't know.
  
   The beginning of autumn that year did not rage with the juicy colors of the leaves in the suburban forests. Not at all.
  
   There was something in that September that captured the attention of millions of people living on all continents of the planet.
  
   The whole world was watching the events unfolding in the heart of Moscow.
  
   Having received a carte blanche from Bill Clinton himself during an April high-level meeting in Canada, Russian President Boris Yeltsin forcefully disbanded the Supreme Congress of his country. He did it forcefully. He 'chopped off the heads' of everyone who disagreed with his political course. He spared no one, not even his Vice President, Soviet Union hero Aleksander Rutskoy.
  
   The situation in the capital of Russia was heated to the extreme. The historic shelling of the White House by six tanks of the Taman Motorized Rifle Division was already on the horizon.
  
   However, despite the fact that the events described below also took place in September of nineteen ninety-three, and their participants lived within a radius of thirty miles from the Kalinin Bridge, from which the Taman tankers fired twelve shots at Vice President Rutskoy, the Supreme Congress Chairman Hasbulatov, and their comrades, Yeltsin's crimes have no relevance to my story.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Boredom
  
  
   The crew of the 'Big Tupolev,' as the guys were called in the elite aviation Air Wing flying the Tu-154 aircraft, a copy of the American narrow-body airliner Boeing 727, had been suffering from idleness for three years already. There were no flight assignments. The once-mighty country had disintegrated into separate principalities, dramatically reducing its airspace.
  
   For the Air Force, the swift beauty painted in 'Aeroflot' colors, intended for occasional secret operations and standing surrounded on three sides by high earthen ramparts in the distant squadron's parking lot, this airspace was vital.
  
   Back in time, the crew of this aircraft could 'whisk away quickly' to Tashkent for juicy and sweet Uzbek melons for aviation generals. "Not long ago, the crew of this aircraft could 'whisk away quickly' to Tashkent for juicy and sweet Uzbek melons for aviation generals. Or bring aromatic wine from Tbilisi, the capital of the Soviet Republic of Georgia, for naval admirals. Or provide pleasure to the commander of the Moscow Military District by bringing his lover from the Ukrainian capital of Kyiv.
  
  
   Just a few months ago, a young woman served under his command at the headquarters of the Kyiv Military District, but when her 'daddy' was transferred to an equivalent position closer to 'the feeding hand', her 'patron' left her in the city on the Dnipro River.
  
   The pilot-in-command of the 'Big Tupolev' loved to fly to Kyiv, and he had a special reason for it.
  
   The physical presents of the Ukrainian woman could seduce anyone. A large bust, a narrow waist from which wide hips spread out, combined beautifully with long, shapely legs. A round face framed by thick black hair, her brown eyes were irresistible to any man.
  
   Not to mention a fifty-five-year-old Lieutenant General of ground forces when thirty-year-old majors were ready to risk their careers just to get close to that body.
  
  
   Returning from Moscow to Kyiv after another visit to her 'daddy,' Natasha sat in a wide armchair in the luxury cabin and lazily examined the gifts received for her efforts. In addition to the gifts on the table in front of her stood a bottle of cognac, to which she occasionally indulged.
  
   Suddenly, she felt unbearably sick at heart. The girl threw a box of super-fashionable Italian boots across the entire cabin, stood up from her seat impulsively, leaned her hands on the table, and curiously began to examine the map covering its entire surface. Her shapely nails nervously drummed on the plexiglass protecting the map from damage. After a moment's thought, Natasha headed to the cockpit where the pilots were. Firmly knocking on the armored door and not waiting for an invitation, she turned the doorknob and entered inside.
  
   The cool half-darkness enveloped her.
  
   Only the onboard engineer, Vasily Zimin, reacted to Natasha's appearance. He took his gaze off the instruments monitoring the engine's operation, shifted his headphones from one ear, turned towards her, smiled warmly, and asked,
  
   "Bored, Natasha?"
  
   "And how do you know my name?" she answered with a question.
  
   "I saw the passenger list before the flight. It wasn't hard to remember the name of one person among a hundred and fifty seats," Zimin responded with a wide smile.
  
   "Where are we right now? - Natasha asked.
  
   "Ask the navigator; he'll show you the exact spot on the map," Zimin replied.
  
   "And who's your navigator?"
  
   Zimin lightly patted Captain Ryabov on the shoulder, who was sitting between the two pilots, and, pressing the intercom pedal with his foot, said,
  
   "Eugene, show the lady where we're flying."
  
   The crew's navigator turned halfway, looked at Natasha, and answered the onboard engineer,
  
   "I'd be happy to show her not only the spot on the map but also a little something else, but unfortunately, I don't have the time."
  
   Then he pulled the microphone away from his lips and said to the girl,
  
   "Ask the commander for the location on the map; he's got nothing else to do right now."
  
   The crew's navigator nodded towards Kuznetsov, who was sitting on his left, and turned his back to Natasha. Bending in half, Ryabov pressed his face to the rubber tube of the onboard locator, romantically named 'Thunderstorm.'
  
  
   Just a couple of days ago, Natasha would have taken offense at such an attitude towards her. Without a doubt, she would have tried to repay the crew members for their lack of attention to her, people who regularly provide the best intimate service possible to the Moscow Military District Commander. But on that day, she felt so downhearted that she decided not to worsen her emotional state.
  
   The feeling of resentment that had arisen in the Ukrainian woman's mind after the previous night hadn't faded. She understood that she wouldn't be able to erase the offense towards the general from her memory, but she could certainly camouflage it with fresh impressions.
  
   Evaluating the appearance of Major Kuznetsov, she noted to herself with pleasure that she shouldn't put off sweet revenge for too long.
  
   "Let's settle this here and now," she said to herself and stood behind the ship's commander.
  
   Aleksander Kuznetsov was very surprised when he felt soft female hands on his shoulders. Slightly moving back, he turned halfway and raised his eyebrows.
  
   "Wow," astonishment was clearly readable on his face.
  
   With her index finger, Natasha lightly touched the major's cheek and turned his head slightly towards the pilots' instrument panel.
  
   "Look ahead," Aleksander managed to read from her lips, then shifted his gaze to the instrument panel and relaxed in his seat.
  
   With a gentle touch, the passenger brought her palms closer to his spine and, through the soft fabric of his jumpsuit, started massaging the pilot's neck. At times, Natasha's fingers ventured into the short-cropped hair on the major's head, which grew densely at the back of his nape, and a shiver ran through Kuznetsov's body.
  
   It's been a while since someone was this gentle with me, Aleksander thought, put aside the illustrated sports magazine on the left instrument panel, unfastened the wide seatbelt, and said to the right pilot through the internal communication,
  
   "Alexey, I'll be gone for a short while. You report the Bryansk flyover to the ground dispatcher in seven minutes. Got it?"
  
   First Lieutenant Afynogenov nodded in response to the commander's instructions and smiled dreamily.
  
   Kuznetsov reclined his seat, took Natasha by the wrist, and stepped into the cabin.
  
   The navigator watched them with his eyes and said to Afynogenov,
  
   "Wipe that grin off your face; it's too early to envy. It's not clear yet how this might end for them."
  
   "I think it will end with pleasure for both of them," Afynogenov replied, unfastened his seatbelt, and, pulling the lever of the pilot's seat lock, began slowly moving it back.
  
   "Where are you headed?" The navigator asked him, surprised. "You want to join the major?"
  
   "Are you out of your mind, Alex?" Zimin interjected. "Got the hots for a group activity?"
  
   "I'm just going to take a peek through the door viewer," the First Lieutenant replied with a guilty tone, took off his headphones, and hung them on the steering wheel's horn.
  
   "Pervert," the navigator muttered and leaned back towards the onboard radar locator's tube.
  
  
   Alexey Afynogenov was a tall, thin guy with traces of squeezed pimples on his face. He was single, lacked powerful support among the leadership of the country's air force, and it was quite incomprehensible to many how he ended up in the privileged military Air Wing located thirty miles east of the Moscow Ring Road.
  
  
   Alexey leaned against the cabin door, closed one eye, and with interest observed how events were unfolding in the aircraft's cabin.
  
   "So, what did you want, Natasha?" Kuznetsov asked the passenger in a velvet voice when they found themselves near the table with the flight chart.
  
   "I wanted to know where we're flying.
  
   "We're approaching Bryansk, which is about halfway to Kyiv," answered Aleksander.
  
   "And why isn't anyone entertaining me?"
  
   "Natasha, the whole flight takes only forty minutes. We reached cruising altitude five minutes ago," Kuznetsov showed with his hand how the plane transitioned from climbing to horizontal flight. "We'll start descending in twenty minutes."
  
   "So, we have a full twenty minutes?" Natasha said dreamily, looked straight into Kuznetsov's eyes with undisguised curiosity, licked her plump lips with her pink moist tongue, and began slowly unbuttoning her blouse.
  
   The major glanced at the cabin door. It was closed. He had no idea that his right pilot was lurking behind the door. Then Kuznetsov checked if the door to the passenger cabin, where the onboard avionics mechanic was located, was locked. After that, he turned to the girl.
  
   Natasha, having finished with her blouse, placed both hands behind her back, pulled her shoulder blades together, causing her large bust to appear enormous to Aleksander, and unfastened her bra clasp.
  
   Kuznetsov's forehead became sweaty. Seeing Natasha's exposed breasts, he surrendered. The desire to possess this body, which had been wrestling with caution, finally triumphed, and the last doubts shamefully retreated from the battlefield.
  
   In one swift motion, he unzipped his jacket and hastily began to unfasten his pants. The girl turned her skirt inside out and slowly pulled down the zipper. She watched the pilot's hurried movements with anticipation, while Kuznetsov was eager to conquer her as quickly as possible. He still couldn't believe his luck. The major feared that Natasha might change her mind, and all of this would turn out to be a cruel joke.
  
   However, the girl had no intention of playing a prank on Aleksander. She was satisfied with how the general had toyed with her.She hadn't expected that the man she had been almost loyal to for the past four years would share her with his colleagues, two and three-star generals. It had happened in the sauna built by the soldiers next to the three-story cottage of the commander.
  
   "I won't set foot in Moscow again," she decided. "No gifts or morning apologies from the old boar will wash away the offense I swallowed, along with something else. Let the young officers enjoy themselves. Spite him. Spite them all."
  
   The girl had no idea that she couldn't do anything to anyone. Recently, the Military District commander hadn't been concerned about his relationship with his former lover. She was unaware that her "old boar," after receiving a promotion and moving to Moscow, was now availing himself of the services of a dozen more Natashas, Marinas, Catherines, and Svetlanas.
  
   Standing behind the cockpit door, Afynogenov held his breath and put his right hand into his pocket. The flight engineer noticed it, touched the navigator's shoulder, and when he turned around, gestured toward the right pilot.
  
   Eugene assessed the situation with disapproval.
  
   "The lad decided to indulge himself. Found no better time," he commented, and radioed the Bryansk air traffic controller to report their passage over his airfield.
  
   Natasha stood on the couch, spreading her bent knees wide apart. Her back was deeply arched, and her hands rested palms down on the aircraft's sidewall on both sides of the window. Her head hung between her elbows and jerked up with every thrust from Kuznetsov. The woman's disheveled hair stuck out in all directions, and a droplet of sweat from her armpit trickled down her left breast and hung on her erect nipple.
  
   "Ah, if only I could lick it," Afynogenov thought dreamily, gratifying himself behind the armored door.
  
  
   Following the navigator's commands, the autopilot lowered the aircraft's nose and began its descent. The flight engineer reduced the engine power, glanced at dozens of instruments, found nothing suspicious about the engine operation, and continued observing the copilot.
  
  
   Weakened, Afynogenov stood with his eyes closed at the cockpit door. The First Lieutenant's shoulders occasionally twitched.
  
  
   At the same time, our valiant major, sensing that the descending aircraft was slipping from beneath him, tightened his grip around Natasha's waist even more firmly and increased the pace sharply.
  
   The girl's head no longer jerked. Natasha leaned her forehead against the window and if her eyes had been open at that moment, she would have seen the tiny Ukrainian town with the enchanting name of Tenderness passing beneath the aircraft's wing.
  
   Afynogenov took the pilot's seat a minute before the crew commander returned to the cockpit. The navigator looked at the tired faces of both pilots and said with a sarcastic smirk,
  
   "Well done, pilots, you did a good job."
  
   Aleksander didn't understand why they were considered 'well-done pilots,' and he shrugged in confusion, while Alexey's face turned red. Although in the dim light of the cockpit, no one noticed the young man's flushed cheeks.
  
   After this flight, despite the promise she made to herself, Natasha continued to fly to Moscow many times. However, now the flights between the capitals captivated her much more than her actual stay in the primary capital.
  
   Yes, there were the small pleasures of life. They couldn't be called boring. It's a pity that they're gone.
  
  
   On the day this story began, the crew's navigator lay on the velour sofa in the general's lounge, where our valiant crew typically relaxed before, after, and sometimes during flights. He lay there and thought about how he was big, red-haired, and utterly unnecessary to anyone. That's how Ryabov himself would put it. However, in reality, the night before, a grand family scandal erupted in the navigator's home, complete with all its obligatory attributes. There were shouts and tears, hysterics and dish-breaking.
  
   It was his wife who triggered it all.
  
   Eugene Ryabov had lived with this woman, who he considered his lawful wife, for over ten years. In the final act of their domestic 'flight review,' his loyal spouse promised to take their eight-year-old daughter and move in with her mother for a while.
  
