single light backward tug on the stick. Too much and the computer-controlled hydraulic stall limiter would knock the stick forward; too little and the pitch-down might delay airspeed dangerously so close to the runway.
I carefully printed his instructions in the exact sequence he gave them on a clean page of my personal flight log.
“This is not a major problem,” Orlov assured me. “In fact, many of the test pilots ran multiple takeoffs before they ever detected the pitch-down.” He smiled. “But I know you young fighter jockeys like to look good on your first takeoff with a new aircraft.”
I grinned back at the famous test pilot. Suddenly it occurred to me that he had perhaps the best job in the world. He traveled widely in the Soviet Union, demonstrating new aircraft and tactics at combat regiments like mine. And Orlov and his fellow Mikoyan test pilots also spent part of each year at air shows in the West. Since leaving Armavir I had been able to indulge some of my insatiable hunger for travel, but I knew visiting the West was not an option open to me.
Almost three years before, when I had first come to Tskhakaya from the academy, Lieutenant Colonel Trubinin, the deputy regiment commander, had flown with me on several check rides. Apparently he had been impressed by my control of the aircraft and by my habit of careful note-taking.
“Lieutenant Zuyev,” he had told me, after we had debriefed on the last check ride, “you should seriously consider applying for test pilot school. That’s a good career move for a pilot.”
At the time, I was much more concerned about becoming a pilot Second Class than a test pilot and had only made preliminary inquiries. But now, sitting here with Boris Orlov, about to solo in a MiG-29 without benefit of simulator or dual-cockpit instruction, the option of one day becoming a test pilot was definitely on my mind. These model 9-12 MiG-29s were the first production aircraft, the “A” model that would equip fourteen regiments. Already, I knew, the Mikoyan OKB and the VVS had plans for a steady, evolutionary modification program on the MiG-29s, one that would lead to a fly-by-wire flight-control system and a cathode-ray-tube “glass cockpit” instrument array, as soon as computers immune to the electromagnetic pulse of nuclear blasts were developed. And an entire new generation of air-combat missiles beyond the Alamo and R-73 was already in development.
In other words, the Air Force would definitely need a new generation of young test pilots for this ambitious MiG-29 modification program. There was no reason why I couldn’t be one of them.
And showing Boris Orlov my professional skill was a good place to start.
I recited the response sequence to the aerodynamic aberration he had mentioned. “I am prepared for my flight, Boris Antonovich,” I said, standing up.
He rose slowly and smiled again. “Have fun,” he said.
I silently reviewed my takeoff checklist, making sure the caution and warning panel showed no red lights, that the canopy was closed and locked, and that my twin-engine RPM needles were stable and matched at seventy percent, “GI,” ground idle. My right hand touched the three lock points on my ejection seat harness and I breathed deeply twice to verify the flow gauge of my oxygen mask. I knew that all the pilots in my squadron were out there on the apron watching. There was no sense waiting. I slid the throttles full open to military power and counted to ten waiting for the engines to stabilize thrust RPM.
Then the fingers of my right hand tripped the brake lever on the stick and the wide runway began to slide past my canopy. I sagged into the seat with the even acceleration. The thrust was so even that the aircraft stayed glued in the center of the takeoff lane without any control input whatsoever.
Eight seconds after brake release, my airspeed passed 124 knots and I gently rotated the nose. The main gear lifted at exactly 150. A soft tug on the stick kept my nose at the proper climb angle.
With the fighter aerodynamically clean, both the altimeter and the rate-of-climb dials spun as if in a fast- forward video. I wanted to level off smoothly at 3,000 feet, without chopping power too quickly and going through an ugly porpoise bounce. As Orlov had briefed me, I simultaneously slid the throttles back to seventy-eight percent while easing the stick forward. The airplane responded with an even precision I had never known before. But I still popped through 3,000 feet and had to shove the nose down hard to level off at the proper altitude.
“Shit,” I whispered.
This first flight was a simple double krug around the runway circuit, out to the nearby maneuver range north of the city, then back to the ILS beacon marking the glide path to Runway 09. As I set up for the long final approach, I was again conscious of the plane’s precise balance and control. I slid the throttle back to eighty percent and tripped the flap button to landing. The aircraft settled into a steady sink rate. The landing flare and touchdown were easier and softer than any I had ever experienced.
I was grinning inside my oxygen mask as I gently squeezed the brake lever and turned toward the taxi ramp. This was a fighter pilot’s airplane.
A week later the regimental zampolit and Lieutenant Colonel Torbov held a ceremony for the first group of pilots to fly their solos on the MiG-29. Even though this was the expected pokazuka, we were all proud of our achievement. Our certificates were photocopies of the originals that had been ceremoniously mailed to the XXVIIth Session of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, “dedicating” our labor to their greater endeavor. Under a bold headline, “For Our Soviet Motherland!” the certificate pictured a stylized MiG-29, “Fourth Generation Aircraft,” beside a rather whimsical drawing of an old first-generation prop fighter. We were, the message noted, “carrying on the proud traditions of a Red Banner combat unit” of the Great Patriotic War. My photo, a rather ugly mug shot, was pasted in the right-hand corner, above the cheerful message “Clear Sky and Soft Landings.”
We were all so excited about flying the new aircraft that no one managed to slip in any whispered sarcasm at the blatant and sickening propagandistic language of the certificates as we lined up to face the zampolit’s camera.
CHAPTER 8
Mary and Akhtubinsk
1985-87
The flying weather was good for most of the summer and autumn. Every week ferry pilots delivered new MiG-29s to our regiment. The beautiful gray aircrafts remained an exciting novelty for most of the summer. Each ferry flight from the factory at Lukhovitsi drew soldiers and pilots outdoors to watch the fighters come in.
Our transition program was structured to move smoothly and rapidly toward mastery of the aircraft. The pilot had to successfully complete forty-six flights, beginning with simple krug oval circuits of the base area to make sure he understood all basic systems and procedures, and leading on through increasingly higher performance missions, first dogfights and ground attacks, then onto night and poor-visibility flying with ILS landings.
According to this schedule, all the regiment’s First Class pilots were to be combat qualified on the MiG-29 within five months. No later than seven months after we received our first aircraft, the entire regiment was scheduled to take its unit combat proficiency test at the VVS evaluation center at Mary in the Kara Kum Desert in the Turkmen Republic. We were the third fighter regiment to receive the MiG-29, and would be undergoing the demanding Mary center process after the Guards regiment from Kubinka and the Ros regiment from Ros in the Ukraine. They were certainly our greatest rivals, especially the “Royal” regiment from Kubinka Air Base outside Moscow, where all the Party bosses were taken to be shown the latest Soviet military achievements.
After a few orientation flights, I found myself advancing rapidly up the ladder of this transition program. The MiG-29 permitted skilled pilots to easily fly with the kind of precision required in modern air combat or ground attack. I did not have to worry about the plane remaining stable as I progressed through increasingly higher performance maneuvers. Flying loops, highspeed barrel rolls, and split-S dives was a real pleasure.
And the plane was so forgiving that even a timid, sloppy pilot could perform basic maneuvers with responsible precision. But I also realized that only a highly qualified fighter pilot could push the MiG-29 to its true potential. In effect, this fighter was going to sort out the natural pilots from the fellows who had to sweat through every combat turn, gritting their teeth and hoping that somehow they would get it right.
Although I was absorbed in flying each training sortie that autumn, the issue of my future as a military pilot became increasingly important. For several years I had been unofficially exploring the possibility of becoming a military test pilot.
Test pilots probably had the most interesting assignments in the Air Force. And they usually were stationed
