Supersonic Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age (12 page)

Artyom Ivanovich Mikoyan nodded to Syemyen Lavochkin and Petr Grushin, then walked briskly around the table, greeting his colleagues from his design bureau in his usual outgoing manner, blandly ignoring their solicitous looks of inquiry.

Mikoyan was in fact quite ill, his face drawn, with dark circles around his eyes, all clear signals that he was working too hard, that his heart was troubling him again. Glancing up at the huge clock on the wall, he smiled and said, “The Minister is late,” just as the door opened and the Deputy Minister for Defense, Marshal Dmitry Ustinov, strode in. He looked dour, with his wire-rimmed glasses perched on a coarse, globular red nose and his forehead reaching far up in perpetual surprise. They all knew one another; there were no pleasantries, no introductions, Ustinov simply barking, “Let’s get started. Your team first, Mikoyan.”

Mikoyan had selected his deputy for this project, Viktor Aleksander Arkhipov, to do the briefing. Arkhipov was exceptionally articulate, a brilliant briefer who could think on his feet. He had already prepared charts that would show exactly what had been done in the best possible light and in a manner that Ustinov could readily understand.

Mikoyan sat silent in the knowledge that their briefing would fall short, revealing their latest aircraft’s inadequate performance. There was no way to fool Ustinov; he was smart and tough. Fortunately, he was not irrational, as Khrushchev sometimes seemed to be.

Arkhipov pulled the cover back on the first chart, a drawing of the MiG-19, the world’s first operational supersonic fighter.

“Comrade Ustinov, I present the MiG-19SV.”

The drawing was of the typical production MiG-19S. Underneath the drawing, printed in large letters, was one word, “Visotniy,” meaning “altitude.”

“Here are the principal changes.”

The next chart listed:

wing area reduced by two square meters

two NR-30 wing cannons removed

pilot’s armor plate removed

engine turbine inlet temperature increased to 730 degrees C

flaps deployable to twelve degrees above 15,000 meters

“We’ve reduced weight, reduced wing area, and increased engine power. Here are the results.”

The third chart said simply:

with zoom climb, 21,000-meter altitude capability

without zoom climb, 19,000-meter altitude capability

top speed, 1,420 km/h at 10,000 meters

Ustinov shook his head, asking, “What is a zoom climb?”

“It is a standard tactic. The pilot climbs to a high altitude, builds up the maximum speed possible, and then climbs at a carefully calculated rate, trading the airspeed for the altitude.”

Ustinov frowned. “This is not enough, if the U-2 comes over at its maximum altitude.”

Lavochkin and his team looked pleased. But Ustinov went on, “But the Americans cannot solve everything; they must have problems, too. I know that our engines have more difficulty at altitude. If the U-2 pilot has engine problems, he may come in at twenty thousand meters or less. If so, we have a chance.”

Mikoyan spoke for the first time. “Exactly right. And we also hope that our colleagues from Lavochkin might put up some missiles that might force him to a lower altitude.”

It was an ingenious ploy, seeming to praise the archrivals but shifting the burden of responsibility to them. Ustinov understood it exactly for what it was and approved. Given the inadequate performance of the MiG-19SV, Mikoyan was doing the only thing he could do.

“What do you say to that, Comrade Lavochkin?”

Flustered, Lavochikin stood, saying, “We hope to do better than force them down to MiG-19 altitudes. We expect to destroy the U-2 with a direct hit, or perhaps even with a near miss.”

He motioned to Grushin, who pulled back the cover concealing his first chart. It showed the S-75 surface-to-air missile on an articulated trailer hauled by a ZIL-157 truck. The second chart showed the missile erected for launching, its cruciform fins prominent on the nose and the tail. Without a word, Grushin went to the third chart, which showed the S-75 streaking skyward toward a distant target, no more than a dot.

The fourth chart was the key to the briefing. A U-2 was seen being struck in the fuselage just behind the cockpit. Other S-75s were shown exploding nearby. Underneath the drawing, in large print, was:

A KILL AT 25,000 METERS

The last chart was simply numbers, showing the S-75s’ range (50 kilometers) and the warhead weight (130 kilograms) and launch weight of 2,300 kilograms.

Mikoyan looked at the chart, admiring its understatement. He turned and saluted Lavochkin, a risky maneuver, given that Ustinov had not yet commented.

The Deputy Minister was making some notes in a cordovan leather case. Finally he looked up. “Mikoyan, I am disappointed in you. We need better performance, and we are not getting it from your bureau. Lavochkin here has done his job well. Let me tell you how serious this is. The Americans are operating with impunity. If we do not stop them, and soon, your heads will roll. Unfortunately, and this is the tragic part, so will mine. So there is no point in my threatening you; my fate is bound up with your success. If you fail, I fail. I cannot threaten you with punishment—that is implicit. I can only wish you—for my sake—good luck.”

It was a surprisingly gracious, slightly humorous statement from a man not known for either grace or humor.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

May 1, 1960

Over the Soviet Union

T
he U-2 pilot was busy all the time, carefully watching the heading, the altitude, the instruments, the autopilot, and, above all, the sky, to keep the fragile Lockheed on course in its long haul from Peshawar, Pakistan, across the endless Soviet Union. But there was still time to think as the immensity of the Russian nation rolled beneath, slowly to the eye, but at the rate of 7 miles per minute.

My God, what could the Germans have been thinking of?

Gary Powers shifted in his seat, trying to improve the circulation in his pressure suit-constricted veins.
Hitler must have been crazy. How could eighty million Germans have expected to conquer such an enormous country?

Today’s mission was to gather information on Soviet progress in the intercontinental ballistic missile race, as well as to note anything new of interest—bombers at new bases, new factories, new missile sites, anything with military potential. His 3,788-mile flight path took him across the Soviet Union far beyond the farthest German penetrations, north-northwest over the secret base at Tyuratam, with the Aral Sea gleaming thirty miles to the west, on to a quick curve around Chelyabinsk and Sverdlovsk, and then a dogleg on to cover Plestetsk, Archangel, and Murmansk. He would exit Soviet air space shortly after Murmansk and then make a sweeping turn to land at Bodø, in Norway. A brief thought of the simple but unbelievable pleasures waiting there comforted him—easing out of the cramped confines of the cockpit, having the clutching helmet and pressure suit stripped off, a cold beer, and perhaps a shot with it, the utter freedom of being able to move, to breathe fresh air voluntarily, without the pressure of the oxygen system. It was almost worth it to suffer for hours to reach such bliss.