   "For a while," she stated, and after a pause, added. "And then we'll see. Maybe even permanently."
  
   The reason for this scandal was an unexpected visit by two uninvited guests to their apartment the night before.
  
  
   When the doorbell rang in the evening of the previous day, and Eugene saw the deputy commander for political matters and a counter-intelligence officer from the military branch of the State Security Committee standing at the door, his heart skipped a beat.
  
   Not a good sign to have such visitors without warning, he thought.
  
   However, despite the fear, he managed to compose himself and push away the foreboding. After all, the counterintelligence officer had been his fellow student at the Luhansk Higher Military Navigator College, and although they weren't friends during their studies, Eugene didn't expect any trouble from his former college mate.
  
   And he was wrong.
  
   The first 'call' for the navigator rang out several months ago. It happened in the empty corridor of the regiment's headquarters.
  
  
   On his way from the library for secret documents to the flight training classroom that day, Eugene encountered Gennady Kryukov, who had recently arrived from Novosibirsk.
  
   Captain Kryukov had an unremarkable appearance. Some thought he had long arms, but it might have been due to his narrow shoulders. His short black hair always stood on end, giving his face a certain liveliness. However, it was the two sharp drills residing in the deep sockets of his eyes that would wipe the smile off anyone's face.
  
  
   Ten years ago, during their time at the College named after the Proletariat of Donbas, these eyes could be described as 'restless.'
  
   Classmates thought that Gennady couldn't focus his gaze on one thing and that his pupils were constantly darting around. They couldn't know the reason behind this peculiarity, and their blissful majority never learned the truth.
  
   As for those who eventually found out many years later, they deeply regretted it.
  
   Officer-cadet Kryukov always carried a notebook with him. In addition to the birthdates of all his fellow students and officers, it contained the names of their mistresses and the most colorful intimate stories carelessly shared in the smoking designated areas by the participants themselves.
  
   Knowing the secrets of his classmates and the immediate chain of command gave Gennady a sense of superiority over them, but also kept him in a constant state of stress.
  
   Since graduating from the military college, Kryukov had changed his military service locations three times. During the first three years, he served as a navigator on the heavy transport plane Il-76 in the 15th Air Division. It was there that he realized being equal among equals wasn't for him. Leaving his flying duties behind, Gennady enrolled in a two-year course for military counterintelligence training. Upon successful completion, he was assigned to a post in the Moscow region.
  
   And so, two former college mates found themselves serving in the same unit.
  
  
   Externally, Kryukov had changed very little. Only his eyes had stopped darting around. Now Gennady's gaze was firm, and Ryabov clearly felt confidence and authority in that look.
  
   "So that's how positions change people," thought Eugene, immediately interrupted by a question.
  
   "How's life?" Kryukov asked with a smile as they crossed paths in the narrow corridor of the regiment's headquarters. Ryabov, having exchanged brief greetings, stepped aside to make way for the officer from the special department.
  
   "Regularly and with pleasure,"Ryabov replied with an ambiguous joke bordering on vulgarity, perfectly aware of the dual meaning.
  
   "I have no doubt about the 'regularly' part. And I even know where and with whom you find pleasure," Kryukov continued to smile in his response.
  
   If Ryabov didn't have his own sins to bear, he would have dismissed this connoisseur, but adultery was a part of Eugene's life, and the prying gaze of the counterintelligence officer sent an uncomfortable chill down his spine.
  
  
   Several months had passed since that encounter. Ryabov gradually calmed down, became less vigilant, and resumed his secret meetings with the nurse from the Military District Central Hospital.
  
   And there you have it. The two "best" friends of any serviceman had paid him a visit.
  
   "At least my wife turned out to be smarter than the visitors," Eugene thought, and he had every reason to hold his spouse in such high regard.
  
  
   Indeed, when the "guests" began to lay out all the compromising information they had on her, she calmly stepped up to defend her husband. Well, maybe she was slightly paler than usual.
  
   In response to the deputy commander's accusation of marital infidelity, Veronica Ryabov stated that she didn't believe a word of it, as it couldn't be true. However, when the counter-intelligence officer, Gennady Kryukov, pulled out his notebook and started reading out the dates when navigator Ryabov was seen in restaurants with a young red-haired woman, Veronica claimed that it was her, and that she had a red wig.
  
   "Well, so what?" Veronica responded to Kryukov's surprised look. "I always wear it when I don't have time to do my hair after work."
  
   Failing to get any confessions from the navigator and not succeeding in igniting a family scandal, the guests left without saying goodbye.
  
   "And what did we achieve with this visit?" the political officer of the Special Department asked with disappointment as they exited the Ryabovs' ten-floor apartment building.
  
   "Who would have thought that this woman would have such composure? We were taught in psychology classes that no woman can withstand a direct accusation of marital infidelity from her husband. If we had broken her today, we could have had Ryabov removed from flying duty for immoral behavior tomorrow," Kryukov summarized irritably.
  
   "The moral code of the builders of communism is no longer relevant, and the theme of adultery is outdated," the former deputy political officer also expressed his frustration.
  
   "In the aviation unit that sends its crews on foreign missions, it will never become outdated," the counter-intelligence officer replied.
  
   "Then we'll wait for another opportunity," the lieutenant colonel concluded the dialogue, shook Kryukov's hand as a farewell, and both uninvited guests of the Ryabov family went their separate ways towards their homes.
  
   As soon as the door closed behind the nocturnal visitors, Eugene was subjected to a harsh moral execution.
  
  
   Remaining true to his phlegmatic nature, he didn't overly dwell on the argument with his wife. After the morning formation of the squadron, the navigator came to the plane, took off his boots, and lay down on the couch. There was no need to engage in idle conversation with the co-pilot, who was playing backgammon with the mechanic. As usual, Afynogenov was telling dirty jokes, but on that day, Eugene wasn't in the mood for humor. Within a few minutes, he fell asleep, and the scent of his socks permeated the air, a unique aroma specific to military footwear.
  
  
   The co-pilot, Afynogenov, was a virtuoso of tabletop games. Nobody could throw dice the way he did in the military unit. He had learned this craftiness from a Tajik aircraft mechanic five years ago at the Balashov Aviation College for transport pilots when he spent three months in forced inactivity, awaiting a decision about his fate. His harsh mistake in piloting an An-26 transport airplane had led to this situation.
  
   During the exercise for simulating engine failure in flight, officer-cadet Afynogenov was seated in the pilot-in-command seat. The instructor commanded them to simulate a failure of the right engine, and Afynogenov pressed the "Feathering of the Engine" button on the upper instrument panel.
  
   The turboprop engine suddenly roared, the plane first lurched to the left and then sharply to the right, the propeller blades rotated by eighty degrees, and the engine stopped. The instructor, seated in the co-pilot seat, confirmed the engine shutdown..
  
  
   The flight engineer, Vasily Zimin, comfortably reclined in the wide chair specially ordered for the rotund generals. He was reading a book, occasionally glancing out of the window. His task was to ensure he didn't miss the arrival of the regiment's engineer to the aircraft; after all, the lieutenant colonel always found tasks for the technical staff, even when it seemed everything was already done.
  
   Reading didn't bring much pleasure to Vasily. The recent conversation with the chief engineer of the Vnukovo International Airport Aviation Squad kept replaying in his head.
  
   Only God knew how much vodka and red caviar Vasily had delivered to the Aeroflot engineering department. It seemed like he had treated everyone he needed to, and even those he didn't, yet they still refused to hire him. They wouldn't consider him for the position of aircraft flight engineer on the Tu-154.
  
   "If you're willing to take up a position as a ground technician," the chief engineer inquired, "I can arrange it right away. However, I won't be able to hire you as a flight engineer without a bachelor's degree in aviation engineering. The standards for specialists in civil aviation are stricter than in the military."
  
   "Why is that?" Vasily asked, raising his voice, realizing that this conversation was final, that he wouldn't be able to change the aviation squad chief engineer's mind, and that he had been led around recently.
  
   "Because we transport people, and you transport livestock," the engineer laughed, pleased with his joke.
  
   "Well then, I'll just linger in the Air Force. Since I was too lazy to apply to the Civil aviation engineering college, I'll be transporting the rams like myself," Zimin thought and turned another page of his book.
  
  
   As much as Vasily scrutinized the empty expanse of the parking lot, he still missed the appearance of the radio operator on the aircraft stairs. Nikolai Pogodin disappeared from the crew's sight immediately after the morning formation, and returned to the plane before lunch.
  
   There was no one stronger in the whole regiment than this radio operator. Ten years ago, he worked as a bricklayer on construction sites in the Siberia region. Pogodin had an iron grip and manners that resembled those of a boa constrictor. Sometimes, while shaking hands with Afynogenov, he would smile at Alexey's eyes when he was trying in vain to free his hand from Nikolai's grip.
  
   Among the women of the Moscow suburbs, Pogodin had an excellent reputation.
  
   Alexey envied Nikolai's amorous victories very much and once dared to ask the radio operator to share his life experience.
  
   "How do you manage to seduce them so quickly?" co-pilot asked the radio operator.
  
   "It's very simple," the Air Wing's strongest man answered with a smile. "I squeeze the woman's hands with my left hand, hold both her ankles with my right hand, and use my big toe to take off her panties. After such a procedure, all my beauties felt a deep respect for me."
  
   Alexei still couldn't understand whether Pogodin was joking or being serious.
  
  
   "Where'd you wander?" Afynogenov asked as the warrant officer crossed the threshold into the cozy lounge of the Tupolev-154.
  
   "I took a saunter," Pogodin answered with a playful tone.
  
   "Was your saunter a success?" Zimin inquired without looking up from his book.
  
   "I'd like to have it longer, but I was almost 'caught pants down'," the radio operator replied.
  
   "Really?" Afynogenov extended the question. "Tell us a detective story."
  
   "There was no story at all. Half an hour ago, while leaving the entrance, I bumped into my new girlfriend's husband face to face. If I had stayed with her for another five minutes, I would've gotten into trouble for sure."
  
   "That's all due to idleness," said the awakening navigator. "In the past, we always found adventures far from home, and now, here's the radio operator, almost was exposed right next door. Consider going somewhere on a flight; otherwise, we'll soon start sleeping with each other."
  
   "The commander is coming," Zimin said, looking at the window.
  
  
   Major Kuznetsov was heading towards the plane. The 32-year-old officer, tall and married with two daughters, owned a first-generation Italian FIAT, assembled in the Soviet Union twenty years ago, and a mistress who was eight years older than Kuznetsov and twenty years older than his car. The major wasn't very demanding, so the operational qualities of his last two life companions suited him perfectly.
  
   However, the case with the old sofa in Kuznetsov's garage was much worse. Beneath the major and his feisty lover, the sofa made a louder noise than his 'old Italian rusty can' did when it sneezed upon starting. Although, to be honest, his reliable mistress 'detonated' quite loudly at times, usually 'towards the end of the gallop".
  
   The peculiarity of Kuznetsov's life situation was that his wife and mistress both taught piano at the same music school and were considered best friends.
  
   The major enjoyed thrilling sensations and often deliberately took risks. Sometimes his escapades were justified and adventures went smoothly, while other times he had to pay the price for them.
  
   An example of his impulsive behavior occurred just a week ago.
  
  
   Strolling in the Moscow Central park named after Maxim Gorky, the author of the 'Song of the Stormy Petrel', and having consumed a few mugs of beer offered by lively vendors here and there, the Kuznetsov couple found themselves in line at a public restroom.
  
   The male population relieved themselves much quicker than the fairer sex, causing the queue for the 'Men's' to flow like a rapid stream. Having poured the processed beer down the toilet and stepped out into the fresh air, Aleksander didn't spot his wife among the Moscow ladies in line.
  
   Clear, he thought. She's already inside.
  
   The young and handsome major ambled along the line of women to the tail end. Reaching the end and confirming that Marina was indeed not outside, Kuznetsov halted near two young girls and said,
  
   "Ladies, head over to the men's side of the restroom, I'll stand on guard at the door to make sure no one disturbs you."
  
   The girls burst out laughing, and as Kuznetsov waited for Marina's appearance, he turned his face towards the entrance of the establishment and promptly received a resounding slap.
  
   His spouse emerged from the restroom a minute later than him and walked alongside the entire line, curious to see how her husband would behave in her absence.
  
   This simple test, Kuznetsov failed miserably.
  
   Well, well, things have changed dramatically, thought Aleksander. Back when I flew all across the Union regularly, my lawful wife used to greet me with flowers after my business trips, and now she's slapping me across the face over a silly joke. Oh, Zimin was right when he said that if you have problems with your wife, you should 'finish' with her friends.
  
   Smirking at the innuendo he had recently heard from the flight engineer, the 'cargo' commander stopped worrying about the quarrel with his wife and said to himself,
  
   "It's time to fly somewhere."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Flight Preparation
  
  
   "Alright, guys, enough of the chitchat, we have an interesting assignment," the commander said, taking his seat as the mechanic stood up from his chair.
  
   Zimin took his feet off the table, and Afynogenov folded the backgammon set. Yevgeny Ryabov slowly sat down on the couch, stretched, put on his uniform boots, and asked:
  
   "So, where is Mother Russia sending us this time?"
  
   "This time, it's not Mama sending us, but Papa, and not just any Papa, but the Roman one," the commander replied, intriguing his subordinates.
  
   "Ah, so we're going abroad," the navigator deduced.
  
   "Don't keep us in suspense, Commander, tell us where, when, and for how long?" Afynogenov inquired.
  
   "Ah, so young and green," Zimin interjected. "The main question isn't 'how long?' It's 'how much?'"
  
