Nuke Zone

Начало книги

Fog streamed past the single-seat cockpit, cloaking the MiG-31 in a shroud of condensed moisture. Ukrainian Commander Yuri Kursk could barely make out the tendrils streaking past, writhing and weaving themselves together in an unholy white blanket that seemed to suck the warmth out of the cockpit. He shivered, as much from the stark realization that the mission was finally underway as from the chill insinuating itself through layers of flight suit and heavy undercoating to penetrate his bones.

He kept up his scan, glancing continually from the dimly lit green status indicators on the panel in front of him to the fog outside. Had it not been for the reassuring thrum of his two Perm/Soloviev D-30F6 turbofans, he could have believed that he was alone in the air, suspended motionless above the Black Sea.

He goosed the throttle slightly just to feel the change of vibration radiating through the fuselage. It was reassuring, a link with reality, a reminder that he was not some alien creature forever entombed in fog, but a warm-bodied, living human surrounded by the most advanced fighter ever built in Russia. It was all too easy to forget that, given the mechanical and robotic way he was treated by his superiors. These moments in flight–longer than moments this time–were his freedom, the payoff that made the hours of intricate political indoctrination, psychological testing, and continuous intrusive watchfulness of the Ukrainian Psychological Services all worthwhile. They might believe they owned his mind and body on land, but screaming through the darkness, he knew the truth.

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