[center]
My planes
"First of all, first of all, the planes …" - is sung in the famous song. For a real pilot, this is actually the case. The main thing is the sky and airplanes. And the main thing is adjusted to the house, family, hobbies, etc. etc. An airplane for a pilot, if not a family member, then certainly not iron. A living creature, intelligent with its own character. An equal and reliable companion on earth and in the sky. So they go through life together - an airplane and a pilot, and sometimes they die on the same day.
In my flight biography there were only four of them: L-29, Yak-28, Tu-16, Tu-22M. They were different, unlike each other, but they held me securely in the sky on their wings, generously forgiving mistakes in piloting technique. You can talk about each of them for a long time and enthusiastically, describe their graceful forms and excellent flight characteristics. But I want to tell one episode from our life together with each member of the winged family. If possible - not very seriously.
At the anniversary of the Ryazan flying club, for the first time in many years, I saw the "live" "Elochka". So we, cadets - pilots affectionately called the training aircraft of the Czechoslovak production L-29, from which the difficult road to the sky began for us. Elochka was just a living, not a cold monument. She started the engine, turned a little gas in the parking lot and briskly taxied to the runway. With my eyes damp with a fit of nostalgia, I watched, fascinated, as the small plane took off, gained altitude, then repeatedly passed over the runway and, finally, gently spinning the wheels, and not like a cadet with a "splash", landed on the concrete. I wanted to go up and iron the warm after the flight upholstery, sit in a small cozy cabin. Despite the fact that twenty-eight years have passed since the flights on the L-29, hands as usual lay on the control levers, my eyes quickly found the necessary instruments and toggle switches. I remembered the teachers and instructors of the Barnaul Pilot School with love, firmly and for many years, hammering the basics of flight science into the cadets' heads.
I am ashamed, but I do not remember my first flight on the L-29. The years have erased him from memory. Therefore, I'll tell you about the one that I remember.
So, the first flight and even the first independent flight were already in the not too distant past. More or less confidently I moved from exercise to exercise. On this shift, I had to fly to the zone for simple aerobatics. The flights were already coming to an end when our plane broke down. Just before my flight. In those glorious times, the plan, in whatever industry it was taken, including in flight training, could only be fulfilled and overfulfilled. Not to fulfill - it is impossible. A breathless pilot-instructor ran up:
- Run! To the first link! There is a free plane. I agreed.
I, like an antelope pursued by a cheetah, rushed to the other end of the CZT (central fuel station), where there was a free plane of the brotherly flight. A short technical explanation. On the L-29 plane, the pilot could not adjust the ejection seat by height himself. This relatively time-consuming operation was carried out by specialists from the aviation engineering service. And, in order not to constantly move the chair up and down, the crews were selected according to their height. The plane I ran to belonged to "fire extinguishers" - cadets with a height of 180 centimeters or more. For a man of average height (171 cm) - a full "paragraph".
- Stop! - the voice of the senior pilot of the first flight stopped me a meter before the desired plane.
- Where are you going?
- I … Sent … To the zone … Fly! I puffed.
- Who sent it?
- Skorovarov.
- Where is the PPK (anti-G suit)?
“Uh… in the barracks.
- Fly!
The meaningful dialogue ended, and I was no longer an antelope, but a fly after the PPK. I didn’t reach the barracks; And here in the PPK for growth, with fluttering ribbons, I no longer an antelope or a fly, but a frog galloped to the aircraft parking lot. An additional resemblance to an amphibian was given by the green color of the equipment falling off me.
To say that I fell is to say nothing. Stepping on the strap, I screwed up so that for several seconds I could not breathe. The reaction was partly saved: he managed to turn his head away and put his hands forward. The face remained intact, and the skin on the palms could not withstand the braking on the concrete and worn off, as they say in aviation, to the fifth cord. Despite the concussion of the body and a slight daze, the desire to fly did not disappear. Quickly assessing the situation, I brushed off and straightened my ammunition, trying not to splatter it with blood flowing from my palms. It remains to solve the last question: where to put these ripped off palms? There was only one way out. Somehow wiping off the blood, I put on flight gloves, sighed and went to the plane.
- Well, well done! - both instructors were standing by the plane: mine and the first flight.
- Do not rush, there is still time. Take the plane and go.
