“Wait, Comrade Yefreytor. Comrade Serzhant, confirm the Mangusta flight has been waved off?”
“Yes, Comrade Kapitan. Set on station four, over Bronnitsy, crusing floor ten thousand.”
He thought for a moment.
“Make the floor twelve thousand, Comrade Serzhant.”
The MIG was to remain below ten thousand for its test, but he considered it prudent to make the change.
“Comrade Yefreytor, inform Zvezdnyy-One of aircraft at twelve thousand, bearing 178 at ten kilometres. Advise him he is now clear for take-off.”
Djorov released the brakes and felt the immediate surge as the MIG moved forward, pushing him back into his seat.
Everything felt right; the whole aircraft just seemed ready and anxious to perform for the high-ranking officials gathered to witness a full flight test.
The wheels left the concrete runway and Djorov brought the MIG’s tricycle undercarriage up, all the time marvelling at the differences between this time and the last time he had flown it. Those watching on the ground were in awe of its sharp climb and high speed.
Levelling out at nine thousand five hundred feet, Djorov noted a slight flutter and his eyes flicked across the gauges in search of any issues.
There were none, the flutter went, and he commenced a gentle dive and turn. As his confidence grew Djorov started extra manoeuvres, gently at first, then more pronounced.
In the tower, and on the ground, hands pointed out the returning aircraft and were then clapped to ears as the MIG-9 swept down the runway at one hundred feet, the twin turbojets roaring under four-fifths power.
Djorov simultaneously pulled the nose up and advanced the throttles, making the fighter aircraft rise like a rocket.
Istomin’s mouth fell open in wonder.
‘That’s impressive!’
For the next twenty minutes, Zvezdnyy-One performed a series of manoeuvres for the onlookers, all without problems.
The climax of the display was to be an actual firing of the weapons in a ground attack, a worn out T-26 having been set on the edge of the airfield to provide a serious target.
The MIG-9 was designed, primarily, as a bomber interceptor, which resulted in it carrying an armament suitable for knocking heavy bombers down with a handful of hits.
In this instance, Djorov brought the full power of one 57mm and two 23mm cannons to bear on the dilapidated old tank.
He missed spectacularly, churning up the grass nearly two hundred metres beyond the target.
Adjusting his speed, Djorov brought the MIG round in a long and gentle turn, bleeding off height until he was barely one hundred and fifty feet above the ground.
The T26 disappeared as all three weapons spat their shells accurately.
The spectators on the ground were noisily impressed, and more than one senior officer or Mikoyan engineer looked smug beyond measure.
However, the tower staff now had other problems, the tower Kapitan having to shout to make himself heard over the sounds of joy.
“Silence in the tower!”
A few eyes swung in his direction, mainly men unused to being on the end of such treatment.
“Say again, Serzhant.”
The senior operator repeated his warning.
“Mangusta-seven-one has an emergency and must land. Twin engine failures. The aircraft is inbound already, Comrade Kapitan.”
Pointing at the female corporal, the Captain reeled off some quick instructions.
“Tell Zvezdnyy-One to discontinue the display, take a bearing 90, circle at point 2, Arinino. Make height eight thousand and await further instructions.”
He listened as the order was relayed to Djorov and then turned his attention back to the Mangusta aircraft.
“Tell him he is clear for landing, Comrade Serzhant.”
Procedure dictated that the crash crews would be prepared immediately an emergency was inbound, and their sirens were now added to the sound of the departing turbojets and the growing hubbub of disquiet amongst the tower’s occupants.
The Captain moved through some of those who now served no purpose but to get in the way, making his way to a side window, where he brought his binoculars up.
There was Mangusta-seven-one, both its port side engines clearly feathered.
Whilst part of him took in the details of the problem, another part of him was questioning what exactly he was looking at.
He moved back into the heart of the tower, listening as his Serzhant talked the large aircraft through its final approach.
Suddenly aware of an adjacent presence, he look up, straight into the angry eyes of Georgy Malenkov.
“Comrade Kapitan, make sure you get it down in one piece. We only have three of these.”
Being addressed directly by a member of the GKO was not a commonplace occurrence, but he retained enough presence of mind to keep his mind on the job in hand.
“Report, Comrade Serzhant.”
“Sir, twelve hundred metres out, pilot reports no handling issues at this time. Emergency crews in position at points one and four.”
The extra personnel in the tower now crowded the viewing area for a different purpose, willing the stricken aircraft to land safely. Some, for whom its future was a matter of certain knowledge, knew that more than just one aircraft and a handful of aircrew were at stake.
All around Ramenskoye, those who had gathered as spectators for the MIG-9 test, now had the opportunity to watch something equally dramatic.
One common thought hit many minds.
‘What the fuck is that?’
Most recognised that the aircraft was in US markings
Very few observers recognised Mangusta-seven-one for what it was, namely a Boeing B-29 Superfortress.
Malenkov was furious, at least internally so.
Even as Mangusta-seven-one, named Ramp Tramp by its former owners, touched down safely, he wondered about the organisation that had brought so many people to Ramenskoye on the same day that a vital ingredient of the Soviet Union’s plans for 1946 was supposed to arrive in relative secrecy.
What made him even more furious was the fact that he rather thought he had made the error himself, and, as befitted a survivor in the political arena, he had already worked out who would take the blame for the matter should it became necessary.
Two more B-29s landed without incident, named Ding How and General H H Arnold Special, all three aircraft being immediately shepherded to a remote part of Ramenskoye’s north-eastern perimeter.
Granted permission to return, Djorov couldn’t fail to spot the three large aircraft taxiing slowly to their concealed positions.
He had seen such beasts once before, killed one in fact, but their presence here, at Ramenskoye, was unexpected.
Later, when he and his new friend Istomin met up, they consumed a great deal of vodka whilst discussing the merits of the MIG-9 and the purpose of three long-range heavy bombers in US markings.
Their discussions on the latter could not have been further from the truth.
The submarine had made the journey entirely on the surface, and in daylight, or what counted for daylight in February on the Baltic.
The lookouts suffered badly, their nerves frayed by the sight of a simple seagull or a sudden patch of white in the swelling sea, and they were changed round frequently, such was the tension and strain on the damaged submarine’s crew.
Darkness had come far slower than they desired, but its arrival had brought some relief, if only in the minds of some, as Allied maritime aircraft, more often than not, possessed radar capable of seeking them out on the darkest of nights.
But they were lucky, and Jabulov conned S-22 into the quiet bay he had chosen, where he was confident he could disguise his vessel and buy time to effect repairs.