I was determined to do my best for this brilliant officer. So every free moment I had I spent in the simulator building working on my combat maneuvers. The young lieutenants in my squadron began calling me “Spare Parts” Zuyev because of the time I spent in the darkened simulator cubicle. “Perfection is impossible, Sasha,” Kuchkov told me one day when I had been sweating in the simulator for over an hour. “Excellence is good enough.”
Major Kuchkov was just as good, if not better, in a real cockpit. Most pilots occasionally experienced varying degrees of disorientation, especially flying at night while working “inside” the cockpit, adjusting the radar or arming weapons systems. We were prepared for this and always recovered quickly, usually by focusing outside the cockpit on the horizon. But Kuchkov seemed always aware of his aircraft’s altitude and position.
He also always appeared aware of the other aircraft in the formation. Pilots swore he could swivel his head 360 degrees. And if you weren’t tucked up in the proper zveno formation, be it combat trail or line-abreast, Kuchkov immediately let you know about it.
The older pilots in the squadron called him “the mind reader.” To us young lieutenants, he was “the Professor.”
However, he was certainly not unnecessarily critical or needlessly sarcastic. Within a year, we could all be in combat. Our regiment’s 2nd Squadron departed for combat duty at the big Kandahar Air Base in Afghanistan while I was training for my Second Class rating. Kuchkov realized he was working us hard, virtually pushing us to our limits. But he also understood that combat would be tougher than any training.
One day in the squadron ready room, he held up a sheet of stationery in one hand and a smaller notepad in the other. “This is the division safety inspector,” he said, hefting the stationery page. “And this,” he said, hiding the notepad behind the larger sheet, “is combat readiness.” He looked at us hard. “Safety will always get in the way of combat training.” He reversed the sheet of paper and the small notepad. “We’re going to turn things around and the devil take the safety inspector.”
From that day on, we began flying in almost any weather, day or night. There were no safety inspectors on the forward bases in Afghanistan, Kuchkov assured us, and the Mujahedin did not wait for good weather to attack our troops. Some days we flew below minimum ceilings through the dense smog from the local steel mill, shooting ILS landings in visibility so poor you couldn’t see the runway until almost touchdown. The division was always on our backs, but we flew anyway.
A typical flying day began at 0530, with an orderly banging on the door of our two-man rooms, announcing that we had good flying weather. Unlike his counterpart at Ruslan, Colonel Rinchinov trusted our professional meteorologist to predict flying conditions. In this regiment we began flying much closer to minimums of visibility and ceiling than they did in the 176th. And as our hectic training schedule progressed, we were soon flying in marginal conditions that were often well below the minimums. Major Kuchkov was fond of pointing out that the Afghan Mujahedin preferred cloudy weather and snowstorms for their rocket attacks.
At 0600 we sat down to a “light” breakfast in the officers’ dining room, a meal that always included fresh eggs, sausage, cheese, and rolls. As in other VVS regiments, the pilots’ flight ration was very substantial.
We drew our Makarov 9mm pistols at 0620. I was very proud of my Makarov, having made sure that the gun was a top-quality specimen when it was issued, and having adjusted any minor flaws with the armorers after I had practice-fired it several times. I knew that the light automatic was not a match for an infantry weapon, but I wanted to be able to hit what I aimed at.
The regular flight-day medical test was next on our schedule. The regimental doctor examined every pilot flying, verifying blood pressure, temperature, pulse, and respiration. Any pilot suffering from a cold or the flu was automatically excused from training. We knew that the doctor also checked us for signs of drinking. Each regiment had its own traditions about alcohol, but most frowned on any drinking whatsoever during a period of flight training that could last as long as a month. The doctors were always prodding and probing us to make sure we had not suffered internal damage from high-G flight and giving us theoretical instructions on how to prepare for the stress of high Gs. But Major Kuchkov gave me much more practical advice, based on his own years of experience in jet fighters.
“During a training cycle, Zuyev,” he told me, “don’t drink a drop of alcohol. And stay away from sex, even a little bit.”
“I’m not sure what a ‘little bit’ of sex is, Comrade Major,” I replied with a straight face.
“Get the hell out of here,” Kuchkov said with a smile.
His point was well taken, however. Drinking dulled your reflexes, and the effects of a hangover could last well into the next day. I was surprised to discover in intelligence briefings that NATO pilots, especially the Americans and British, almost ritually frequented their officers’ club bars every evening after flying. They apparently considered drinking a sign of masculinity. At the same time, we were told, they believed Soviet pilots suffered from serious alcohol problems. Certainly we drank in groups, but only during stand-down periods to celebrate the completion of a successful training cycle. Here in Georgia, excellent cognac was cheap and bountiful. But we stayed away from it while we were flying. If the regimental doctor even suspected smelling alcohol on your breath on a flight day, you would be grounded and severely disciplined.
My friend Dmitri, who had studied the American military so closely, was now with us in Vaziani. He explained that U.S. pilots were forbidden to take a drink twelve hours before flying. But, he said, they were notorious for drinking hard right up to that deadline, and were often badly hung over when they strapped themselves into their cockpits. In the Soviet Air Force a pilot would be grounded for even sipping a beer a full thirty-six hours before flying.
Air Force medical staff had more authority than their counterparts in the ground forces. Although a doctor might only be a captain, regimental commanders always accepted their doctor’s “suggestion” about grounding a pilot found to be physically unfit to fly. The doctors also made sure we got the mandatory eight hours sleep each night. If a man was seen outside his building late at night, the doctor might ground him the next day. And Air Force medical regulations about the maximum number of flying hours or sorties in the training month, as well as mandatory annual leave, were strictly enforced. Every pilot on an active flight status was required to take a full forty-five days’ leave each year. This was recognition that flying high-performance aircraft was both mentally stressful and physically debilitating. Under the same regulations, every year served on active flight status counted as two years toward retirement. The same regulations covered Navy submariners.
The pilots flying met with the meteorologist and tactical operations officer for a thorough weather briefing and a detailed walk-through of the objectives and maneuvers of the day’s planned sorties. This was not a static rehearsal of an inflexible procedure, but rather an assessment of the training goals and skills required.
At 0800 the regimental commander briefed the pilots as to what he expected out of the day’s sorties. At Ruslan, Homenko had usually stressed safety. In Rinchinov’s fast, precise briefings here at Vaziani, he normally told us to keep our eyes open and to work hard. The ground radar controllers then gave us our GCI briefing as to the altitudes and vectors we would follow to our training circuits or weapons poligons. We also received the daily codes for our SRZO aircraft-recognition equipment.