He could not attempt the flight until two conditions obtained simultaneously: The planes had to be fully fueled, and the weather very good. Because a MiG-25 cannot land safely with much fuel aboard, they were not loaded to capacity unless they were going to try to intercept the SR-71s or engage in an important exercise such as the firing of missiles. To prevent MiG-25 pilots from talking with foreign pilots, the radios were restricted to a very narrow frequency band that permitted communications only with other MiGs and Ground Control. Thus, he would be unable to tell the Japanese of his intentions or to ask their guidance. He could only hope that Japanese interceptors would force him down or that he could locate the field himself. In either case, clear weather was essential.
Any commander had the right at any time to ask a pilot the most recondite technical questions about his aircraft, tactics, production, or any other professional matter. To prepare himself for these quizzes, Belenko kept notes in a thick tablet which he carried in a flap pocket of his flight suit. Now he began methodically and cryptically recording in the tablet every Soviet military secret he had ever heard, every thought, and all data that might be beneficial to the United States.
There was one more thing to do. It was imperative that as soon as he landed, the Japanese take all measures necessary to protect the MiG-25 and prevent its recovery by the Russians. He wanted to tell them that, but he could speak not a word of Japanese or English. So he decided that he must write a message in English to hand to the first Japanese official he met. He drafted the message first in Russian: «Immediately contact a representative of the American intelligence service. Conceal and guard the aircraft at once. Do not allow anyone near it.» Laboriously, with the aid of a little Russian-English dictionary, he translated as best he could the message into English.
That done, he could do nothing more except wait for the day, not knowing when it might come. He knew that when it came, the chances would be very much against him. But he was at peace with himself. For the moment he had found a purpose.
CHAPTER IV: In a Japanese Prison
Barely maintaining airspeed, Belenko slid the MiG-25 downward through the seemingly interminable darkness of the clouds, each second of descent diminishing the chances of success and survival. He watched the altimeter…, 600 meters…. 500…. 400…. 300…….
I'll pull up at one-fifty if I'm still in the clouds. Any lower would be suicide.
At 250 meters, the world lit up; he was under the clouds and could see… an airfield. It was not the base of Chitose he sought but the commercial airport at Hakodate, ninety miles to the southwest. The runway was shorter by a third than any on which he had ever landed a MiG-25, and he knew it would be impossible to stop on the field. But maybe he could keep the plane and himself largely intact.
He banked steeply to the right, turned about 260 degrees, and began his approach toward the south end of the runway. Then, within seconds, he had to make an excruciating choice. A Japanese airliner, a Boeing 727, was taking off, right into his flight path. The gauge showed empty, and he could not be sure that he had enough fuel to circle again for another approach. If the fuel ran out and he lost power during another turn, the aircraft would plummet straight down like a twenty-two-ton boulder and smash itself into mostly worthless pieces. If he continued his approach, he might collide with the airliner, and the range between it and the MiG-25 was closing so rapidly that neither the commercial pilot nor he would have any margin for a mistake.
No, I cannot do that. I was not born to kill those people. Whatever I think, I do not have that right. Better one life than many.
He jerked the MiG into the tightest turn of which it was capable, allowed the 727 to clear, dived at a dangerously sharp angle, and touched the runway at 220 knots. As he deployed the drag chute and repeatedly slammed down the brake pedal, the MiG bucked, bridled, and vibrated, as if it were going to come apart. Tires burning, it screeched and skidded down the runway, slowing but not stopping. It ran off the north end of the field, knocked down a pole, plowed over a second and finally stopped a few feet from a large antenna 800 feet off the runway. The front tire had blown, but that was all. The tanks contained enough fuel for about thirty more seconds of powered flight.
Belenko was conscious of no emotions: no sense of triumph, no relief at being alive. There was no tune for emotion, just as there had been no time in the air.
Get out! Protect the aircraft! Find the Americans! Act! Now!
He ripped off his oxygen mask, unharnessed the parachute, slid back the canopy, and climbed out on the whig. The plane had come to rest near a highway, cars were pulling over, and motorists hopping out with their cameras. Schooled for years in secrecy, drilled to understand that a MiG-25 represented one of the most important state secrets, Belenko impulsively reacted as if he still were in the Soviet Union.
You may not do that! This aircraft is absolutely secret! The taking of pictures is strictly forbidden! Stop!
Unable to communicate by words, he whipped out his pistol and fired into the air. In Japan the possession or discharge of firearms is a grave, almost unheard-of-crime, and had he detonated a small bomb, the effects on the onlookers would not have been more traumatic. They immediately lowered their cameras; some took out the film and tossed it on the ground before him.
A procession of three cars drove slowly down the runway and halted prudently out of pistol range. Two men got out and approached warily, holding high a white flag. They kept pointing and gesturing toward the pistol until he put it back in the holster. Only then did one of the Japanese come close enough to talk. Belenko jumped off the wing to meet him.
«Do you speak English?»
«Nyet.»
The Japanese waved to his companion, a very elderly little man, who walked forward and addressed Belenko in pidgin Russian. «Pistoly, pleezy.» Belenko handed him the pistol. «And knify, too.» He surrendered the knife protrading from a flap pocket of his flight suit. «Follow us, pleezy. Do not wolly.»
Near pandemonium reigned in the airport terminal as crowds of people strained and shoved to see, to try to touch this exotic being who so suddenly and unexpectedly had landed in their midst from another world. When Belenko entered, a Japanese stood by the door, holding a handsome aircraft manual open to a page displaying a drawing of a MiG-25. Grinning and nodding his head rapidly, he held out the manual before Belenko, as if to ask, «Am I right?»
Yes, nodded Belenko. The man put down the manual, grinned more broadly, and clapped.
Within ten minutes after Belenko landed, the Japanese had summoned an official who spoke Russian superbly. Although he introduced himself as a representative of the Japanese Foreign Office, Belenko suspected that he was an intelligence officer. In the office of the airport manager Belenko gave him the note he so laboriously had attempted to write in English precisely for an occasion such as this.
«Who wrote this?» the Japanese official asked.
«I did.»
«Good! Now, tell me how it happened. Did you lose your way?»
«No, I did not. I flew here on purpose. I am asking political asylum in the United States. Conceal the aircraft, and place guards around it at once. Call the Americans immediately.»
As soon as the official translated, the other Japanese started cheering, and some danced about the office. «All right! All right!» the official shouted.
«Would you mind writing down in your own words again just what you have told me?»