“Got it,” I said, and set off along the established route. The bruised places began to hurt, the gloves began to fill with moisture, but the desire to fly still did not disappear. Finally the plane was examined. The instructor pilot, having received my report, nodded approvingly and waved his hand towards the cockpit. Imperceptibly licking the red mark on my hand, I signed the aircraft preparation log for flight. Everything is in the cockpit. Climbing into it, I began to sink into a chair and fell, as if into a well. The chair was pushed down all the way. The ass realized before the head that we could not fly, therefore, barely touching the parachute, immediately sprung up and stuck her head out of the cockpit. The head made an attempt to smile at the instructor. It didn't work out very well. It's good that he was standing with his face away from the plane. Resting my back and legs, I fixed the body in the upper position. Several drops of blood fell from the right glove to the floor. Lucky the technician didn't notice. I will not describe the details of dressing the parachute, taxiing and taking off. All this time I wanted to have a neck like a giraffe. The air became easier. Having switched to instrument piloting, I regularly banked the plane, checking the map with the terrain flown so as not to get lost on the way to the zone and back. In general, the flight went well: he tilted - looked at the ground, licked the blood from his left hand; checked the flight mode, scratched the bruised places, tilted again, wiped off the blood on the right wrist, again the mode. And so on until landing. And then everything ended well. No one found out about what had happened, the gloves had to be thrown away, the wounds healed like on a dog - not even a trace remained. Only with friends laughed in the smoking room. But for many years love remained for this little plane, which gave us all a ticket to the sky.
The front-line bomber Yak-28 is an elegant and at the same time powerful aircraft. Strict, demanding respect for himself. Flying on it, we began to feel like real pilots. And I was convinced from my own experience of the correctness of the theory of relativity of Albert Einstein. I did not transfer from the bench from my beloved girl to a hot frying pan - all the time I sat on a parachute in an airplane seat, and the time at the beginning of the export flight program and at its end proceeded differently.
The takeoff of the Yak-28 was like the launch of a horizontally lying rocket. Rapid takeoff, take-off and high spurt. Each movement of the cadet was practiced many times in the cockpit with an instructor, but without his help, nothing worked in the beginning. Here is a short takeoff transcript as an example:
- Direction…
- Angle … landing gear … rpm … flaps.
- Horizon! Horizon!!!
- Pi … dyulya.
The last word sounded soft, fatherly, and coincided with my transfer of the plane to the horizon two or three hundred meters above the given flight altitude. There was a feeling that between the start of the takeoff run and "pi … dule" as in a song: there is only a moment, and I will never be able to perform many operations with the cockpit equipment during takeoff in that moment. And suddenly, a few days later, time flowed differently. There was the same "moment", but its boundaries seemed to have moved apart. I began to manage everything: to withstand the direction, and to clean up the revolutions on time, and even to look at the ground, where the drivers at the gas station admired my rapid takeoff. Of course, the theory of relativity has nothing to do with it. This is a normal course of the flight training process, when knowledge and skills are transformed into solid skills of piloting an airplane. Intellectually, I understood this, but a spark of vanity smoldered in my soul - I conquered Time!
The Tu-16 aircraft number 16 was my age - both twenty-five. But I am a young ship commander (in Long-Range Aviation, not planes, but ships), all roads, horizons and perspectives are open to me; and in his life on an airplane, he is already a veteran, a creature of almost advanced age. Long ago, in a troubled, adventurous youth, he was put on a runway with a non-released front landing gear. Repaired, and the "sixteenth" continued to fly. But the fuselage became curved to the left. It was impossible to notice it with the eye. But the old warriors said so and we, the youth, believed them. The crew is six people: four in the front cockpit and two in the rear. In flight, everyone is busy with their own business. But in between cases there is always a place for a joke.
The high-altitude cross-country flight was coming to an end. Almost all the tasks were completed: at the test site they worked on the "solid" four, performed tactical launches of an aircraft guided missile, virtually fought against the air defense of a potential enemy. The excitement in the carriage subsided. In the headphones there are only scant reports and the voice of the navigator leading the dead reckoning. We need to cheer up. Moreover, the time has come for the next survey of the crew.
- Crew, report your health!
- Navigator - the state of health is normal.
- Radio operator - health is normal. Etc.
- KOU (commander of firing installations), why without a mask? I ask sternly.
In response, bewildered silence. Perplexed - because KOU and I are sitting in different cabins at a distance of thirty meters with our backs to each other. And with all my desire, I cannot see that he is without an oxygen mask on his face.
- KOU, quickly put on the mask!
- Yes, commander. Clothed.
Well, here we are cheered up. The rear cockpit is no longer asleep, and the home airfield is just a stone's throw away. After landing, KOU approached with a question in his eyes.
- Igor, you forget that our plane is crooked, and through the window I see everything that you do in the rear cockpit. Understood?
- Got it, - replied KOU, and his lips began to stretch into a smile.
