quickly to keep it from falling on the floor. “Is this true, Zuyev?”
I studied Colonel Ivanov’s message, which bore a boldly inscribed subsection: “List of Charges.” He had requested formal court-martial proceedings against me, and both higher headquarters here in Georgia had endorsed this request. Antonovich’s hands were tied. Reprimands would no longer suffice. He had no choice but to convene an officers’ court to try me.
The first charge was preposterous. According to Ivanov, I had “expressed contempt for the democratic election process,” by refusing to vote, which was proof of my “political unreliability.” At the very least, such an accusation would cause my dismissal from the Party. At this point, I could not have cared less.
The second charge stated that I had “feigned an illness” to obtain a military discharge and pension under fraudulent terms. This was a criminal offense. Ivanov, of course, ignored the fact that I had specifically not requested a pension.
The third charge stipulated that I had violated direct orders by repeatedly going into the city of Moscow without permission. This was chronic insubordination, grounds for my demotion to the lowest commissioned rank, lieutenant.
Finally Ivanov officially requested a formal military investigation in this district’s jurisdiction, “leading to appropriate punishment.”
“Well?” Antonovich said impatiently. “What about it?”
“It’s all shit, and nothing more.”
Antonovich shook his head. “That may be so, Sasha. But this regiment has to shovel your shit. And there will be an officers’ court.”
I returned his angry glare. “Like there was for Major Matushkin?”
Antonovich winced but remained silent. We both knew that the persecution of a loyal officer like Matushkin was a scandal, a desperate sacrifice to preserve the shaky authority of a parasite like Colonel Prozukhin.
“Don’t you think it was a mistake to have grounded First Class pilots like me and Matushkin with the regiment preparing to go back to Mary?”
I was speaking freely because I certainly had nothing to lose. Besides, I liked and respected Antonovich and wanted him to understand this corrupt system as I did. What kind of military “justice” was it that drove the best pilots from the Air Force?
“I’ll worry about this regiment’s combat proficiency, Zuyev. You worry about writing a proper explanation to these charges.”
Antonovich glanced at a note in my file. “I have assigned Captain Igor Novogilov to prosecute in the officers’ court. You will follow his instructions.”
Igor was my Armavir classmate and a good friend. Obviously Antonovich knew this and was hoping the matter would not end with criminal punishment.
“Thank you,” I said, my tone softer.
“That’s all,” Antonovich said, taking back the report.
I couldn’t let things end here. “Anatoli Ignatich,” I said. “We’ve known each other long enough to trust each other. You should understand what happened in Moscow.”
By regulation, Antonovich, who would be the president of the officers’ court, should not have listened to my story in this informal setting with no witnesses present. But he was too good an officer and a friend to send me away.
I picked up Ivanov’s report again. For the next twenty minutes I refuted his charges point by point. The only area I neglected was the actual circumstances of my “illness” during my final flight on February 13. Being too honest about this would put Antonovich in an awkward position. His face flushed, and he shook his head bitterly when I explained the true facts of the “democratic” process for the election of candidates for the Congress of People’s Deputies. When I detailed the hospital’s cover-up of the AIDS scandal, Antonovich clenched his fists but remained silent.
“And Ivanov is a wealthy man, Anatoli Ignatich,” I finally added. “I am convinced that he abused his influential position. If my accusations triggered an investigation, he’d be ruined. That is why he has to crush me.”
Finally Antonovich spoke. “Perhaps. For certain, you were stupid to challenge someone like that.”
I shook my head sadly. “So we just have to accept the authority of people like that? The corruption has reached the point where the entire government is a criminal gang,” I said bitterly. “They’ll destroy anyone who challenges them. Before they had the gulag. Now…” I fell silent. The terrible events in Tbilisi were still too fresh in our minds to bring to this conversation. “Anatoli Ignatich,” I finally asked, one pilot to another, “don’t you know the history of our country?”
“I know all this better than you can ever realize,” he replied, his voice weary.
I had not expected such a frank answer. “Then don’t you realize that all of us wearing this uniform actually do not defend our people? We defend that criminal gang from the people.”
The silence swelled between us. Defending the people of the Rodina was as much a foundation of faith to Antonovich as belief in the Socialism of Lenin was to my mother.
Antonovich returned the report to my file and slammed shut the cover. “Sasha, I know you,” he said softly. “One way or another, you’ll find a way to leave the Air Force. But if all the young officers like you are gone, who’s going to make changes here in the military?”
“I can try my best in civilian life. I can write articles. I can…” I stopped. It was not easy to lie to a friend. I had no intention of trying to reform the Soviet military. I did intend to attack it, to strike a blow of vengeance that would be noted around the world.
“And I, Sasha,” Antonovich said, “will stay here doing my duty. Conditions will improve. Not for me certainly. Maybe not for my children, either. But their children will have a better life.”
Antonovich was like many talented young senior Air Force officers. He firmly believed reform was possible.
“Anatoli Ignatich,” I replied, “my grandparents told my parents the same thing.”
He looked away, out his office window at the distant line of sleek gray fighters on the parking aprons.
“Dismissed, Captain,” was all he said.
With the regiment so busy preparing for the next big combat test at Mary, scheduling my trial was not a high priority.
Even better, Antonovich assigned me as the regiment’s controller of flight operations, the “boss” who supervised the control tower dispatchers, the duty-alert section, and coordinated our flying schedule with other units and the PVO missile batteries in the region. This assignment included rotating, day-on, day-off, as the regimental duty-alert officer, which meant I had an official reason to be on the flight line, day or night, for the indefinite future.
Now that I had said goodbye to my family and knew I had at least a month to prepare, I set about seriously planning my “operation.” This task would be much more complicated than anything I had ever done. If the plan succeeded, I would live. If it failed, I would die. That was a strong incentive for success.
As I concentrated on the practical details, the solutions to the problems came slowly, one answer colliding with the next, like the tumblers in a combination lock slowly but inexorably falling into place.
The first question I had to answer was exactly where I planned to fly the hijacked fighter. But answering that relatively simple question actually led to several more complex problems. I had already decided on Turkey because it was one of only three countries — Israel and Chile were the other two — that had not signed international aviation treaties, which guaranteed to return hijackers.
After completing a training exercise the year before, I had kept several tactical aviation charts that included Turkish airspace. Now I studied those charts late at night in my kitchen, my apartment door double-locked. I had marked headings and flying times to several potential NATO targets. Unfortunately the big air base at Incirlik in the south of the Anatolian peninsula was out of range. If I could only land there, I would fall literally into the hands of the American Air Force, without having to depend on Turkish intermediaries.
And I realized that, whatever my destination, I would have to fly low, right down on the deck, below radar detection, where fuel consumption was maximum. And I would have to fly fast, at least until I was well clear of