   He rubbed his right index finger against his right thumb as he said this,
  
   "All questions are important," Kuznetsov reconciled. "We're flying in a week. In the neighboring independent state's capital, we'll pick up a hundred and forty children and fifteen adults, and take them to the Italian city of Bologna. We'll do this four times there and back. Each crew member will receive a hundred dollars for each flight."
  
   "Well, what kind of specific children are these?" the radio operator asked.
  
   "These are children born after the Chernobyl disaster in the area affected by radioactive fallout or those who lived near the station at the end of April 1986," Aleksander explained.
  
   "In other words, sick kids. They could even be deformed or mutants, if I understand correctly," the navigator said.
  
   "I believe it won't come to that," the commander reassured. "And now, since the mission is clear, let's get to the preparations."
  
   "Wait, Commander, I have a couple of questions," the flight engineer said. "Why are they sending us to Italy? Why are we blessed with this opportunity?"
  
   "Civil aviation declined this noble mission because passenger loading is only one way. We'll be flying back empty. Consequently, the aircraft payment will be halved. Even though the Vatican will cover the fuel costs both ways, 'Aeroflot' finds it insufficient. They're all about profits. Our superiors, upon hearing about the crew's payment conditions, immediately decided to play the role of noble uncles and gave their consent to the nuncio to provide these transports. You'll see, there will be as many staff officers on our plane as sick children."
  
   "Boss," the usually quiet mechanic spoke up, "who is this nuncio?"
  
   "Nuncio, or an apostolic nuncio," the commander said, not just to the mechanic, but to every member of his crew, "is the diplomatic representative of the Vatican, or simply put, the Pope's ambassador in a particular country. In this case, in Russia."
  
   Flight engineer Vasily Zimin wasn't satisfied with the commander's answer about the reasons for such luck. Waiting until the major explained to the low ranks who the nuncio was, he clarified,
  
   "Commander, I still don't understand why we're flying a Tu-154, a Russian one at that, if we're now servicing Ukrainian children who are strangers to us? Something doesn't add up here."
  
   "And if you're curious about the aircraft type, the headquarters clarified it to me. So it becomes: None of the former Socialist Republics of the USSR, which today are our neighboring countries, have passenger aircraft of this class in their possession, which are owned by the military. That's why the choice fell on Russia. And if you're curious about the aircraft type, the headquarters clarified it to me: fuel in Russia is much cheaper than in Italy. We'll refuel at home for both ways flights. As for the rest, it's simple-'Tu-134' doesn't have enough fuel for a round trip, and 'Il-62' is too heavy for the short runway at Bologna Airport."
  
   "How long is it?" Ryabov, the navigator, asked.
  
   "Seven thousand feet in length and a hundred in width," Kuznetsov replied.
  
   "According to the operating manual of our aircraft, for safe landing we need at least one thousand feet more," Ryabov said.
  
   "I know, but that's for emergency situations. For a normal landing, five thousand feet will be more than enough for braking," the commander replied. Wanting to wrap up this session of questions and answers, he asked,
  
   "Any more questions?"
  
   "Yes," said the co-pilot, pleased to have the chance to speak.
  
   "Go ahead, my dear," Aleksander said with a kind smile, and looked at his co-pilot as if he were a mentally challenged child.
  
   "Who will be the onboard translator?" Afynogenov asked.
  
   "Your friend Nikolaenko," the major replied.
  
  
   Kuznetsov, Zimin, and Afynogenov headed to the squadron headquarters and disappeared into the maze of corridors and offices.
  
  
   Alexey found Lieutenant Nikolaenko among the crew of translators and shared the joyful news of their upcoming joint flight. The young lieutenant perked up upon hearing this and suggested to Alexey that they should prepare for the flight "properly.
  
   "Of course, we need to prepare," Alexey replied. "The flight is quite serious. We'll be passing through five countries and crossing six borders."
  
   "Well, you're a fool, Alexey. 'Five countries, six borders'," the lieutenant teased. "You should be thinking about what we'll take with us to sell to the Italians."
  
   "Smuggling, is it?" Afynogenov whispered to the translator.
  
  
   Though two years younger than Alexey, the translator had much more experience in crossing national borders. Giving his friend a sidelong glance, the translator answered,
  
   "No, you're clearly out of your mind. Could you really call something like a dozen "Glory" wristwatches from the Moscow Watch Factory smuggling? It's just a petty thing."
  
   "But what profit can you get from such a petty thing? Is it worth the trouble?" Alexey asked.
  
   "Calculate yourself. I'll buy them in Moscow for fifteen rubles each and sell them to the "spaghetti eaters" for twenty dollars. I'll spend a hundred and fifty rubles and get two hundred bucks. I'll exchange them on Silver Boulevard blackmarket in Moscow at ten rubles per dollar, and I'll end up with twenty-four hundred. More than twenty-two hundred rubles in pure profit. It"s seven months of my pay."
  
   "And if we get caught at the border?" the co-pilot hesitated.
  
  
   "I'll divide ten watches into my pockets. Customs won't search pockets, and I'll wear the remaining two on each hand," the Russian-English interpreter tried to dispel the pilots' doubts.
  
   "No," Alexey said, "I'll come up with something else.
  
  
   Five days of preparation for the international flight, the co-pilot spent deep in contemplation over the question: "What could we sell to the Italians?"
  
   His absent-mindedness even reached a point where, when the crew commander asked about the landing course at Bologna Airport, Alexey responded with his date of birth. In response, Kuznetsov told the navigator,
  
   "It's about time for him to get married. He's always thinking about the devil knows what."
  
   But this time, Alexei wasn't thinking about women. Business, that's what occupied the empty head of the co-pilot. And when only one day remained until departure, he came up with an idea,
  
   Vodka, that's what the Italians are missing. They have Chianti, Prosecco, Campari, Amaretto, and dozens of other liquors, but they don't have the best Russian Vodka in the world. I'll load up a whole briefcase of vodka and and sell to the descendants of the glorious Roman Empire. And if I get caught at the border, I'll say that the entire crew was planning to celebrate this international flight together. After all, between London and Vladivostok, it's better to have vodka than not.
  
   Sighing with relief, Alexei reported to Kuznetsov about his readiness for the flight.
  
  
  
  Boryspol Airport
  
   At eight in the morning, the crew of the Russian Air Force landed their airliner at Boryspol International Airport, just thirty miles east of the Ukrainian capital, Kiev. The blood brothers immediately stationed an armed guard by the truck mounted airstair and strongly advised the guests not to venture outside unless absolutely necessary.
  
   The crew members and a group of officers from the Air Force headquarters remained on the plane. Only Vasily Zimin descended via the airstair. A border guard emerged from under the wing and halted Vasily.
  
   "Return to the cabin. The border isn't open for you yet," the private asked, more in the manner of a request than a demand.
  
   "I'm the onboard engineer," Zimin said, presenting his service ID and explaining, "I'm required to inspect the aircraft for any malfunctions after landing."
  
   The soldier, shivering from the cold, shrugged indifferently and muttered, "Well, go ahead and inspect," before seeking shelter from the drizzling rain beneath a broad wing.
  
  
   An hour after landing, three Ukrainian border guards boarded the plane. The senior officer was a middle-aged captain.
  
   The senior officer was a middle-aged captain. He collected everyone's passports, sat down at a table, and placed the Russian documents on the plexiglass.
  
   If he had known that not long ago, right in the same place where the red booklets with the emblem of Russia had been laid out, Natasha's beautiful naked buttocks were sitting, he would surely have requested a transfer to transport aviation.
  
   But nobody had informed him about Natasha and her charms, so he meticulously cross-referenced the crew members' surnames with the flight assignment sheet.
  
   When it came to the passport of Major General of Aviation Artemov, the captain's eyes slowly ascended.
  
   "Comrade Major General," he said, extending the passport to the head of the political department of the Russian Air Force, "I apologize, but I cannot let you through the border."
  
   "How come you can't?" Artemov first murmured with irritation and then began to boil, raising his voice. "Our border service let me through without objections, and you can't? On what grounds do you, a Ukrainian border guard, make such a statement?"
  
   "Based on the fact that your name isn't on the flight crew list, just like Colonel Maksimov and Colonel Prokofiev, as well as Lieutenant Colonel Terekhin," the border guard calmly explained. "None of you are listed on the flight manifest, which means you aren't considered crew members. For this flight, you were supposed to obtain individual visas from the Italian embassy. Since you haven't done that, you'll either stay in our city until the crew returns from their international flight or you'll return to Moscow on a civilian flight."
  
   "I want to speak to your superiors, Captain," the general said.
  
   "To avoid further disputes, I inform you that due to the organizational restructuring of the border service across the entire post-Soviet space, responsibility for the final decision on the entry through the border of the former Soviet Union is placed on the Ukrainian border service. Meeting with the chief of the border checkpoint won't change anything for you, Comrade General," the captain responded. "He'll merely confirm what I've said."
  
   Artemov took the flight sheet in his hands, looked at Kuznetsov, and asked,
  
   "Aleksander, why am I not on the flight crew list?"
  
   "And who could I have listed you as, Comrade General?" Kuznetsov began to justify himself. "Take a look for yourself. Here, next to each position, there's a surname of a crew member. Everything is detailed: the commander, the co-pilot, the flight engineer, the navigator, the radio operator, the translator, the mechanic. Plus, for each flight position, there's a designated supervising officer from the aviation headquarters, with a rank no lower than colonel. All supervising senior officers are listed by the flight attendants. I found out about the fact that a group from the Air Force's political department would be flying with us just half an hour before the departure from Moscow."
  
   "Very well. Is this your handwriting?" Artemov asked.
  
   "Affirmative, Comrade General. Mine."
  
   "Then sit down and list the four of us as flight attendants as well," the general said, turning to the border guard, and asked. "Will this be acceptable to you?"
  
   The captain from the border patrol glanced at the flight sheet once more and said,
  
   "If all the surnames fit before the official seal, then go ahead and list yourselves as flight attendants."
  
   The crew commander entered the names of the leadership of the political and educational department of the Russian Air Force, and the border guard took a photograph of the document with a miniature camera, handed the flight assignment to Kuznetsov, and stepped out onto the passenger airstair.
  
   Two customs officers entered the aircraft's executive cabin.
  
   The customs officers opened all the compartments, tapped the partition walls and inner lining, peeked into the restroom and beneath the seats of the pilots, the baggage compartment, and the technical compartment. Ensuring that drugs weren't stashed right under their feet and that weapons intended for terrorists weren't lying in plain sight, the customs officers took the filled-out declarations with them and departed quietly.
  
   Accompanied by them, the group of senior officers from the Air Force headquarters, led by General Artemov, went to the airport building to have a beer.
  
  
   Soon, a government-class "Mercedes" car stopped under the wing of the 'carcass'. Major Kuznetsov didn't go out onto the airstair to greet the high-ranking official. He expected the passenger at the entrance to the passenger cabin.
  
   From the front door of the car emerged a man with short-cropped hair, dressed in a black suit and white shirt with a tie. He opened a large umbrella and the rear door. Instead of the anticipated appearance of a plump and lethargic representative of authority, a small boy of about eight years old stepped out of the car. He pulled a backpack behind him, slung it over his shoulder, leaned in to kiss someone sitting in the back seat, and after a hasty farewell kiss, he walked briskly toward the aircraft's airstair.
  
   The security guard closed the door, holding the umbrella over the boy's head, and followed him. The young passenger presented his passport to the border guard and boarded the plane. As soon as he disappeared into the fuselage, the guard returned to the car, and the "Mercedes" swiftly moved along the concrete towards the checkpoint.
  
   Kuznetsov welcomed the young passenger in the cabin, introduced himself as the pilot-in-command named Aleksander, and inquired,
  
   "Buddy, where did you come from all by yourself?"
  
   "From Kiev," the boy replied, pleased to be friends with the pilot.
  
   "Were you born in Kiev?" the crew commander asked again.
  
   "No, I was born in the Siberia region, then we lived in Moscow, and a year ago, we moved to Kiev," the boy answered.
  
   "Well done," Kuznetsov praised him. "Go on, pick yourself a window seat. Since you're the first one here, you have the privilege of choice."
  
   When the little one went into the cabin, the commander turned to the navigator and said,
  
   "You see, Eugene, normal kids are flying with us. I think we won't see any mutants or weirdos today or in the future. In our flights to Italy, we won't even catch a whiff of Chernobyl kids. All the kids will arrive in their parents' personal cars, and they'll only be considered sick on paper. Who among the wealthy and powerful would refuse to send their child to a foreign resort, especially one funded by the Pope?
  
  
   Soon, following the first "Mercedes," other cars began to approach. They were all of executive class and differed only by their state license plates. Not in the sense that the numbers and letters on them were different. That goes without saying. They differed by their national affiliation.
  
   After unloading yet another well-fed offspring of noble blood, Ryabov sighed heavily,
  
   "The country's collapse hit only the lower class, creating a lot of difficulties when crossing borders. The powerful of this world don't care. They bring their descendants from all over the former Union."
  
   "Don't break your heart, Eugene," Vasily Zimin said. "Since you can't change anything, just ignore it all and enjoy the opportunity to see the decaying capitalist world."
  
   While the navigator and flight engineer discussed the young passengers, a little tragedy unfolded at the aircraft's airstair.
  
  
   The captain was checking the documents of another passenger.
  
   Wrapped in a coat, a slender girl hesitantly answered the questions of the border officer and frequently looked back at her mother. The mother stood next to a dark blue BMW and encouraged her daughter with a smile.
  