The crew chuckled behind them.
Before I tell you about the Tu-22M3 supersonic missile carrier, I'll tell you an anecdote.
Shot down in Vietnam and captured by the Americans, a Soviet pilot managed to escape. After a long wandering through the jungle, I finally got to my own. And now, washed, dressed, waving a glass of alcohol, he sits among his comrades, puffing on "Kazbek".
- Well, how is it?
Nervously dragging on a cigarette, the rescued pilot replies:
- Learn materiel, guys. Oh, and they ask!
It was under this motto that our retraining for the new Tu-22M aircraft took place. Taught in the classroom, taught at self-study, after self-study before dinner, after dinner before going to bed.
“You need to know the technique thoroughly,” experienced teachers told us at the lectures.
- The parameters of the systems, the characteristics and dimensions of the equipment were chosen optimal, checked at the stands and tested by the test pilots, - they echoed in practical exercises.
Everything is according to the mind. Even "RITA" (a voice informant who notifies the pilot about aircraft failures) speaks specifically in the voice of a strict teacher, instantly forcing the pilot to mobilize.
And so, the technique was studied (as it turned out not thoroughly), the tests were passed, the flights began. Somehow, while flying along the route, I felt an urgent need to relieve a minor need. Trying to convince myself to postpone it until landing was unsuccessful. It's OK. On the plane, pilots and navigators have urinals located under the cockpit floor, with small-scale receivers, similar to the bell of a fire extinguisher. Having given the command to the assistant to pilot the plane, I unbuckled the parachute straps and tried to move the mouth of the urinal to the terminal device of my body. Fifteen centimeters were missing. He moved as much as he could - ten were missing. At the assistant's questioning glance, I smiled guiltily. A hefty pink-cheeked prover, who had enough of everything, stood before his eyes.
“They’re growing big for themselves, and then people suffer,” I thought.
- Commander, two minutes before the turn for combat, - the navigator's voice made him quickly push the terminal devices into their places.
Piloting the plane and working on the combat path distracted from the thought of need until the very landing. This was my first and last attempt to use household equipment in flight. With a detailed study of this issue on earth, it turned out that the test size is quite commensurate with mine, and maybe less. Only two more clips on board had to be unfastened. Like this. The slogan "teach materiel" is eternal, and after the installation of toilets on combat aircraft, the sky ceased to be the lot of the strong and courageous.
Japanese poetry
I have loved to read since childhood. I still did not understand anything, did not know the letters, but already loved. The most read book of the unconscious period of my life was "The Adventures of the Gallant Soldier Schweik" by Jaroslav Hasek. Not very colorful, she caught my attention and stood on the same level with the nipple. I angrily threw away the painted children's books and forced my mother to read over and over again about the adventures of the cunning brave warrior. To better understand the content, I often chewed pages of text and crumpled illustrations. Even a stone could not stand such an ardent love, and as a result, the book was read to the holes. In the literal sense of the word. Years passed, and I learned to read myself, relieving my mother of this responsibility.
I tried alcohol for the first time when I was six. For the new year, the parents went to visit friends. And Uncle Fedya and I (our family rented a room in his house), to my accordion and ditties with his port wine, were cut so that when my father and mother returned, I could only hum. And I hummed from the cellar, in which Uncle Fedya hid me, frightened of the responsibility for soldering minors. The next day, in a drunken state, I made the first male decision in my life - to quit drinking. Realizing that reading is not as detrimental to health as port wine, I returned to my first childhood hobby, pushing the harmonica, ditties and Uncle Fedya into the background. Unfortunately, not as far as it should be.
At the age of seven, my father took me to the library of the military unit in which he served and wrote me down on his card. The first deliberately chosen book is "The Son of the Regiment" by Valentin Kataev. Others followed her. I especially liked historical works about the war. There were attempts to read under the covers with a flashlight. Parents promptly and severely stopped these attempts, which saved me for the Air Force, retaining one hundred percent vision.
After graduating from the flight school, I ended up in one of the western garrisons of the Long-Range Aviation. And … carried away by the east. I was smart enough not to ask to serve there, and my hobby was limited to reading a large number of books about Japan, China and other countries of the region. In addition to politics, culture, nature, he was also interested in a purely military aspect. The situation was not simple, and under certain conditions some people there in the east could turn from a potential enemy into a real one. Of course, there was enough work in the West as well. But we are Dalnaya. They must know how to kill the enemy in any outhouse and on any continent. And if necessary, then together with the continent. So little by little it came to Japanese poetry. Why - I can't say. I had never read before, occasionally I came across quatrains and then as epigraphs. But I wanted to read - I have no strength. It's no problem now. In bookstores, all the shelves are piled high, and if not, go to the Internet. And in the eighty-second year of the last century in a district city to find Japanese poetry - it is easier to discover a new oil field.
