benches, some grinning broadly, others wary. A friend of mine, Roman Kravchuk, a dissatisfied senior lieutenant, actually bellowed loudly with pleasure.
“Enough of this shit,” he yelled. “This time next year, I’ll be running my own electrical shop.”
Colonel Prozukhin scowled at the young pilot. But in the sauna, everyone was allowed to speak his mind without direct recrimination. And Roman Kravchuk had clearly voiced the feelings of many of us. Gorbachev’s announcement had come like a reprieve to condemned men. The younger lieutenants and captains who had not yet invested their most vital decades in the Air Force obviously wanted out. Glasnost had shown us another life could exist; perestroika, although halfhearted and deeply flawed, had revealed that we could live independent of the rigid Communist economy.
When the whoops and bellows stopped echoing, Colonel Prozukhin got to his feet and adjusted his thick white towel. “Maybe Gorbachev thinks this is a good idea,” he said in his best political-lecture voice. “But he’ll lose the support of the Army, that’s for sure. And one day, if all this glasnost continues, he’ll need the Army to defend him from the masses.”
As the other young officers toasted their future with brimming beer glasses, I sat alone in the corner, thinking soberly.
Obviously the Air Force would not allow all those who wanted to resign to do so. The VVS would lose their rank-and-file pilots in the process. But the force reduction would certainly present the opportunity for those with medical problems to resign.
Amid the steamy laughter and clamor of the banya, a plan was forming in my mind. Perhaps a pilot disabled in the course of a high-performance training flight would be granted a medical discharge. That would be my exit, my escape hatch to freedom.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 11
Central Aviation Hospital, Moscow
March 21 — April 6, 1989
The late morning sun dimmed as the thick, rolled cloud bank of a sudden spring cold front swept across the city. Lieutenant Colonel Frolov’s office grew dark, and he switched on his brass desk lamp. I had been talking for over two hours, but had almost completed my story. For the past ten minutes I had been treading a minefield. I had to lie to an experienced and highly skilled psychologist. But if I had risked admitting the truth — that I had faked the mysterious, disabling affliction on that last training flight in February — I would have confessed to a serious criminal offense.
Instead, I had emphasized the corrosive physical effect of the months of stress that had sprung from the conflict of my marriage and the bitter anxiety over my mother’s unjust treatment in Samara. I was trying to present Frolov with rational reasons to recommend my medical discharge. But this, too, was tricky ground. By implying I had been pressured into an unsuitable marriage with the daughter of a senior Air Force officer, I was criticizing honored Air Force traditions. By raising the specter of my mother’s unjust psychiatric persecution by “the Mafia,” a corrupt cabal that had to include both Party and KGB officials, I was involving Frolov in serious matters that went far beyond VVS personnel policy. My hope was he would want to quickly dissociate from this mess, and the easiest way to do so would be to recommend my quiet medical discharge.
When I finally finished speaking, I handed the psychologist a shiny photocopy of the official request for discharge, which I had formally presented Lieutenant Colonel Antonovich the week after my last training flight.
To: Commander, 176th Frontal Aviation Regiment
I hereby request a discharge from the ranks of the VVS due to my physical condition, and to the fact that I am not willing to continue service on the ground.
Frolov sighed as he fingered the photocopy. He seemed to be fascinated by my signature, as if he were examining an important piece of criminal evidence.
“Has this request gone forward through proper channels, Captain?”
“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel,” I replied earnestly. Maybe if he thought the process was already well along, he would endorse it.
Again Frolov sighed, drumming his long pale fingers on the copy. “Captain Zuyev,” he said softly after a long pause, “your ‘physical condition’ does not warrant a discharge. It’s unfortunate that you submitted such a request.”
“But, Comrade Colonel,” I tried to reason, “I can no longer fly fighters. The regulations are clear. When a pilot is disabled in the cockpit, he is permanently grounded.”
Frolov nodded decisively and began gathering together the documents that made up my thick personnel file. “Exactly. And I concur. Given your somatic reaction to stress, you are no longer suited for active flying duty in a Frontal Aviation unit. As you put it, Alexander Mikhailovich, you are indeed grounded.” We stared at each other in the dim office. “Permanently,” Frolov added for emphasis. For a moment I thought he was going to help me. Then a cold, sour clot formed below my throat as I realized the full meaning of his words. I was officially unfit to fly, but still medically qualified for ground duty. My emotional state and my bitterness toward the Soviet system were not grounds for a medical discharge.
I caught a glimpse of a document from my file that I had not seen before, the flimsy blue record copy permanently removing me from flight status. It had already been signed by my case physician, Lieutenant Colonel Merkulov. Now Frolov cosigned the document, writing carefully with a gold East German fountain pen.
“I am sorry about this, Alexander Mikhailovich,” he said, screwing the cap back on his pen. “But the matter is out of my hands. You yourself set this process in motion.”
Frolov did not go so far as to accuse me of faking illness during my last training flight. But he emphasized that my requesting a medical discharge had provoked the permanent grounding order. There could be no appeal of the order, once the hospital’s full medical-personnel board met to review it later in the month. Officially I was still healthy enough to serve, but unfit for flight duty.
“Lieutenant Colonel Frolov,” I said, “perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. I do not wish to serve as a military officer defending a system I can no longer believe in.”
This was, indeed, dangerous ground. Frolov quickly stacked my records, closed the pale green pasteboard file records, and tied the ribbon, as if washing his hands of the unpleasant and sensitive matter.
“Captain Zuyev,” he said sincerely, “you are obviously under considerable stress. Have you taken the medication I prescribed?”
“Yes,” I lied. The bottle was unopened in the drawer of my bedside table upstairs in the ward.
“Good. That should help relieve your discomfort.”
He shifted the thick file to the corner of his desk, a sign that our long consultation was over.
“I cannot serve as a ground officer, married to that girl, Comrade Colonel.”
Frolov nodded sympathetically. “I agree. Get a divorce. It is not the end of the world. Obviously you married for the wrong reasons, and she is not the type of woman you need. Your life will be much better when you’re free of this marriage.”
“Comrade Colonel' — I tried to keep my voice even, one reasonable officer appealing to another — “we know the force reductions are about to begin. I can no longer fly. Why can’t I be one of the Air Force officers discharged?”
“You would lose your pension, Captain.” Frolov seemed astonished that I would risk the “generosity” of the State by seeking a discharge before my full twenty-five years’ service.