   For the last five minutes, something about this girl had been bothering the border guard, but he couldn't figure out what. Taking the child by the chin, he turned her delicate face to the left, compared it to the photograph on her travel document, then looked at her profile, and turned the girl's head to the right.
  
   "Something's off," his inner voice said, "She resembles the photo, but there's a subtle difference, and her behavior is a bit strange."
  
   He let go of the child's chin and handed her the child's passport. When the girl's fingers touched the small booklet, the captain smiled at her and unexpectedly asked,
  
   "Leonteva, what's your first name?"
  
   The girl smiled back at the young officer and quickly replied,
  
   "Elena."
  
   Then she hesitated, looked at her mother, and said,
  
   "No, Svetlana."
  
   The captain mentally grinned, Gotcha, and asked aloud,
  
   "And who is Elena?"
  
   The girl burst into tears and through tears she said drawlingly,
  
   "Meeee."
  
   "And Svetlana?" the officer persisted, even though he had already figured out the situation.
  
   "My siiiisteeeer."
  
   "A twin?" the captain clarified.
  
   "Y-yes," Elena said still crying.
  
   The border guard gestured for the mother to come forward.
  
   "Miss, did you decide to play jokes on the border service? Why is one child indicated in the documents, while you're trying to send another one abroad?"
  
   "Comrade officer, you see, we have twin daughters," the mother defended herself. "Both of them need long-term treatment, but we were only given one voucher. The girls drew lots - who would fly. Svetlana was lucky, but the day before yesterday she fell ill. We couldn't send her abroad with the flu for a month. Our daughters are very similar, so we decided to send the second sister to Italy. We didn't want the voucher to go to waste."
  
   "It's not good to deceive a state service. Take your Lena-Svetlana from here and go home."
  
   "But maybe you could still let us through?" the mother pleaded.
  
   The officer shook his head in refusal.
  
   The woman lowered her voice,
  
   "I'll pay whatever you say."
  
   "Don't think everything in the world can be bought," - the captain said quietly. "Please don't offend me with your offer. I'm not a customs officer."
  
  
  
  
  
  Flight
  
  
   By half past ten in the morning, the children and the accompanying adults were seated in their places, fastened with safety belts. General Artemov and his three companions, diligently performing the duties of flight attendants, walked between the rows, checking how the young travellers were situated. They walked partly because there was nowhere to sit. Every single seat was occupied by passengers. In the cockpit, with the smell of beer lingering around the pilots' necks, a staff inspector stood behind each crew member.
  
   There was no room for General Artemov's political officers among them.
  
   Vasily Zimin started the auxiliary power unit, connected all onboard systems, and Afynogenov requested permission to start the engines.
  
   While waiting for the dispatcher's response, Alexey thought about how real work was finally beginning. His new, fresh civil aviation pilot's uniform gave the lieutenant a sense of something unreal. He felt like he was being sent on a top-secret mission into enemy territory.
  
   It's not for nothing that they changed us into these uniforms in a rush. And they even gave us fabricated civilian aviation pilot licenses, he thought.
  
   The navigator nudged him with his elbow,
  
   "Don't fall asleep, Alex. The dispatcher has given us the 'go' for engine start twice already."
  
   So that the inspectors wouldn't see what Kuznetsov was saying, he turned towards the window and said,
  
   "Alex, they're definitely going to remove you from flight duty. At least these lazybones don't have headphones, and they can't hear anything over the noise of the working equipment. Otherwise, your brain delay would be noted down in their notebooks."
  
  
   During the takeoff roll down the runway, the navigator reported the speed, periodically inserting the prescribed lines,
  
   "Two hundred ten, two hundred thirty, two hundred fifty, decision?"
  
   The commander responded briefly,
  
   "Continue takeoff."
  
   The navigator counted the speed,
  
   "Two hundred seventy, two hundred ninety, nose wheel lift-off."
  
   "Rotation," the commander replied, pulling the control column towards him.
  
   The nose of the liner smoothly lifted up, and the navigator said,
  
   "Three hundred ten, liftoff."
  
   The plane continued to raise its nose, and the colonels standing behind the pilots, either out of fear or due to the g-forces, crouched down.
  
   "Three hundred thirty," muttered Ryabov.
  
   "Gear up", the commander said.
  
   Afynogenov lifted his hand off the control yoke and moved the landing gear lever over his head to the retracted position.
  
   "Landing gear retracted. Red lights are on," he reported.
  
   "Three hundred fifty, altitude one fifty," the navigator reported almost immediately after the copilot.
  
   "Flaps up," Kuznetsov commanded.
  
   Alexey held the flap lever lock between his two fingers and moved it from thirty degrees to twenty, then to ten, and finally to zero.
  
   "Flaps Retracted," reported the copilot and let out a relieved sigh.
  
   His mission of two and a half hours of flight was now accomplished. He would have nothing to do until the approach for landing.
  
   The pilot-in-command increased the aircraft's pitch angle even more. Inside the cockpit, the colonels felt like they were flying on a rocket.
  
   The vertical speed indicator froze at four thousand feet per minute.
  
   Stabilizing the aircraft in this position, Kuznetsov engaged the autopilot and removed his headset.
  
   "So, how do you like the takeoff on this type?" he asked, turning to the inspectors. The colonels were slowly recovering from the scare they had just experienced.
  
   "There's no comparison to the takeoff of the An-12 that I flew before. Aleksander, is this the usual piloting technique for this type of aircraft, or did you decide to surprise us today?" asked Colonel Samorukov, the head of combat training in the military transport aviation.
  
   "It's a regular takeoff in cool weather, comrade colonel. When it's hot, the pitch angle is a bit smaller, and when it's cold, this plane climbs like a fighter," - Kuznetsov replied.
  
   The senior navigator of the division, holding onto the back of Captain Ryabov's seat, whispered to his colleague,
  
   "I spent half my life in the glass-nosed heavy transport plane Il-76. But I've never squatted from fear. I thought you guys lost control of the aircraft."
  
   "You know, Comrade Colonel, that's quite possible," Eugene Ryabov replied.
  
   He really wanted to have a talk with his "high" superior.
  
   He turned in his seat and, seeing the confusion on the colonel's face, began to explain,
  
   "The thing is, on this plane, unlike the vast majority of others, control input isn't transmitted through levers and cables, allowing the pilot to directly fly the aircraft. Instead, it's done through electric signals. So when a pilot moves the control yoke, for instance, it sends a signal to a control surface actuator, located in the wing for example, and it moves the aileron to the angle set by the pilot. And the force on the control yoke, to create the illusion of direct control, is provided by regular springs."
  
   "But in this case, we're completely dependent on the electrical equipment. And in the event of engine or generator failure, we'll be left without controls," the deputy chief of the engineering and aviation service chimed in.
  
   "That's correct, but we'll have exactly eight minutes until the hydraulic accumulators discharge, and then free fall," said the crew commander, and added, "It's precisely the combination of excellent flight qualities with innovative engineering ideas that make this aircraft the best in terms of piloting and the most accident-prone according to the statistics of accidents."
  
  During the time spent discussing the aircraft's merits and drawbacks, they had crossed five borders and began the descent in the vicinity of Venice.
  
  
   Afynogenov didn't interject into the conversation among the senior colleagues and inspecting officers. It would have been easy for him to blurt out something off-topic and reveal his lack of knowledge about aviation technology. That wouldn't have been forgiven at this point. He gazed out of the side window at the Alps passing below, listened to the voice of his friend-translator, who periodically reported the route waypoints in English, and eagerly awaited the moment when the plane would be over Venice.
  
   Alexey had heard a lot about this city, had seen it on TV shows like "Cinema Travellers Club" and "The Camera Looks at the World," but until now, he had never truly grasped what he discovered on this first flight beyond his country's borders.
  
   The young pilot, born in the small Rocky town in the Ural Mountains, looked at the island city and couldn't believe his eyes. He used to imagine that the Adriatic Sea slightly cut into the land, turning the city's streets into canals, but now he clearly saw the city extended out into the bay. A nearly one-mile road connected Venice to Italy, and at the beginning of the road on the mainland was a cozy international airport.
  
  
   Turning southwest over Venice and heading towards the city of Ferrara, the crew began descending to nine thousand feet. Afynogenov hadn't fully recovered from his 'great' geographical discovery when he found himself over Ferrara.
  
   Alexey tried to spot the Ferrari car manufacturing plant in the city. He felt that it should be no smaller in size than the huge Italian-built LADA car production plant in the Soviet Union. Afynogenov had seen this plant from the air, and it was larger in area than the city where he was born.
  
   He expected that the Ferrari plant in Italy would be comparable to the plant built by Italians in Russia, but he couldn't even find signs of car manufacturing in a city that gave the name of a prestigious car brand. No matter how hard Afynogenov stared into the clear Italian air, he couldn't find anything resembling a factory. To his disappointment, Alex concluded that the entire city of Ferrara was comparable to the production area of LADA.
  
  
   They passed over Castel Maggiore, and Bologna appeared ahead.
  
   The co-pilot looked at the red tile roofs of the city's houses and remembered that this city gave its name to waterproof coats, which were trendy twenty years ago, as well as to sausage without fat cubes. It was time to prepare for landing, and he increasingly listened to the radio conversations between the air traffic controller and Nikolaenko.
  
   Alexey's English skills were quite limited. Wanting to test them, Afynogenov tried to catch the meaning of the ground service's commands and compare them with Andrey's translations.
  
   The airport's approach controller issued a command to descend the aircraft to fifteen hundred feet. Nikolaenko translated it to the commander. As he did so, the controller gave the crew the next command,
  
   "Approach to the runway with a heading of one hundred degrees approved."
  
   But Andrey, while translating the previous command, didn't manage to focus his attention on the next one and only caught the last part of the Italian's statement.
  
   "Heading one hundred degrees," said the translator.
  
   "Commander," Afynogenov said, "if I understood the dispatcher correctly, he gave us permission for an approach on a runway with a landing heading of one hundred degrees, not to maintain a heading of one hundred degrees right now. We should take the reverse approach heading of two hundred eighty degrees, and then, after two ninety-degree turns, align with the landing course. Otherwise, we'll be approaching the runway with a reverse heading."
  
   Kuznetsov looked reproachfully at the co-pilot and turned the plane to one hundred degrees, as translated by the interpreter.
  
   Eugene Ryabov handed the co-pilot a foreign Charts and Airways manual from "Jeppesen" with a bookmark on the Bologna page and said,
  
   "Here, learn the landing approach diagram now, since you didn't have time to do it at home."
  
   Alexey took the manual and, without opening it, carefully placed it on the right underhand instrument panel.
  
  
   The dispatcher asked the crew for their plane's position, and the translator reported,
  
   "We are parallel to the runway at a distance of five miles, descending to fifteen hundred feet."
  
   "Roger that," the Italian responded.
  
  
   Three minutes later, through the indescribable cacophony in the air, the translator caught his call sign along with a question about their location. He reported to the ground that the plane was approaching the final turn at fifteen hundred feet before the final approach course.
  
   "Understood," the Italian replied, and in the air, dozens of voices could be heard again, speaking simultaneously in English with German, French, Spanish, and other accents that even an onboard linguist couldn't decipher.
  
   "What are they all chattering about?" the commander asked during the plane's turn.
  
   "I don't know," the translator replied, "for some reason, the dispatcher is assigning different altitudes to all the planes over the airfield. Maybe something happened, or someone has an emergency situation onboard."
  
  
   "Eight, five, seven, seven, five, your position?" came from the ground.
  
   "85775 on the final approach course," Andrey answered.
  
   "Do you see the runway?" the dispatcher clarified.
  
   "The runway in sight. It's ahead of us at a distance of eight."
  
   "You are clear for landing," the dispatcher replied, and the cacophony of voices resumed again.
  
   "It's interesting, why do they all suddenly go quiet when the dispatcher speaks to us?" Afynogenov wondered.
  
   "Gears down," Kuznetsov commanded instead of answering.
  
   "Gears down, on the locks, green lights on," Afynogenov reported after a pause.
  
   "Flaps at thirty," the commander said.
  
   "Flaps thirty," reported Alexey.
  
   "Forty-five," said Kuznetsov.
  
   "Flaps forty-five, lever locked," reported the co-pilot, placing his left hand on the engine control levers.
  
  
   The levers moved under his hand on their own. They were controlled by the onboard engineer from his position.
  
   Part of Alexey's task was to engage the reverse thrust of the first and third engines immediately after landing.
  
   The runway was rapidly approaching. As it drew closer, Afynogenov felt as if it was running toward them faster than usual.
  
   "Oh well, some nonsense," he thought, after confirming that the airspeed indicator was neatly displaying the normal approach speed.
  
   The aircraft flew over the runway threshold, and the flight engineer reduced the engine power to idle.
  
   But instead of gently raising the nose and touching down softly on the runway with the wheels, the aircraft skimmed over them for another six hundred feet.
  
   "Why is it refusing to land?" Afynogenov froze, watching airport structures pass by to the right.
  
   A nauseating sense of helplessness engulfed the entire crew for a few seconds, and the emergency situation threatened to escalate into a terrible tragedy within half a minute.
  
   "Engage reverse!" commanded Kuznetsov.
  
   The navigator and flight engineer looked questioningly at the commander, mentally asking him, "While in flight?"
  
   They knew that engaging engine reversers in flight was only permitted in emergency situations, but from their positions, they couldn't see the runway or the airport control tower and evaluate the seriousness of the situation.
  
   Afynogenov had no doubts about the commander's decision and promptly carried out the command.
  