But I found it. Among the beautiful volumes of the library of world literature, he also appeared - the cherished one. Twenty-five rubles is more than two trips to the restaurant of a bachelor pilot with a company of his own kind. But the money was not a pity. At the moment they simply weren't there. There were four days left until payday, which means in six days, next Saturday, I will become the proud owner of a volume of Japanese poetry. In the evening after work I drove to the store, talked to the seller. She reassured, said that she would definitely hold the book until Saturday. Her kind look said: “Don't worry! There is hardly a second idiot who will buy it before you."
And now Saturday. I came home from the flights at four in the morning, but could not sleep for a long time. At nine I was already on my feet. The mood was ambivalent: joyful thoughts flashed in my head, but for some reason my soul was restless. Money was still not a pity. To calm my soul to a stop, I decided to go to the edge of the military town, going out onto the central road to the checkpoint behind the last house. And now the last house was left behind. To the checkpoint about a hundred meters.
- Pilot! - a familiar voice behind my back glued my feet to the asphalt.
Still not believing what had happened, I slowly turned my head. At the corner of the house, my commander and the navigator of the crew were standing, smiling cheerfully.
- Where are you going? The commander asked as I slowly approached them.
Upon learning that he was in the city, he asked several clarifying questions:
- Why go to the city? Why are you sneaking around the backyards? Why so sad?
I had to answer (to the commander the truth and only the truth):
- To the city for Japanese poetry. I sneak so as not to meet you. And sad - because he met.
After hearing this, the commander put his hand to my forehead and philosophically uttered:
- Our pilot is ill, mother of Japan!
- We will treat, - the navigator smiled with the smile of the morgue superintendent.
Taking my arms, they took me to the nearest "pharmacy". Weak attempts to break free have led nowhere. In a specialized "pharmacy" with a signboard "Wine-Vodka" there was everything necessary for mental recovery. I will not describe the process of treatment itself, which took place in the commander's apartment. I just want to say that the medicine was taken by both the “patient” and the “medical staff”. Doses and frequency of admission were regulated by the "chief physician".
In the morning I woke up in a hostel absolutely mentally "healthy" and dressed. The eyes opened on the third attempt, the tongue came off the teeth only after a liter of cold water from the tap. Remembering what happened yesterday, I frantically searched my pockets. In the palm of my hand was a bunch of small change, and it was not change from the purchase of Japanese poetry. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead.
- How so! I wanted to!
Hastily putting myself in order and pulling another quarter from the nightstand, I rushed into the city directly through the park. In record time I got to the bookstore, another second - and I was at the coveted shelf. There is no book. Eyes and hands went through everything standing there. No.
- We bought it last night, - recognizing me from the back, the seller said and silently added:
- I found the second one.
Without turning the narrow-eyed, swollen Russian-Japanese face towards her, I slowly walked out into the fresh air. The legs themselves turned towards the city market.
- This is how dreams die, - I thought, standing at the stall and sipping cold beer.
Vodilov
In addition to divisions into races, nations, etc. etc.all of humanity, by the nature of its activity at certain periods of life (some have long periods, and some have short ones) is divided into categories such as students and teachers, students and teachers, trainees and mentors, cadets and instructors. Almost the same thing, just spelled differently. In the process of learning, growing up, searching, representatives of one category overflow into another and vice versa. Law of life. Pupils all their lives remember their favorite teachers with gratitude. Teachers are proud of their very best and, shuddering, think about those who became the prototype of Little Johnny, the hero of numerous anecdotes about the school. I don't know how they remember me: with pride or with a start. If they do remember, then, probably, in different ways. After serving over thirty years in the army, I have firmly established myself in the category of teachers, instructors, instructors. Although, if you follow the great covenant, then it is never too late to study, study and study more than once. Even if you are an elderly African American.
In my life there have been many wonderful people who have driven knowledge, skills and abilities into the brains and body with various training techniques, teaching military affairs in a real way. Some of them are erased in memory, others are remembered as bright personalities, and still others - for non-standard actions, funny episodes.
Colonel Cherepenin by the fact that with the subtle humor and talent of the teacher he turned lectures on aerodynamics almost into "Pushkin's readings."
