shadows. But after a while, the old man opened the door and came ahead cautiously to stand near my left wing.
I smiled. Then waved him toward me, trying to gesture that I needed a ladder. He came closer. I saw the white stubble on his cheeks. I realized he was a watchman. This was my first contact with authority in Turkey. I had planned carefully for this moment. I wanted the news of my arrival to reach the Americans as quickly as possible.
“American,” I shouted, following my careful plan to this final step. I tapped my chest and called once more in the English words I had painfully memorized from my dictionary. “I am American.”
The old man’s eyes had been focused on the huge red stars on my twin rudders. Now he smiled.
EPILOGUE
Ankara, Turkey,
17 June 1989, 0920 hours
The convoy of vehicles pulled smoothly to a stop on this narrow country road. Beside us, the fields of ripe wheat moved in the breeze. The morning was still cool, but the summer sun of Anatolia was climbing in the brassy sky. Three miles to the west, Ankara’s international airport rumbled with jet traffic. The security officers from the Turkish Ministry of Defense, however, had done well in selecting this rendezvous. There were no houses in sight, no cars, or even farm tractors.
I climbed out of the armored van and stood in the sun, waiting. Muscular young guards in gray suits piled from the other vehicles, brandishing Uzi submachine guns. We were waiting for a similar convoy from the American embassy.
I had been in Turkey almost a month. And those four weeks had been eventful. The first hours in Trabzon, the Turks had treated me with great kindness and professional skill. I had been taken from the airport to a hospital, where my wounds were treated. Luckily the bullet from Chomayev’s AKM had caused no permanent damage, entering my upper right biceps, plowing through the muscle to exit from the thick flesh behind my armpit. An X ray revealed the bullet had not touched bone or important ligaments. I was given my own cheerful room and guarded around the clock by soldiers with automatic rifles. That first afternoon a Russian-speaking teacher was brought in to serve as translator. Through him I made my formal request for political asylum and asked that the Turks contact the Americans.
Within hours the chief of staff of the Turkish Air Force arrived with a delegation of officers. These officers told me it was vital that I write the request for asylum in my own hand. But my right hand was still numb, my arm in a sling. So I clumsily printed my formal request, using my left hand. The Turkish Air Force officers were concerned about the safing procedures for my plane’s weapons and ejection seat. It was hard to explain where the seat’s safety pins were because I had hastily dropped them on the cockpit deck. But after a while, the officers seemed satisfied. Before they left, they patted me on the back and we all posed for pictures together. They assured me I would receive asylum.
The next day I heard the rumble of a heavy jet landing at the nearby airport. My translator explained that a Soviet delegation had arrived from Tskhakaya to reclaim the MiG-29. Over the next confused hours, I was able to piece together what had happened. More bad luck. Although I had no way of knowing, the day I hijacked the fighter, a high-level Turkish military delegation, led by their chief of staff, was on an official visit to Moscow, guests of Defense Minister Marshal Yazov. As soon as the news was flashed to the Kremlin, Yazov personally extracted a solemn promise from the Turkish generals that their government would return the fighter.
The Soviet authorities also pressured the Turks for my extradition back to Georgia. Their demand was based on the claim that I was a common criminal, not a defector seeking political asylum. But again, glasnost ironically dominated the situation. In the past the Defense Ministry would have blatantly stated that I had murdered the apron guard, making me an obvious candidate for extradition. But with the new policy of openness, the authorities had been forced to reveal details about the escape that they would have hidden in the past. Corporal Chomayev had, in fact, been interviewed on Soviet television, a broadcast seen in Turkey. He was obviously not dead. And he gave an accurate account of our desperate fight on the parking apron. From this interview it was clear that I had acted in self-defense when I shot him.
His statement, combined with my own wound, bolstered my self-defense appeal against extradition. The Turks asked me to write a complete account of my escape. They assured me that this statement would provide the evidence needed to deny the Soviet government’s extradition request, scheduled to be considered at a judicial hearing in a few days. But the Turks also told me there was nothing they could do to prevent the Soviet Air Force from reclaiming the fighter.
When the translator explained all this, I swore bitterly. “Please don’t return that fighter,” I told the Turkish officers. “It’s a weapon and I risked my life to bring it here. If I had known you would send it back, I would have ejected.”
Again I used my left hand to write a message, this time a formal request that the Turks refuse to return the fighter.
But I was too late. That afternoon, maintenance officers from my regiment quickly loaded all the missiles aboard the big Il-76. Ironically the pilot who flew the plane back to Tskhakaya was none other than Lieutenant Colonel Shatravka, the staff officer I had defeated in the dogfight on my last official flying day as a Soviet pilot.
But the Turks were good to their word about my asylum. They forwarded my request to the American embassy in Ankara. And a week later I was flown to the capital under heavy guard. The Turks had been dealing with the Soviets for seventy years. They knew that the Organs of State Security were perfectly capable of assassinating me here in Turkey.
Before I could be turned over to the Americans, however, there was one last formality to complete. The Soviet ambassador and his haughty KGB rezidant were brought to the heavily guarded guesthouse in the suburbs where I was staying. He tried to cajole me into returning to the Rodina, where I would receive medical treatment for both my physical wounds and the psychological stress that had provoked this unfortunate aberration. I knew all about such psychiatric treatment. I told him I was not interested.
Next the ambassador opened his briefcase with a dramatic flourish. “Alexander Mikhailovich,” he said, “if you won’t consider your own welfare, at least think of your poor mother.” He slowly reached into the handsome leather case. “I have a letter from your mother, in which she appeals to you to return to the Motherland. I…”
“Don’t waste our time with such ‘letters,’” I snapped. “They’re either forgeries or were forcibly obtained. I know my mother’s feelings about my welfare much better than you.”
The ambassador glowered, then slammed shut his briefcase. His last ploy had failed.
I was amazed how friendly and helpful the Turks were. For years I had been taught they were ruthless militarists, pawns of imperialists. But their kindness never stopped. The doctors were concerned about possible hidden damage to my skull and neck because of the constant headaches I was suffering. They arranged a CAT scan examination at the most modern hospital I had ever seen. The results were negative.
Then one afternoon as I listened to the Russian language program on the Voice of America, I heard the announcement that the U.S. State Department had just granted me political asylum. I would be delivered to the Americans the next day.
I stood in the warm breeze, watching the ravens sail up the thermal currents above the wheat fields. Even though I had not succeeded in delivering the MiG-29 and its missiles to NATO, my years of experiences with the fighter were certainly valuable.
The American convoy approached along the narrow road from the east, a sedan and two security vans. Unlike their Turkish counterparts, the young American guards wore blue jeans. The ambassador climbed out of his sedan and shook my hand. Then he motioned for me to enter the backseat with him. I had never seen such a luxurious car. An interpreter with a foreign accent leaned over from the front seat to translate.
“I would like you to confirm your request for political asylum in the United States,” the ambassador said cheerfully. He seemed like such a young man. In the Soviet bureaucracy no one his age could have advanced so high.
I began to answer, but the ambassador interrupted, telling me to make the request formal by stating my full