   The "target-type" thrust reversers of the first and third engines blocked the path of the jet streams and redirected them at a 135-degree angle in the opposite direction. The aircraft behaved like a massive eagle ensnared in a hunter's net. It continued to move forward, yet its speed was rapidly diminishing.
  
   The massive bird suddenly sank, and the commander barely managed to pull the control yoke to bring the aircraft into a landing attitude. The landing was hard, but in that moment, that didn't matter. As soon as the nose wheel touched the concrete, both pilots fully depressed the wheel brakes.
  
   The automatic braking system, unaware of the rapidly approaching end of the already short runway, preserved the tires and countered the pilots' efforts, preventing them from rapidly decelerating.
  
   "The main runway won't be enough," Kuznetsov realized and pulled the emergency braking lever.
  
  The wheels froze. At this point, the automatic braking system was rendered powerless to protect them. Thin blue-black smoke wafted from beneath the wheels, leaving slick black streaks of rubber on the light-gray concrete.
  
  
   The main landing strip ended, and the asphalt of the safety strip began. Those one thousand feet were Kuznetsov's last hope. Beyond them, a metal mesh fence loomed. An intricate, almost invisible barrier separated the airfield from the residential quarters of Bologna.
  
   Eighty-five tons of iron, with a hundred and forty children and thirty adults on board, carrying five-point-five thousand gallons of high-quality aviation kerosene in its fuel tanks, hurtled toward the wire barrier at a speed of one hundred knots.
  
   Afynogenov closed his eyes.
  
   The colonels gripped the backs of the crew seats so tightly that skin whitened beneath their nails.
  
   Ryabov pressed his feet against the console with navigation equipment.
  
   The flight engineer fastened his safety belt tightly, bent over, and covered his head with his hands.
  
   Only Major Kuznetsov, leaning with all his might on the control column, looked ahead, and his parched lips whispered softly,
  
   "Stop now, you son of the bitch."
  
  
  
  
  Bologna
  
   It seems that it was exactly this command that was missing to halt the 'dragon'. The aircraft stood still, engines roaring, pressed against the wire fence, the noise deafening the nearby residents.
  
   To make the aircraft move backwards with its tail, Kuznetsov increased the engine thrust without retracting the thrust reversers. In addition to the deafening noise, the decibels of which had never been heard by the residents of Bologna, a dust storm swept through the streets near the airport. Once the "giant bird" had rolled back sufficiently, the pilot-in-command maneuvered it around, and the Tu-154 began moving towards the apron.
  
   Gradually, everyone regained their senses.
  
   Through the intercom, Aleksander announced to the crew members,
  
   "Do not discuss the landing with anyone. Until we figure out what happened ourselves, no conversations with outsiders."
  
   In front of the terminal, representatives of the Roman Catholic Church, doctors, children's vacation organizers, the truck mounted airstair, and a bus awaited the aircraft.
  
   The first to board was a carabiniere dressed in a black uniform with a white leather belt that ran diagonally across his chest, from his left shoulder to his right hip. He wore a cap adorned with a cockade featuring a burning spherical grenade, reminiscent of the times when Generalissimos Suvorov crossed the Alps to confront Napoleon Bonaparte. Red stripes adorned his trousers. Below the waist, the carabiniere sported riding breeches, with their red stripes extending into tall black leather boots.
  
   Without delving into anything or checking the passengers' documents, he asked,
  
   "Are you with the children from Russia?"
  
   Andrey Nikolaenko replied,
  
   "Yes."
  
   The carabiniere smiled and said,
  
   "Welcome to Italy."
  
   He turned on his polished black boots and left.
  
   "However, they still have border and customs inspection," General Artemov commented on the appearance and disappearance of the carabiniere.
  
   "Not comparable to ours," Colonel Prokofiev nodded in agreement.
  
  
   As soon as the Italian officer disembarked from the plane, the flight organizers went on board.
  
   First and foremost, the nuns inquired whether the children had been fed during the flight.
  
   When Afynogenov heard the translated question, he said loudly,
  
   "We didn't have anything to eat ourselves. On our feet since five in the morning, wouldn't hurt if someone cared."
  
   Andrey was a well-mannered young man and not only translated the co-pilot's words into a foreign language but also into a culturally appropriate manner.
  
   A stout Italian in a light rumpled suit with rolled-up jacket sleeves directed the welcoming group. He chattered away in his language, indicating that all arrivals from Ukraine would be served, but only after the organizers had fed the children.
  
   Translating from Italian was a charming tanned girl, around twenty-five years old. She spoke Russian well but had a slightly noticeable southern accent.
  
   While doctors walked through the aisle between the seats and briefly examined the kids, Alexey approached the translator, introduced himself, and asked for her name.
  
   "Svetlana," the girl answered.
  
   "What's such a young and beautiful Russian-speaking girl doing in Bologna?" Alexey persisted.
  
   "I came with the Vatican's mission," the translator replied.
  
   "Do you work for the Pope?" Alexey couldn't help himself.
  
   "I've been temporarily hired as a translator for the duration of the children's stay in Italy."
  
   "And how did you end up here?"
  
   "Before finishing my studies at the Novosibirsk Linguistic University, I went to Rome for an internship, got involved with an Italian guy, and never went back."
  
   "So, are you married?"
  
   "No, why would I need that? I'm in paradise here, living unmarried is better."
  
   "Can I ask for your phone number?"
  
   "Boy, why do you need an old lady's phone number?" Svetlana laughed.
  
   "Come on, you're not old at all, you're not older than me," Alexey genuinely surprised by Svetlana's words.
  
   "I'm forty-two years old, and if you don't believe me, take a look at the skin folds under my arms. The face and figure might deceive a man, but the sagging of these wrinkles gives away a woman's real age. Sweet boy, you're just very young and inexperienced. Unfortunately, that'll pass quickly," Svetlana ran her hand through Alexey's hair and, in the company of nuns, left the plane.
  
  
   Following the Italians, the children headed towards the exit off the plane. When the kids reached the platform, the doctors stared at their bags, backpacks, and portfolios in amazement.
  
   Showing the church representatives the kids' belongings, the head doctor quickly started speaking in Italian. From the translator's words, it became clear that the children weren't supposed to bring anything with them, that everything, even down to toothbrushes and underwear, would be provided for them at the camp absolutely for free. She didn't forget to translate the doctor's words about the corresponding clause in the children's acceptance agreement.
  
   "We don't need their radioactive belongings" Svetlana translated. "It's easier for us to dress them up and provide everything they need than to decontaminate all of it."
  
   Afynogenov and Nikolaenko explained the situation to the accompanying children from the Ukrainian healthcare team. The pediatricians, in turn, tried to explain the situation to the children.
  
   The older kids handed their backpacks back to the plane, but the younger half of the 'Chernobyl kids' refused to part with their things.
  
   The Italians didn't use force to take away the hand luggage from the seven and eight-year-olds. And one must give them credit, they quickly found a solution that could satisfy even the most capricious child. It was decided to exchange the luggage for new clothes, toys, and personal hygiene items, immediately upon arrival at the sanatorium.
  
   After that, the children were invited onto the bus.
  
  
   Members of the Russian crew and the accompanying colonels observed the baggage confusion and examined the airstair itself. No one among them had ever seen such a marvel of engineering before.
  
   The truck mounted airstair was equipped with a semi-circular roof made of matte brown glass. It wonderfully shielded passengers from the direct rays of the scorching Italian sun. The Russians looked at this ramp with the same envy that Soviet pilots in June 1944 looked at the sun-protective goggles of American allies, when their "Flying Fortresses" B-17 landed at the Poltava airfield.
  
   But it wasn't just the ramp that amazed the Russians who had come to see off their young compatriots. The bus made an unforgettable impression on them. When the vehicle came to a stop near the plane, it lowered itself to the ground. That is, the bottom of the bus sank to the level of the ground, and not a single child had to lift their foot to get into the bus cabin.
  
   "They've thought of everything, those 'decaying' ones," Ryabov grumbled.
  
   The radio operator came onto the ramp.
  
   "Let's go to the cabin, the commander invites us for a briefing," he said to Afynogenov, Ryabov, and Nikolaenko.
  
  
   Major Kuznetsov politely asked the general and the colonels to move to the main passenger cabin. When the idlers left the general's cabin, he sat down at the table, placed his hands on the flight map, covering half of Europe with them, and said,
  
   "Let's start analyzing the flight from the approach for landing. Alexey, do you speak English well?"
  
   "No," Afynogenov admitted honestly.
  
   "Then why are you chattering away? I'm listening to the translator, and now you come with your conclusions. If you didn't prepare for the flight, at least don't interfere. Lower the landing gear and flaps when necessary, and the rest of the time, keep quiet until someone asks."
  
   "What do you mean I didn't prepare? I read everything I was supposed to before the flight," Alexey defended himself offendedly.
  
   "But you didn't remember anything," the navigator continued for him. "Because it's written in the "Jeppesen" manual that Bologna Airport has only one approach diagram for landing. With a heading of two hundred and eighty degrees. And if you had read that, you wouldn't have thought that the controller might offer us an approach over the city neighborhoods with a landing heading of one hundred. You saw it yourself - we nearly nosed into the houses at the end of the approach."
  
  
   After reprimanding the co-pilot, the crew briefly discussed the aircraft's strange behavior during landing. Failing to come to a consensus on the reasons for the late touchdown, they settled on the notion that 'someone, somewhere, overlooked something'.
  
   With that, the analysis of the flight was over. Feeling upset with the commander and the navigator, Alexey stepped onto the ramp to inspect the surroundings. Sweeping his gaze across the airport apron where a dozen or so Boeing and Airbus aircraft from different European countries were parked, then the two-story terminal building, he turned toward the city and gasped.
  
   Six airplanes were lining up for landing over the red-tiled roofs of the city neighborhoods.
  
   From a distance, it looked like they were all stacked on top of each other, but Afynogenov knew that the interval between them was no less than a mile and a half.
  
   Hardly had one of the airliners managed to touch down and vacate the runway when another Boeing touched down, followed by an Airbus, and more, and more. And in the distance, seven miles from the runway, another Embraer was turning onto the final approach.
  
  
   Afynogenov's gaze fixed on the mast topped with a wind cone displaying stripes indicating the general wind direction and speed on the airfield. In that instant, everything fell into place for him.
  
   He realized that he had been absolutely right when he tried to suggest the landing course to the commander. Alex understood the reason for the unusual behavior of the aircraft during landing, which almost led to a severe catastrophe. He understood why there was a constant cacophony of voices from foreign pilots on the radio. He understood why the ground control service kept asking about the aircraft's whereabouts.
  
   Everything fell into place. His friend Nikolaenko had misunderstood the command given by the air traffic controller. They were aligned in the opposite direction of the intended landing approach and had touched down with a powerful tailwind.
  
   During this landing approach, the Italian air traffic controller, upon losing the Russian crew from his radar sector display, immediately instructed the airplanes in the airspace above the airfield to climb to different altitudes.
  
   Requesting the Tu-154 crew's location and confirming that the Russians were landing opposite to everyone else, he decided it was better to make two dozen Europeans wait in the holding patterns rather than turn around an aircraft that had a poor grasp of the English language.
  
   "At least they can see the runway," he said to his partner when almost the entire staff of the control tower gathered around him.
  
   The shift supervisor, upon hearing the crew's confirmation of visual contact with the runway, took his binoculars, spotted the "Tupolev," and said with satisfaction,
  
   "No, these Russians aren't complete idiots. They've lowered the landing gear and flaps."
  
   "Let's see how they handle a thirty knots tailwind," the meteorologist said, lighting a cigarette.
  
   When the aircraft, at a height of one meter, passed the halfway point of the runway, the entire tower staff stood up and crowded around the wide window.
  
   At the moment the aircraft crossed the boundary between concrete and asphalt, the smoldering cigarette fell out of the meteorologist's mouth and onto the linoleum at his feet.
  
   Everyone froze, anticipating a tragedy. At the moment when the aircraft's nose reached the metal grid, and it came to a halt, the Italians burst into applause.
  
   The responsible landing controller asked the shift supervisor,
  
   "What should we do with them?"
  
   "Nothing. Don't even report it to Rome. They came here at the Pope's invitation. I think God himself or the Holy Virgin Mary is protecting them," he replied and crossed himself.
  
  
   Afynogenov entered the cabin with his head held high. His comrades, waiting for lunch, entertained themselves in their own ways.
  
   "Hey guys, let's get some fresh air. I'll show you something interesting," Alexey said.
  
   "What did you see there?" the flight engineer Zimin asked.
  
   "Probably a naked Italian girl," Kuznetsov said without moving from his seat.
  
   "No, an Italian guy. He's our pervert," the navigator Ryabov continued mockingly.
  
   "Are you all kidding? Why don't you step outside instead. You won't be in the mood for jokes out there," Alexey said and, without waiting for the crew members, stepped onto the ramp.
  
   The commander, navigator, and flight engineer followed him outside.
  
   "So, what's going on here, Alex?" the commander asked, sensing that he and the navigator had taken their army-style jokes a bit too far.
  
   Afynogenov pointed in the direction of the city and triumphantly said,
  
   "Take a look, guys, at what's happening on the one hundred-degree landing course that runs neatly over the residential houses of Bologna. How many airplanes do you see there?"
  
   "Five," the commander said gloomily and, after a short pause, added, "Everyone back to the cabin."
  
   Returning to his favorite captain's chair, Major Kuznetsov immediately summoned the reclining translator Nikolaenko.
  