Lieutenant Colonel Shmonov, a lecturer at the Department of Combat Use of Aircraft Weapons, by secretly recording the cadets' responses to a tape recorder, and then the whole squad listened to this bleating, puffing and humming. The head of the Department of Defense Against Weapons of Mass Destruction, Lieutenant Colonel Korniyets, once complained to us, the cadets: "Imagine, comrades, cadets, I take credit from a senior officer, I ask him what nerve gases he knows?" And he answers me: "Zarin, soman, port wine and Korniyets." The commander of the first flight remained in the memory of his short emotional speech before the formation of the cadets. Because of its brevity, it does not lend itself to literary processing, therefore it is quoted verbatim with the omission of some letters: “I have a wife! B … b! Daughter! B … b! And I’m here with you for days! B … b! " He just wanted to say that, disappearing all week on flights, because of our carelessness, he has to hang out in the barracks on weekends, and he has a family. And this word "b … b" in the text plays the role of an interjection, such as "ah" and "oh". But by ear, everything was perceived very ambiguously.
The head of the department of aviation and radio-electronic equipment of aircraft, Colonel Vodilov, was remembered by everyone. About fifty, taut, doing a dozen or two upside-downs on the crossbar, he had a hairstyle of rare imposing style. On an almost completely bald head, a tuft of hair grew in the place where the back of the head passes into the neck. Thanks to proper care, their length reached half a meter, which made it possible to make an amazing statutory military styling. An active (very active) life position did not allow him to sit quietly and drove the colonel to morning physical exercises, to lectures, practical classes, department meetings, etc. In each break between classes, she brought him into the toilet, where he instantly put the heels of the cadets in an uncomfortable position, declaring them to be smokers in the wrong place (it didn’t matter whether you smoke at all or not). As a result, the department had the cleanest toilet in the flight training department. Colonel Vodilov's classes were better watched from the sidelines. Otherwise, being in the thick of things, one could easily get three or four "fat two" (one of the colonel's favorite expressions).
So, let's plunge into this thicket.
- Comrade Colonel! The one hundred and twelfth class department has arrived for a practical lesson on aviation equipment. There are no illegally absent persons. Squad Chief Junior Sergeant Kudryashov.
- Hello, comrade cadets!
- We wish you good health, Comrade Colonel!
After a mutual greeting, a traditional appearance inspection followed.
- Comrade cadet, - the gaze rested on the shirt of the immediately saddened warrior.
- Cadet Rybalko.
- Rybalko, you are the dirtiest cadet in the department.
- So … - the look moved further.
- Cadet …
- Comrade cadet. You are the dirtiest cadet in the platoon!
And then the results of the competition for the title of the best were summed up, dirty in the company, battalion, school. The first place in the Siberian Military District was taken by cadet Trofimov.
- Comrade Sergeant, call the platoon leader here.
Twenty minutes after the start of classes (the entire squad continued to stand) a platoonman appeared at the door. There was no emotion on his face. He is used to.
- Comrade Captain! Take a look! This is the dirtiest cadet in the school, and this is the dirtiest cadet in the district! My left egg turned red with shame.
After another ten minutes of showdown, everyone finally sat down in their places.
- Well, how long did you ski today?
- Ten! - shouted those cadets, for whom the exercise consisted of one dash in a state of "raised, but forgot to wake up" to a nearby club to sleep away from the eyes of the authorities.
- Well done! And I ran ten. You run! Perfectly! There are bunnies, squirrels everywhere!
This has always amazed us. In the central park of the city of Barnaul, bunnies never came across, and in order to see a squirrel for a race, it was necessary to prepare for a week, alternating between white and red.
Ten to fifteen minutes before the end of the first hour, the main action began, which can be given the code name "interrogation of the partisan."
- Cadet Grebyonkin.
- I AM.
- To the blackboard. Report the purpose, device and principle of operation of the oxygen device.
A clear exit to the board, a question all over the face, a slight bewilderment in the look. But determination quickly replaces confusion, the language begins to live separately from the head and utter nonsense, generously flavored with technical terms, pours from the cadet's mouth. The squad sits with downcast eyes. The teacher's reaction makes Grebyonkin flinch.
- Well, my young friend! (Favorite address of Colonel Vodilov). That's right, continue.
An idiotic smile appears on the cadet's face. He still does not understand how it happened, but he is already beginning to believe in what he says. Pointer movements become clearer.
- Cadet Grebyonkin finished the answer.
- Fine. My young friend. Cadet Pozozeiko, what are we going to deliver to cadet Grebenkin?
- I think he can get four.
- That's right, my young friend. Cadet Grebyonkin - four, and cadet Pozeiko - two.
A dumb scene.