   "Andrey," he said softly, "could you bring me the recordings of the air traffic controller's commands that you made during the landing approach?"
  
   In a normal situation, the lieutenant, a graduate of the Kharkiv Institute of Foreign Languages and a deeply civil-minded person at heart, would have asked without getting up from the couch, "Boss, why do you need them?"
  
   However, upon hearing Kuznetsov's insinuating tone, he suspected something unpleasant and immediately went to the cabin for his work notebook.
  
   When he disappeared behind the door, the commander told the flight engineer,
  
   "Vasily, bring the tape recorder and locate the last reel of the radio exchange where Andrey reads his notes."
   We still need to find out what the dispatcher actually said."
  
   Kuznetsov instructed Ryabov to double-check the airport reference book, and while carrying out the pilot-in-command's order, the navigator found a warning in it, written in small print,
  
   "If the tailwind speed with a landing course of two hundred and eighty exceeds five meters per second, landing with a course of one hundred degrees will be allowed."
  
   At home, neither he nor the commander had read the fine print.
  
   Further analysis of the flight confirmed the full correctness of First Lieutenant Afynogenov, but the copilot did not hear any apologies from his senior comrades for the unnecessary scolding. They considered it sufficient that they had berated his friend Andrey Nikolaenko.
  
  
   Unlike Afynogenov, the onboard translator did not take his gross mistake to heart. He didn't even see how the plane braked abruptly and took the incident with the ease characteristic of people distant from aviation.
  
   Two questions preoccupied him now,
  
   When would the Italians deliver the long-promised lunch, and how could he slip away from the watchful eye of the commander for at least an hour?
  
   Adorned on both arms, from wrist to elbow, ten pairs of handcuffs denied him relaxation and peaceful rest. Despite the thirty-degree heat, he was obliged to wear the dark blue uniform jacket of Aeroflot, buttoned on both sides.
  
  
   The rest of the flight crew had long since changed into short-sleeved shirts and was playing cards.
  
   Seven colonels and one general stood outside in the shadow of the aircraft's wing, discussing the pressing matter: when did the organizers of the children's transportation plan to pay the crew members the promised hundred dollars each? Would it happen here in Italy or upon their return to Russia?
  
   Before they could reach a consensus, a microbus pulled up by the stairs, and two men in light suits emerged from it. Four waiters followed, unloading containers of food from the minivan, all neatly packed on plastic trays.
  
   The senior officers from the headquarters climbed aboard the plane immediately after the catering staff. The waiters left the containers in the aircraft's galley and promptly departed in the microbus.
  
   The Vatican representative requested the crew list, counted the officers included in it, handed over dollars to Major Kuznetsov according to the count, and informed them that the return flight was authorized in six hours. In response to the crew's reasonable question about the reason for such a long delay, the representative of the Catholic Church provided a comprehensive explanation, which boiled down to the following,
  
   "The air corridor leading out of Italy passes over the Dolomite Alps. In the area near the village of Pradocio, at an altitude of ten thousand feet, there's an approach radio station where nearly a dozen air routes converge. This location is a hub, connecting all of Southeastern Europe with Northwestern Europe. Italy is permitted one aircraft departure per hour in this direction. Your return flight request was submitted immediately upon your arrival. You were queued up for passage through Pradocio. Confirmation came from Rome ten minutes ago - your departure is scheduled for eighteen hundred hours."
  
   After listening to Nikolaenko's translation, the crew commander thanked the organizers of the children's transportation for taking care of the crew. Once they had left, he distributed money to the colonels and pilots, and suggested that each of them find something to do for the next five hours.
  
  
   After quickly finishing the ravioli, Andrey Nikolaenko discreetly slipped out of the cabin and walked briskly towards the dispatch tower building. He spent no more than ten minutes there and soon returned to the aircraft, quite satisfied with his trip.
  
  
   Hardly had he taken off his Aeroflot jacket when a miniature "FIAT" stopped at the ramp, with its contours closely resembling the first model of the "LADA" car. Two Italians got out of the car.
  
   The crew watched the tanned guys curiously through the windows. Airport staff waved their hands invitingly, beckoning the Russian pilots outside. Kuznetsov roused the translator, who had just settled on the couch, and stepped out onto the ramp with him. Anticipating that something unusual was happening, General Artemov followed them.
  
   Seeing the Russians, the Italians began to wildly gesture, pointing to their wristwatches and pulling out money from their pockets. The pilot-in-command asked Nikolaenko,
  
   "Andrey, do they want to sell us their watches?"
  
   In anticipation that his smuggling operation was about to come to light, Nikolaenko turned pale. The presence of the head of the aviation political department, standing behind Major Kuznetsov, significantly reduced the translator's chances of retaining his freedom, let alone his rank and position.
  
   If the general suspects that I sold them a dozen watches, he will surely send me to trial, thought Andrey.
  
   The general lightly patted his shoulder and asked,
  
   "Why are you silent, lieutenant? Can't you understand what they want?"
  
   "They want to buy wristwatches from us, Comrade General, and they're offering twenty dollars each," replied Nikolaenko.
  
   Kuznetsov turned to the general and asked,
  
   "Should we send them away, Comrade General?"
  
   However, the head of the political department, Artemov, was already unfastening the leather strap of his watch.
  
   Seeing that the Russians were quite receptive to business, the Italians gained confidence and started asking to continue the business. They were particularly fond of Kuznetsov's "Commander" watch, but he, whether out of respect for the general or a principled refusal to engage in buying and selling, firmly declined the deal.
  
   The Italians haggled like in an Asian bazaar, and soon the price for Kuznetsov's watches doubled. The major was as resolute as the defenders of Stalingrad.
  
   When the pasta-loving men pronounced the number "sixty," the general's patience waned, and he said,
  
   "Aleksander, give me the watches, and on the next day after returning home, I will send you new 'Commander' watches from the central warehouse. I promise that they will be the latest model chronometers."
  
   Kuznetsov shrugged, unclasped the metal bracelet, and handed the watch to Artemov.
  
   Military property, issued to Major of the Russian Air Force from the storage facility, along with overalls, jackets, a navigator's bag, and twenty other items of flight gear, made its way into the pocket of the Italian, passing through the hands of the head of the political department.
  
   The appetite of these capitalist sharks became insatiable afterward. General Artemov eagerly climbed up the ramp into the aircraft and begged Ryabov and Afynogenov to lend him their watches. He assured both of them that he would return them immediately after returning to their home base.
  
   Leaving the translator by the ramp, Kuznetsov went up into the aircraft, entered the cockpit, and closed the door behind him.
  
   What a paradox, thought the crew commander, the head of the Political Department, a general, is selling Russian Federation military property to the employees of an airport in a provincial center of a NATO country, and I feel burning embarrassment for the actions of others. Spanish shame, not more, not less.
  
  
   Alexey Afynogenov, parting with his watch and inspired by the commercial success of his friend and General Artemov, picked up his bag with vodka and headed quickly towards the terminal building.
  
   As the automatic doors of the two-story building opened, two carabinieri were playing chess. One of them glanced at Alexey and returned to the game.
  
   The frame of the metal detector emitted an annoying squeal as Afynogenov passed through it. The red light flashed, beckoning the carabinieri's attention to this peculiar Russian. Alexey hesitated, stopping on the rubber mat by the X-ray machine, but the same carabinieri just waved him on.
  
   Move along, kid, Alexey read their gestures, and headed into the free world of the capitalist paradise. Neither his documents nor his tightly-packed briefcase seemed to interest the Italian border service.
  
   Having circled the entire terminal building, Alexey couldn't think of anyone he could sell the vodka to. Deeply disappointed with the business, he decided to return to the aircraft.
  
   However, he couldn't take the same route he used to enter the terminal building. The friendly carabinieri gestured that they were guarding the entrance from the apron side, while the exit to the aircraft was in a different location.
  
   Alexey crossed the hall with passenger check-in counters and approached a service exit. Here, he faced yet another unpleasant surprise.
  
   Armed with automatic assault rifles, the carabinieri not only demanded his documents but also strongly suggested that he show them the contents of his briefcase.
  
   Alexey couldn't allow this. Getting caught with Russian vodka in an Italian airport was not part of his plans. What could he say in his defense, and in what language? To explain himself to the Italian security personnel, he would have to send for a translator, and with him would undoubtedly come the crew commander and one of the representatives from the political department. After that, Alexey's time would be up.
  
   No, I'd better throw it somewhere under the fence than embarrass myself over fifty dollars, decided the failed smuggler.
  
   Deciding to part ways with vodka, he looked around for a suitable place to do so, and one thought after another raced through his mind,
  
   It's not possible to leave the whole briefcase in the building. The police, suspecting a bomb, would definitely call the bomb squad, and being cautious, they'd open it. Discovering its contents, they'd conduct an investigation and find the owner. That's me. I need to go outside through an unguarded exit into the city.
  
   In the airport parking lot, a dozen taxis awaited customers. The fact that they were all painted in bright yellow light didn't surprise Alexey.
  
   "Probably taxis are painted the same way all over the world," he thought.
  
   But the fact that every single one of the cars turned out to be a "Mercedes 190" was a surprise.
  
   "With us, such a car is an unattainable dream for a middle-class businessman. And here, every last taxi driver is cruising around in a 'Benz,'" lowering his head in contemplation, he walked towards the city alongside a wire fence.
  
   Why am I so unlucky? The co-pilot tormented himself with thoughts. I don't have a girlfriend, no prospects to become a crew commander, I can't even earn money properly, like Andrey did today. What did I do to deserve such bad luck? Unbeknownst to himself, Alexey reached the outskirts of Bologna. Automatically stopping at a red light at a pedestrian crossing, he realized where he was and got seriously scared.
  
   I've turned into a traitor to the homeland, he thought, all because of vodka? No, I won't stay here among the macaroni-eaters.
  
   Afynogenov turned around and hurried towards the airport. He hadn't run a hundred yards before he heard the sound of a car horn and the rustle of tires behind him. Alexey stopped and looked back.
  
   The curly-haired taxi driver rolled down the right window of his Mercedes and said something in his language.
  
   From the taxi driver's rapid speech, Alexey only caught one phrase,
  
   "Ragazzo, hai un problema?"
  
   Alexey didn't know the meaning of the word "Ragazzo', and it even seemed a little offensive to him. The words 'hai' and "un" also didn't tell him anything, but he clearly understood the word 'problema,' because in Russian that word sounds identical.
  
   The young man nodded enthusiastically and repeated that word several times, pointing to his heavy bag.
  
   The driver, carefully taking one bottle in his hands, looked questioningly at Alexey and uttered the international word, 'Vodka.'
  
   "Vodka, vodka," said Afynogenov and added, for some reason deciding that if he spoke with the Italian in Russian but with a German accent, he would be better understood. "Very good, Russian vodka."
  
   The taxi driver neatly placed all ten bottles on the back seat and counted out a hundred thousand Italian lire for Alexey. And even though Alexey didn't know the exchange rate of the lire to the dollar exactly, he didn't haggle.
  
   Hiding the money in the breast pocket of his shirt, he was about to exit the car, but the taxi driver started the engine and slowly rolled his 'Mercedes' towards the airport.
  
   Turns out, you just need to complain about fate a little, Afynogenov reflected on the way, and it immediately starts smiling at you.
  
   Having bid farewell to the driver, Alexey almost ran across the airport terminal waiting hall and triumphantly opened his empty briefcase in front of the carabinieri.
  
   The officer, without bothering to look inside the briefcase, told Afynogenov: 'Metti la tua valigia sul nastro.'"
  
   Realizing that the pilot didn't understand him, he gestured for Alexey to place the briefcase on the conveyor belt of the X-ray machine.
  
   After passing through the metal detector frame, Afynogenov grabbed his briefcase by and hurried to his airplane.
  
  
   Under the wing of the plane, there were already three 'Fiats' parked. Curly guys in the uniforms of airfield service workers surrounded the translator, urging him to sell them something else.
  
   Andrey lazily explained to them that they had already sold all of the crew's personal belongings, including electric razors.
  
   "Alexey, where's your vodka?" asked Nikolaenko, approaching the co-pilot.
  
   "Drank it," Alexey replied bitterly.
  
   "All of it?" the translator clarified skeptically.
  
   "You should've offered help earlier," Afynogenov replied and got on the plane.
  
  
   The officers, exhausted from the intense heat and abundant food, were asleep, lying across the passenger seats. There were still three hours until the return flight.
  
   The sharp smell of burnt kerosene entered the cabin, a few people expressed their opinions about the disturbers of peace, and life on the Russian airliner woke up again.
  
   Chief of the Russian Air Force combat training, Colonel Samorukov, woke up, stretched sweetly on the velour couch, wanting to check the time, looked at his left wrist and, not finding his watch there, furrowed his brows.
  
   After a second, he remembered that the resourceful general had sold them to the Italians. The colonel cursed good-naturedly but obscenely and stood up.
  
   "Who's the idiot who spoiled the air?" he asked, not specifically addressing anyone.
  
   "The Portuguese occupied the adjacent parking five minutes ago,'' Zimin answered, taking his eyes off the book.
  
   "What are you reading?" the colonel asked.
  
   "Memories of a Dead Pilot," the flight engineer replied.
  
   "Who wrote it?" Samorukov asked indifferently.
  
   "Judging by the plot and details, it was written by a pilot," Zimin answered. "But I won't tell you the surname; it was left on board by some passenger without a cover."
  
   "Who will come with me to visit the Portuguese plane?" Samorukov asked.
  
   "I will," Navigator Ryabov said and added, "Who will do the translating? Should we get Nikolaenko?"
  
   "No need. I studied English at the Air Force Academy and at the General Staff Academy. So, I can manage within aviation-related topics."
  
   "I'll gather some souvenirs for now, and I'll be ready in two minutes," the usually calm Ryabov hurried.
  
  
   On the Airbus" airstair, an uninvited guests were greeted by a friendly-smiling stewardess. She immediately started talking to the Russian officers in fluent English, and Samorukov realized he had clearly overestimated his language skills.
  
   From her welcoming speech, he could only translate two phrases: "Hi! How do you do?" and "Welcome on our board." It wasn't much, but they were key phrases and didn't threaten any trouble.
  
   So, Samorukov replied with a smile, "Good. Thank you very much," and, accompanied by the navigator, boarded the plane.
  
  
   Seated in the front passenger seat was a stocky man with broad shoulders and hairy, muscular arms. Bald patches were already visible on his closely cropped head, even though he couldn't have been older than thirty.
  
   The pilot was examining a flight map spread out on the pull-out table. Seeing the guests, he stood up to greet them and introduced himself as the "First Officer."
  
   "So young, and already a First Officer," Ryabov said aloud. "That's cool."
  
   "First Officer translates to co-pilot," Colonel explained to him.
  
   "Where is the Pilot-in-Command?" recalling a prisoner-of-war interrogation lesson from five years ago at the academy, the colonel asked, wanting to know where the crew commander had gone.
  
   The Portuguese pilot began explaining to the Russian navigator the reason for the absence of their commander. From his speech, the colonel only caught that the commander was with the dispatcher and would then head to the meteorological station for the weather bulletin.
  
   Briefly summarizing the pilot's explanations, the colonel asked Ryabov, "Eugene, why do you think I'm asking the Portuguese questions, but he's answering you?"
  
   "I think he's confused by the insignia on our epaulets. I have three gold stripes, which means I'm either a co-pilot or navigator of a large aircraft. You have only one stripe, and even though you look fifteen years older, he takes you for a steward."
  
   "You're right. Look at that, he's smiling," the colonel said, addressing the pilot, and then asked about his average monthly flight hours and salary.
  The Portuguese pilot shared that he flies around a hundred hours per month and earns sixty thousand dollars a year.
  
   The Portuguese pilot shared that he flies around a hundred hours per month and earns sixty thousand dollars a year.
  
   "It comes out to about fifty dollars per flight hour," commented Colonel-translator Ryabov. When the pilot asked about his earnings, the Russian navigator proudly pulled out a brand-new one hundred-dollar bill he received an hour ago, crunched it, and proudly told the Portuguese:
  
   "Kiev-Bologna, one hundred dollars."
  
   "In cash?" the Portuguese man asked, his eyes widening in surprise.
  
   "What?" Ryabov didn't understand him.
  
   "He's asking, 'in real money?'" Colonel Samorukov helped maintain the international conversation.
  
   "Yes, of course. In cash," the navigator affirmed.
  
   "This is wonderful," the Portuguese man exclaimed.
  
   "Why?" the Colonel asked curiously.
  
   "Because, if you have payment in cash, you never pay tax," the First officer of the Airbus smiled.
  
   The Colonel pondered this phrase, while Ryabov, filled with curiosity, asked him,
  
   "What did he say?"
  
   "I'm not entirely sure," the Colonel paused for a few seconds, then continued, "but I think he's saying that getting paid in cash is very good. You avoid taxes that way."
  
   "Tell him I don't pay them anyway," the navigator said.
  
   "No need. I won't be able to convey the reason why you don't pay taxes," Samorukov replied.
  
  
   The crew commander returned from the meteorological station. He was a complete contrast to his second officer. Taller, with narrow drooping shoulders and broad hips, the Airbus commander looked like a true English gentleman who had spent his entire life in an elite club by the fireplace, reading fresh newspapers. Though he was Portuguese, not English, his appearance matched his lifestyle.
  
   He shared this after introducing Ryabov and Samorukov to the cockpit. About the co-pilot, he only mentioned that having reached the rank of captain in the Portuguese Air Force, he voluntarily retired from military service after the mandatory ten-year contract for pilots expired, retrained in Amsterdam on the Airbus, and had been flying it for the past two years. He would continue flying as a first officer for at least until he turns forty-five. That's the age when First officers in European airlines become commanders.
  
   In response to Samorukov's question about how he became a crew commander, the effeminate pilot explained that he came from a wealthy family. His parents sent him to study in the United States thirty years ago, and upon his return, he was promptly employed at "Air Portugal."
  
   Handing over Soviet officer cap badges as souvenirs to the hospitable hosts, the Russian Air Force colonel invited the Portuguese aristocrat, his First officer, and all the stewardesses to visit the Russian plane in return.
  Before temporarily parting ways, the Portuguese commander asked Samorukov,
  
   "How many crew members do you have on board?"
  
   "Thirteen," replied the colonel.
  
   "What did he ask?" Eugene asked.
  
   "How many people are in our crew?" Samorukov translated for him.
  
  
   On their way to their own aircraft, Ryabov excitedly reminded the colonel about the Portuguese co-pilot's salary,
  
   "Five thousand dollars a month, you could go crazy with that kind of money."
  
   Samorukov only said in response,
  
   "I know a place where you can earn a thousand dollars for each flight. Someday I'll work there."
  
   "I know that place too," the navigator replied. "But they don't hire navigators there."
  
   "What place are you talking about, Eugene?" the head of combat training for Russian transport aviation inquired with doubt.
  
   "The Colombian city of Medellín," Ryabov answered and looked Samorukov in the eyes.
  
   The colonel merely smirked in response.
  
  
  
   Ten minutes after the 'reconnaissance patrol' returned from 'enemy territory,' representatives from a NATO member country boarded their aircraft.
  
   A week later, General Artemov described these visits in his report on the foreign business trip.
  
  
   But in Italy, everything looked quite different.
  
   Behind the two Portuguese pilots standing on the threshold of the cabin were eleven beautiful, slender, long-legged flight attendants. In their hands, the girls held large plastic bags with gifts for each crew member.
  
   On each bag was an image of an "Airbus A310," flying against the backdrop of Saturn. Perhaps the beauty of the rings of the distant planet inspired the artist for such a flight of thought. This question wasn't discussed during the historic meeting in Bologna.
  
   Major Kuznetsov suggested that the pilots inspect the cockpit, and he closed himself in there with them. Artemov and his political aides, having received gifts from the girls, left the plane and stood under the wing, rummaging through the bags with their hands. The remaining crew members and their inspecting officers from the staff, choosing their respective flight attendants, scattered for a tour of the aircraft.
  
   Ryabov remained sitting on the couch in the VIP lounge. A dark-skinned girl sat down next to him. He couldn't call her "African-American" because she had European facial features. The girl was very beautiful. Ryabov had never seen such a combination of tanned skin, a splendid figure, and refined manners.
  
   "What's your name?" the flight attendant asked in English.
  
   "Eugeeeene," Ryabov said, stretching out his response like a one-year-old calf.
  
   "Nice to meet you Eugene," she said in English.
  
   "What?" the navigator didn't understand.
  
   She looked at his trousers, taking on a tent-like shape, burst into laughter, and taking his hand, said,
  
   "Let's go with me."
  
   He still didn't understand anything, but didn't resist. They quickly descended the aircraft's stairs and just as swiftly disappeared into the Portuguese plane.
  
  
   Seeking shade under the wing of the "Tupolev-154," General Artemov said to his subordinates,
  
   "Don't include this episode in your reports under my name. I don't think he went there to sell out his homeland."
  
  
   As soon as Ryabov and his tanned companion entered the cabin, the girl pressed the airstair lift lever, and within a minute, they found themselves in the enclosed space among two hundred and fifteen seats. Now Eugene was no longer afraid of being misunderstood.
  
   He gripped the flight attendant's waist with his hands, lifted her off the floor, and placed her on a passenger seat. His hands touched her ankles and slowly slid up her legs. When they reached the hem of her short skirt, he lifted its edges with his thumbs, brought his head close to the girl's thighs, and pulled the skirt down over the back of his head.
  
   The flight attendant slightly spread her legs, bent them at the knees, leaned back against the seat, tilting her head back, and dug her nails into the navigator's epaulets. After a minute or two, she emitted a sound more reminiscent of a lioness's roar in the hot African savanna than a human scream in the aircraft cabin in the heart of Europe, after which she relaxed and slid down along the back of the seat.
  
   The navigator's turn had come. Eugene found himself in very skillful hands. He had never balanced on the brink of bliss and anticipation for so long. It seemed that just a little more and he would fly off to Saturn instead of the brand-new "Airbus," but the beauty delayed his departure and began the pleasant procedure of preparing for takeoff all over again. When Eugene's legs began to tremble from exhaustion, and he felt that he couldn't endure another procedure, he pressed the Portuguese girl's head where it was, and after a moment, he found himself on Saturn, or perhaps much farther.
  
   One thing Eugene knew for sure - he had never been this far before.
  
  
   Leaving the girl to rest in an "Airbus" seat, Ryabov returned to his beloved couch with an unsteady gait. Unfortunately, he couldn't lie down on it. Afynogenov was sitting right in the middle, hugging a charming brunette with one arm and waving the other in the air.
  
   "Practicing your lousy English?" Ryabov asked, sitting on the edge of the couch. "You'd better find a more suitable use for your tongue; maybe zits would decrease on your face."
  
   Usually, co-pilot silently endured the navigator's attacks, but not today. After landing in Bologna, luck had finally favored him, and he retorted to Ryabov,
  
   "From your worn-out appearance, I can see that you've found an excellent use for your tongue."
  
   How precisely Alex answered, leaving no room for a retort, the navigator smirked.
  
  
   While the flight crew mingled with the select girls of Portugal throughout the plane's nooks and crannies, in the cockpit, Kuznetsov fended off the tricky questions of foreign pilots.
  
   "One, two, three, four, five. Oh my God!" he recounted the crew seats and, turning his gaze from the sky to the ground, the narrow-shouldered aristocrat addressed his Portuguese deity and, with his eyes downcast, asked Kuznetsov, "What are all these crew members doing in the cockpit during the flight?"
  
   "One, two, three, four, five. Oh, my God! What are all these five crew members doing in the cockpit during the flight?" quickly translated Nikolaenko in a half-whispering tongue-twister.
  
   Kuznetsov pondered for a couple of seconds and replied,
  
   "Our airline doesn't operate regular flights to Bologna and doesn't have a ground service agreement with the Italians. So, we're compelled to carry technical personnel for all kinds of tasks. One engineer is responsible for engines and aircraft systems, another for avionics, a third for electrical equipment, plus two pilots. That makes it five people."
  
   "And what do you say about the other eight guys?" A sarcastic smile played on the face of the Airbus commander.
  
   Nikolaenko translated the question, but his facial expression showed that he was less and less pleased with this interrogation.
  
   "Ah, a good question," the commander paused, seeking the best answer, and then remembered how the stewards were listed in the flight log.
  
   "The remaining eight are stewards."
  
   "So old?" asked Nikolaenko skeptically, echoing the Portuguese.
  
   Kuznetsov tried to steer the conversation into a joke,
  
   "Older ones work better. They have fewer foolish ideas in their heads."
  
   The Portuguese smirked, but they weren't satisfied with the answer. They were persistent guests.
  
   "Why are all your stewards men?" the Portuguese asked.
  
   "Who are stewards and men?" Kuznetsov asked Nikolaenko.
  
   "Flight 'stewards' are stewardesses, and 'men' are males," Andrey rephrased the answer. "So, he wants to know why we only have male stewards on board and no females stewardesses."
  
   "Tell him it's for combating airborne terrorists," Kuznetsov replied.
  
  
   After the guests left, the Russian crew began preparing for the return flight. The commander, navigator, and translator headed to the building housing the dispatch service, the flight engineer went to inspect the aircraft systems, and the co-pilot took backgammon from the baggage shelf and settled opposite Colonel Samorukov.
  
   Twenty minutes later, the commander returned from the dispatcher with his entourage. Placing the meteorological bulletin and weather forecast on the table, he said,
  
   "Finally, I understand why these lazy Italians live so well and can afford themselves to play soccer for an hour and a half in the middle of the workday. Turns out they have six months of summer a year, and on top of that, every hot day ends with a heavy rain. They don't even need to water their fields since there will be a thunderstorm from six to eight in the evening anyway."
  
   "I don't get why you, Aleksander, decided to give us a lecture on the Italian economy?" Samorukov asked Kuznetsov.
  
   "That's my point, Comrade Colonel. Our departure is scheduled for eighteen hundred, and during that time, a powerful thunderstorm front will cover all of northern Italy. And after takeoff, we'll have to break through it."
  
   "Shift the departure by two hours," General Artemov said.
  
   "It's not possible, Comrade General. We won't make it back home by the end of our flight duty period," the navigator replied.
  
  " Flight duty period? What nonsense are you spouting? Who at home will ask you about that?" the general exclaimed.
  
   "Comrade General," Colonel Samorukov said quietly to Artemov, "stay out of this if you don't understand."
  
   "There's nothing to understand here," Artemov responded, ignoring the colonel's words, and turned to Kuznetsov. "You have the authority to decide on the departure. You're the crew commander. So, make the decision to take off after the storm and go ahead."
  
   "But for the departure, I need more than just permission from the Italians. I need confirmation of approval received through long-distance communication channels from Moscow. I know for sure that the aviation headquarters won't grant it under any circumstances," Kuznetsov replied.
  