- And remember, comrade cadet, that a fat deuce is better than a skinny five.
This is followed by take after take.
- Cadet … to the board. Report …
And after a while:
“Sit down, my young friend. You are a fat deuce.
It feels like the minute hand is stuck to the dial. Before the break, we manage to get a few more twos. Hooray! Call!
Walking past the table and looking in the magazine, cadet Marusov saw an erroneously put two in his column. During the whole break, he complained about fate, scolded the teacher, and raised his hand at the beginning of the lesson. After hearing the complaint, Vodilov habitually said:
- To the blackboard, my young friend.
And after a minute:
- Well, and you say that I was mistaken.
The last victim was cadet Peshkov. Hearing his last name, he said in confusion:
- Comrade Colonel, you gave me a bad mark today.
- Nothing, my young friend! There are still many empty cells ahead.
Short torment, and the next "fat" deuce reduced the number of these cells by one. The record holder for the number of negative ratings was my friend Vitya - eight in a row.
Having "drunk" the cadet's blood, Colonel Vodilov began to clearly and clearly present the new material.
Now, remembering this carefree cadet life, I understand that the colonel, in his own way, prepared us for the hard work of a military pilot. Constantly keeping "energized", forcing us to learn both for fear and conscience, he instilled in us such important qualities as endurance, composure, the ability to think quickly in any situation, to clearly express our thoughts.
For all this, thanks to him, his active life position, as well as all the other teachers and instructors.
Betelgeuse
Quiet Ukrainian night. But if, as they advise, you start hiding the bacon, then you may not find it later. Because the Ukrainian night is not only quiet, but also dark. At least gouge out your eye! And she can be very stellar. There are so many stars, they are so bright and large that you reach out and, it seems, you can reach the nearest one. When you fly over the quiet Sea of Azov on such a night, it is as if you are moving in the stellar sphere. The stars are above and, reflected in the sea, below. It won't take long to lose your spatial orientation.
Having tumbled out of the hut on such a night with a noise, we froze, enchanted by the silence that tightly enveloped the village, and the huge stars hanging over the very roofs. Beauty! We are the crew of Tu-16: six men, warmed up with vodka and at the moment very happy with their lives. And this day began several hundred kilometers from here and not as well as it ended.
- The lieutenant is being killed! - the thought flashed after the plane for the third time fell out of low clouds away from the runway and, strainingly roaring the engines, disappeared again in their gray insides.
The lieutenant is me. Four months ago, he arrived at the unit after graduating from the Barnaul Pilot School. Everything was new: Long-range aviation, large aircraft, a steering wheel instead of a control stick. After retraining, I just started flying in my crew. And now I was caught like chickens.
Four days ago, a squadron of refueling aircraft, according to the final inspection plan, skillfully emerged from the impact and calmed down at operational airfields far from the inspectors. Lying on the beds in the dispensary, we worried with all our strength for our brothers in arms who remained at home. Sound sleep and good food, what else does a pilot need? That's right - hug the sky with strong arms. So they hugged me, taking off on an aerial reconnaissance of the weather at a meteorological minimum.
- Well pressed! - the commander broke the silence in the carriage. All silently agreed. We flew in a circle at an altitude of nine hundred meters and thought what to do next? And on earth they already knew it. We were not given a fourth attempt to sit down.
- 506, dial 9100 for you, follow the Hawk.
- I'm 506, understood 9100, to the Hawk.
Everything became clear and understandable. The commander switched the plane to a set and turned it on to the course given by the navigator. I contacted the RC and received the go-ahead for the climb and departure from the airfield. Again silence in the carriage. The first could not stand the KOU.
- Pilot, is there enough fuel for us?
The question is addressed to me, since all the fuel meters are located on my dashboard. It's a good question, because we have fuel with a gulkin's nose. I have already figured out the balance and consumption. The outfit turned out in our favor. Therefore, I answer:
- That's enough, but I'll tell you exactly when we gain altitude.
Well, here's the 9100. I quickly counted the fuel again and, without waiting for questions, reported:
- Commander, the landing will be less than two tons (for the Tu-16 - the emergency remainder).
- Commander, we must sit down immediately, - the navigator immediately issued a recommendation.
- Right off the bat, - the commander is calm like a lion who ate an antelope. He was old, experienced and already knew what would happen to him on earth.
Nothing more interesting happened: we landed normally, swaying from nose to tail (a sign of the minimum remaining fuel in the tanks), taxied off the runway, wrote a bunch of explanatory notes on the topic: “Why I sat down at an alternate airfield”, got a doley (especially the commander), washed down their port wine and, in the end, settled in a barrack at the airfield, called the dispensary. Death with a scythe, which once had long depicted world imperialism, smiled at us from a poster at the entrance. And now - just death, as the inscriptions around, filled with ink, have been erased. The commander, already suspended from flights, showed her a fig.
There was little time left for rest, which was used for its intended purpose. A little because at the regiment headquarters the commander met his former pilot and, after noisy greetings and hugs, we were all invited to visit.
At about five o'clock in the evening, we moved towards a village located not far from the airfield, in which the pilot who had invited us was filming the summer kitchen. The family was away, but everything was on the table. Kind hosts helped. In the center of all sorts of snacks was a three-liter can of Ukrainian vodka. Seeing this still life, everyone immediately revived and, after taking their places, got down to business. The liquid level in the jar decreased, and the mood increased. Memories, lively conversations, jokes and laughter. Then we "flew" a little. After the "landing" it was possible to talk about women, but there was not enough vodka. In general, all the elements of the compulsory program have been fulfilled, and you can go home with a clear conscience, that is, to the dispensary.
And so, returning to the beginning of the story, we stand on the street, admire the stars and listen to the owner explaining the way to the airfield. Having said goodbye, we moved along a quiet village street that led us to a dark outskirts. The eternal "Susanin" question arose: "Where to go?"
The navigator was the first to act. He lifted his head into the sky, staring with a dim gaze at the starry ocean. Then, apparently, focusing, he saw what he needed. Turning the body a couple of points to the right, he jabbed his finger into the ball of stars:
- Betelgeuse over there, look! We must go to it.
Ensign Kolya, KOU, chuckled.
- Why are you laughing?! When we walked here, she shone in the back of my head!
I looked at the back of the navigator's head. It seemed to emanate a soft blue glow. Protected by a robust cranium, this slim navigational instrument is as sensitive as a pilot's butt.
He was able to sense the radiation of a distant star, despite the bright sunlight. After all, we went to visit in a white day. Before I could express my surprise and doubts aloud, I heard the commander's voice:
- Pilot, let them fly to their Betelgeuse, and we will follow this path.
And he moved confidently into the darkness. I, like Piglet for Winnie-the-Pooh, trotted after. Both ensigns followed us. The navigators had to keep their mark, so they went on a diverging course, catching with their "receivers" the faint rays of the first star of the constellation Orion.
Soon the silence in which we were moving measuredly was broken by shouts from the side where our "astronauts" had gone.
- Stop! Stop, I will shoot!
- Do not shoot! We are ours!
A searchlight started up in the distance, people were running around. All signs that the guard was raised on the command "Into the gun!"
- We must save the navigators, - said the commander, and we moved into the light and shouts.
Have arrived in time. The navigator was surrounded by an alarming group, and the second was lying about twenty meters in front of the barbed wire, only a naval cap gleamed white from behind a bump (it's good that he was alive). After an explanation with the chief of the guard, they agreed that the incident would not receive publicity, and the troublemakers were released from captivity. We were once again told how to get to the dispensary. We went along the indicated path, cheerfully making fun of the rescued "astronauts".
As I followed the navigator, I looked at the back of his head. The blue glow was gone. Raising his head, he tried to find Betelgeuse and could not. Probably feeling her own guilt, albeit nonexistent, she covered herself with the light of a brighter star.
“The commander is always right,” I mentally confirmed the first article of the unwritten charter. And you must always follow him! So that you don't shine in the back of your head.
Grasshopper
On this warm summer day, I first became closely acquainted with a thunderstorm. I met not as an outside observer standing on the ground, but in the form of a small grain of sand, rushing along the fifth ocean and falling into its dark and at the same time shining womb. As Petrosyan says: "An unforgettable experience!"
A pair of air tankers, which gave almost all the fuel to the long-range reconnaissance aircraft flying on a mission in the refueling zone, joylessly approached the landing airfield located in the foothills of the Caucasus. There was no kerosene and no weather. A huge black cloud stood over the airfield, into which the flight director, sparingly giving out the conditions for landing, and invited us to stick in. He offered not out of harm, but realizing that we have no place to go. With such a remainder, you can't leave for a spare, and there are no them nearby - there is a thunderstorm all around. Therefore, I did not speak about the cloud either - I knew that we see and understand everything. We saw and understood everything. The range counter was relentlessly counting down the kilometers, showing the remaining distance to the landing airfield and, accordingly, to the entrance to the thunderstorm. The first blackness swallowed in front of the flying plane. Not a word on the air. Anxious anticipation became the seventh member of our crew. But then, among the crackling sound on the air, the voice of the zamkomeski, our leader, was heard, giving the altitude reading on the descent.