   "How do you know what headquarters will say? They know that I'm on board with you, so they'll extend your flight duty period for you," Artemov insisted, clearly not understanding the discussion.
  
   Colonel Samorukov once again intervened on the commander's behalf,
  
   "General, the departure time refers to the flight crew's working hours from the moment of the first takeoff to the moment of the last landing. It's set at twelve hours. If we shift the departure by two hours, we won't fit within this limit. It would be a significant violation of flight regulations. It's a punishable offense. Nobody will go for that. So, we have only two options: stay overnight here or push through the storm and head north."
  
   "Let's stay," Colonel Prokofiev suggested.
  
   Artemov glanced at his deputy and whispered to him,
  
   "Have you gone mad in your old age? An overnight stay here will cost us a hundred dollars."
  
   "And what if we sleep in the plane?" Prokofiev whispered back.
  
   "Yes, that's a good point," the general said aloud. "What if we spend the night in the plane?"
  
   "At night, it will be cold here, and we don't have a single blanket. Moreover, the toilets were entirely filled by our young passengers. Waste tank cleaning isn't covered by the contract signed with the airport services," the flight engineer explained. "We'll have to use the terminal facilities for relief."
  
   "We can run to the terminal when nature calls," Colonel Maksimov suggested.
  
   "It won't work. If the Carabinieri find out that we stayed overnight on the plane, they will promptly suggest we spend the night behind bars in the local prison," Kuznetsov said.
  
   "Then let us fly," Samorukov made the decision.
  
   During the taxi of the Russian Tu-154 to the takeoff position, the air traffic controller clarified over the radio with Nikolaenko whether the crew had the actual weather bulletin on board the aircraft.
  
  
   The Italian, who had experienced quite a few unpleasant moments during the reception of the Russians at his airfield, wanted to convey to the guys that all normal people had been sipping Martini and Cinzano in cozy bars in Bologna for several hours. He tried to persuade them to stay, just like the Portuguese Airbus crew and three other crews from Northern Europe. He conveyed to the Russians that all aviation operations over Italy had come to a halt due to the anticipation of heavy rain.
  
   Perhaps you should think twice and stay in the tiny resort town, he mentally advised the desperate guys.
  
   Unfortunately, none of the pilots knew how to read other people's thoughts. And the four experts in human psychology from the political department of the aviation headquarters, led by General Artemov, although they were capable of doing so, did not know the Italian language.
  
   The plane began its takeoff, and General Artemov calmly fell asleep on the couch.
  
  
   "Holy Francis!" the air traffic controller exclaimed after the "Tupolev" disappeared from his close range radar. "They did take off after all."
  
   "May all the saints help them get home and fly back tomorrow," said the senior shift of air traffic controllers.
  
   "Tomorrow is my day off, and I plan to go to Rome to watch the football match between 'Roma' and Milan's 'Inter.' So, deal with them yourselves," the air traffic controller said with a satisfied look, swiveling in his leather chair.
  
   "Don't celebrate too early," the meteorologist said. "They have a contract for eight flights. We'll all have to see them again more than once."
  
  
  
  
  
  Thunderstorm
  
  
   Immediately after takeoff, Kuznetsov set a vertical climb rate of five thousand feet per minute.
  
   "Isn't that too steep?" Samorukov, standing behind him, asked.
  
   "According to the forecast, the front is located along the Ferrara-Parma line. That's forty miles north of here. At a flight speed of two-twenty knots, we'll be in that area in seven minutes. Seven minutes, multiplied by a vertical climb rate of five thousand feet per minute, and we get an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet. If we're lucky, we'll clear the storm from above and stay on our planned course line. If not, we'll have to detour over the Adriatic Sea."
  
   However, the thunderstorm had its say in Major Kuznetsov's mathematical calculations.
  
   Halfway between the departure airport and the predicted line of thunderstorm activity, intense turbulence began. Several times, the angle of attack indicator for the aircraft jumped into the red sector, and a warning sound blared in the crew's headsets, alerting them to the danger of a stall. Then, the voice alert calmly announced, "Critical angle of attack."
  
   "I can see that, without your help, idiot," Kuznetsov said, referring to the automated warning announcer, and he nearly halved the climb rate.
  
   The navigator, activating the aircraft's automatic control system, pressed his forehead against the rubber tube of the radar screen. He raised and lowered the radar dish with a small lever of the remote control, swiveling it left and right, but couldn't find a gap in the continuous electromagnetic field. The black voids against the bright green glow on the radar screen didn't bode well for the crew. When the plane entered the clouds, Ryabov made the decision to detour the thunderstorm to the East.
  
   "Commander," he said, "we won't be able to break through to the North. Let's change course to the East and try to circumvent the storm over the sea."
  
   "Nikolaenko, inform ground services about our deviation from the air route," Kuznetsov instructed.
  
   The on board translator contacted air traffic control and received permission to detour the storm at the discretion of the crew. Now, the entire responsibility for the flight's safety rested on the shoulders of the ship's commander, and the crew was left to face the elements alone.
  
   Turning the plane towards the Adriatic Sea, Major Kuznetsov turned to Samorukov and said,
  
   "Comrade Colonel, go to the cabin and fasten your seatbelt."
  
   Samorukov didn't argue with Kuznetsov. He exited the cockpit, took a seat, and securely fastened his seatbelt. Seeing this, the staff officers followed suit. They didn't wake up General Artemov, who was sleeping on the couch.
  
   Ryabov told Kuznetsov, never taking his eyes off the thunderstorm's flashes,
  
   "Aleksander, disable the autopilot and switch to manual control."
  
   "Is it that bad?" Kuznetsov asked while complying with the navigator's request.
  
   "'Bad' doesn't describe it. It's terrible," Yevgeny replied without pause and gave the command, "Right, ten."
  
   Five seconds later, he spoke rapidly,
  
   "Plus ten to the right. Increase climb speed. Another twenty to the right, damn it!"
  
   The plane, caught in a powerful updraft, exceeded the critical angle of attack, entered a stall, and began a rapid descent.
  
  
  
   Operator of the radar station on the American nuclear aircraft carrier "Carl Vinson," Sailor Michael Corky, reported to the duty officer,
  
   "Sir, the Russian passenger plane has left its air route and is approaching us at a speed of six hundred knots and an altitude of twenty-four thousand feet."
  
   Lieutenant (Navy) Gilmore reported this to the aircraft carrier commander.
  
   A combat alert was immediately declared on the ship.
  
   Two fighter pilots from the standby team hastily left their billiard cues on the table with colorful billiard balls, grabbed their lightweight and durable fibreglass helmets on the go, and rushed out of the recreation room.
  
   Two F-18 "Hornet" awaited them on the deck. The ground crew removed plastic covers from the engine air intakes, took off leather covers from the six-barrel "Vulcan" cannon and "Sparrow" air-to-air missiles.
  
   When the duty operator, Corky, reported that the Russians were rapidly losing altitude.
  
   The aircraft carrier commander, Captain (Navy) Gregory Whitman, looked questioningly at Rear Admiral Lower Half John Power, commander of the expeditionary strike group of the Sixth Fleet, standing next to him.
  
   Without waiting for an answer to his silent question, the former Navy pilot took the microphone of the public address system and gave the command,
  
   "End of the combat alert. Readiness number one for the emergency rescue team is declared."
  
   The fighter pilots unfastened their parachute harnesses with relief in their cockpits, while the cargo lifts slowly raised two "Sea King" helicopters to the upper deck.
  
   The blue letters "NAVY" adorned the gray sides of both rotary-wing aircraft. The rotor blades of the helicopters were folded alongside their long tails, resembling the ears of a giant rabbit.
  
  
   The crew of the "Tu-154" knew none of this. They were rapidly approaching the sea surface.
  
   Aleksander turned the yoke all the way to the right and, pulling control column towards himself, froze, awaiting the plane's response to his command.
  
   Afynogenov folded his hands on his knees and quietly said,
  
   "So this is how I'm going to die. All for some stinking hundred bucks."
  
   The flight engineer put the control levers of all three engines into takeoff mode and gripped the armrests of his chair with both hands.
  
   Nikolaenko switched the radio to the international emergency frequency, 121.5 megahertz, and shouted,
  
   "Mayday, Mayday."
  
   "Shut up, you moron. Who gave you the command to go on the air and ask for help?" Kuznetsov asked him.
  
   "But we're falling, Commander. We'll crash," whined Nikolaenko.
  
   "If we crash, no one will help us. That's first. And second, we're falling nose down, which means we're gaining speed, and soon the plane will become controllable again. Look, we've already leveled out, no banking anymore," he straightened the yoke, "and we're hardly falling now, just descending slightly. The vertical speed indicator has been showing a climb for a while. True, the altimeter still shows a descent. But that's not a problem; we have fifteen thousand feet of altitude in reserve."
  
   "But was twenty-four," the translator said plaintively.
  
  
   Samorukov entered the cockpit. Glancing at the altimeter, he said,
  
   "Our staff guys got so scared that they won't fly to Italy with you anymore. They all look pale as if they've seen death."
  
   "What about you?" Kuznetsov asked without turning.
  
   "I'm with you until the end of the mission," Samorukov replied. "By the way, no one woke the general up, so while we were falling, he was hanging from the ceiling, waving his hands helplessly. And when you corrected the roll, he fell to the floor between the table and the couch. Unfortunately, he didn't make it back to the couch."
  
   "To his dismay," he added in a half-whisper after a brief pause.
  
  
   Navigating between isolated thunderstorm cells, the aircraft rapidly gained altitude and finally broke through the clouds, reaching its practical ceiling of forty-four thousand feet.
  
   Kuznetsov leveled the aircraft into horizontal flight and looked with admiration at the daytime but intensely blue sky. Aleksander had never flown this high before.
  
   "Eugene, where are we?" he asked the navigator.
  
   "I have no idea," he replied.
  
   "I understand," said the crew commander. "You know, I think that if we head east, no matter where we are right now, we will fly toward Ukraine."
  
   "A smart decision," Samorukov commented.
  
  
   As soon as Kuznetsov banked the plane, a well-articulated English voice came over the headphones,
  
   "Eighty-Five, Seven, Seven, Five, are you over the top of the clouds?"
  
   "Yes, we are over the top," Nikolaenko replied.
  
   "Translator, what were we asked?" the commander's voice had metallic undertones.
  
   "They asked if we were above the clouds, and I replied 'Yes.'"
  
   "When we return, I'll reprimand you for this," the commander said quietly.
  
   "For what?" the translator asked in surprise.
  
   "For the fact that you keep forgetting that you're just the mediator between me and the dispatcher, and you have no right to answer questions at your discretion," Kuznetsov replied.
  
   "Eighty-Five, Seven, Seven, Five, turn to the left on heading three, four, five," the dispatcher issued a new command.
  
   "Roger," the translator responded to the air traffic controller and said over the intercom, "Earth demands that we turn to a heading of three hundred forty-five degrees."
  
   "I, for one, will turn the plane to three hundred forty-five," Kuznetsov replied, losing his patience. "But you keep surprising me. Well, please tell me, who is this 'Earth'? Is that what they call the dispatch service now? Or are you still in shock? Ask your 'Earth' under whose command we are."
  
  
   Nikolaenko spoke with the flight supervisor and provided the ship's commander with comprehensive information.
  
   "So, Commander," Andrey took a sheet of paper from the table and began to read. "Currently, we are over Croatian territory. Below us, there is intense fighting going on. Therefore, the flight supervisor of the American aircraft carrier 'Carl Vinson' strongly recommends that we leave Yugoslavian airspace and enter the international route near the Italian city of Udine."
  
   "Why didn't he assist us in choosing the correct course earlier?" the navigator asked the translator.
  
   "The American said he had been monitoring us since we were over the sea. When he saw on radar that we were losing altitude, he declared an emergency alert for the rescue helicopters," Andrey replied.
  
   "I see, and he didn't intervene in our actions because he was afraid of making the situation even more complicated with his commands," Kuznetsov said, speaking more to himself than to his comrades.
  
   "Don't idealize the enemy," Samorukov advised. "Maybe he was just waiting for us to fall so he could rejoice in someone else's misfortune."
  
   Afynogenov, who had been listening attentively to the discussion of the emergency situation by his senior comrades, thought that the colonel was clearly judging people based on his own standards.
  
  
   Once within the air traffic route, the crew restored a working atmosphere in the cockpit and safely returned to Ukraine for the next group of children.
  
  
   After landing and escorting the officers from the higher headquarters to their hotel, the pilots retreated to the aircraft's VIP cabin, each enjoying a bottle of Portuguese port wine gifted by the charming flight attendants.
  
   The stress was lifted. Everything seemed to have returned to normal.
  
   However, persistent thoughts about the unjust treatment of nature, and perhaps even of the Almighty, towards his people plagued the mind of the co-pilot, who was a representative of that very folks.
   Why, thought First Lieutenant Alexey Afynogenov, is it eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit in Italy on September 30, seventy-seven degrees in Vienna and Bratislava, which I passed over twice on this long day, and even as low as seventy-three in godforsaken Kosice? Yet, on the eastern side of the Carpathian Mountains, where my homeland lies, it's only fifty degrees, and nearly the entire territory of the former Soviet Union is experiencing rain?
 Ваша оценка:
Связаться с программистом сайта.

Новые книги авторов СИ, вышедшие из печати:
О.Болдырева "Крадуш. Чужие души" М.Николаев "Вторжение на Землю"

Как попасть в этoт список

Кожевенное мастерство | Сайт "Художники" | Доска об'явлений "Книги"