- Fu, you can live, - I just had time to think, and it became dark. It's good that the cabin lighting was turned on in advance. The plane threw up, then down, banked and the next moment did it all at once. Or so it seemed to me. With the general dark background, the insides of the thundercloud periodically lit up. Lightning strikes (well, not too close), shiny snakes flashing across the cockpit windows, blue balls breaking off the bow of the tanker and rolling along the fuselage. All this illumination made our joyless life at the moment even more joyless. From the strong shaking, the plane creaked, and, it seemed, was about to crumble to pieces. The commander and I both grabbed the steering wheel, trying to somehow control this almost "Brownian" movement. And we succeeded. We were falling, not falling. It seemed that this dance would never end and would last forever. But no. With a roll of thirty degrees and a vertical speed of twenty meters per second, we finally fell out of the cloud. And then we got into a heavy downpour. But this is no longer a thunderstorm - just a downpour, a dense side wind and turbulence, pulling the steering wheel out of hand. And visibility is a kilometer. But we are ready for such conditions, it was not in vain that we trained in flights with a minimum of weather. We entered the landing according to the scheme and sat down successfully. Thanks to the commander. He modestly asked to replace the thank you with a bottle of vodka. We'll replace it when we get back to base.
And then everything is as always: report, debriefing, dinner and - to the dispensary for rest. Fly again tomorrow morning. But the dream did not go. We were worried about the first couple (two crews led by the squadron commander), who flew away in such a thunderstorm to carry out oncoming refueling of scouts. Those had already been in the air for several hours. Only refueling from tankers would allow crews
Tu-22r to fly from the Caspian to its airfield, where they were eagerly awaiting the results of reconnaissance. And our way is the same - again to stumble into a thunderstorm and, if you're lucky, to sit back where we took off.
Luckily, everything ended well: we met in the sky at a given time, they gave away fuel as required by the assignment, and the hurricane subsided for landing. So both crews were happily greeted by us in the dispensary. A short exchange of impressions and sleep.
In the morning everyone woke up as if in another world. Nothing reminded of yesterday's thunderstorm, downpour and squall wind. There was calm all around. We stood in the parking lot, looking into the bottomless blue sky, at the white peaks of the mountains bordering the horizon line. Yesterday there was a chance to crash into their steep slopes. The atmosphere froze - not the slightest breath. Even the planes already prepared for departure did not fall out of the picture of general pacification. We also froze, admiring this antipode of yesterday.
The only creatures breaking the harmony were huge green grasshoppers that looked like locusts. Half a hand in size, they appeared suddenly and immediately in large numbers. This took us out of our stupor.
- Not grasshoppers, but dogs! Now the planes will gobble up!
- They will not eat it, - said the shooter - the radio operator Kolya and with a dexterous movement caught the green jumper.
Then the conversation went about nothing.
Nicholas, who fell out of the dialogue, continued to hold the grasshopper in his hand, periodically bringing it to his nose. Did you smell it?
- Kolya, what are you sniffing? If you like it - eat it! - I said.
Bringing the locusts to their noses again, the radio operator asked:
- Will you give me a Trojan?
“No problem,” I replied, pulling a green piece of paper out of my pocket.
A computer started working in the ensign's head. In one hand he held a green jerking grasshopper, in the other - a piece of paper of the same color. Eyes jumped from one object to another. Finally, the debit with the credit converged, and the bill from the hand migrated to the pocket of the overalls. - I won't eat it for three rubles - I'll chew it hard. The people who heard our dialogue began to pull themselves closer in anticipation of the spectacle.
- To hell with you - chew! The grasshopper was perplexed. The people in flight suits did not look like Australian aborigines, but he was one hundred percent sure that he would be eaten. An attempt to break free from the ensign's tenacious hands was unsuccessful. In the next instant, Colin the baker vigorously chewed on the green body. The hind legs that did not enter the mouth for some time were beating in convulsions.
- Zhuravsky, an infection! - the commander of the detachment growled and rushed to the edge of the parking lot. After a few seconds, we saw that he was eating in the dining room. The people writhed with laughter.
- What about me? You yourself asked, - said Kolya, spitting out a chewed grasshopper.
- I ate a boiled frog at school.
“You’ll go home by train,” hissed the detachment commander, who had been freed from breakfast.
Kolya was rescued from further ridicule and showdown by the team “on airplanes”. Soon we, breaking the general calm with the roar of turbines, took off and returned home safely. And for a long time Kolya remembered his grasshopper.
