The Mystery of the Iron Bird Festival

Clouds slowly floated over the land, the land controlled by Soviet pilots and anti-aircraft gunners. Not far away lived inexperienced, but brave Chinese pilots who had already mastered new jet machines. They took to the air more and more often and won victories over the Americans. Although the Soviet instructors clicked their tongues, they were pleased with their work done. But even such "young people" were not ready to be left alone, without the support of more experienced, shot "old men". Well, the "old men" themselves were already ready to leave for the Union soon, at the end of a business trip that claimed the lives of many excellent pilots. They died, leaving the duty to defend China and Korea to their comrades.

***

Exhausted by the recent flight, the ace pilot Sergey Kramarenko was in a depressed state. Lying at the hangar with the equipment, he mindlessly ate the snow that had fallen tonight. No one approached the pilot and did not impose himself, rightly believing that he was better off alone than in the company of a colleague or a technician.

His peace was disturbed by a combat alert, which raised the other pilots of his group to their feet. Lazutin, Kramarenko's one-year-old, who was running nearby, helped him get up from the cold ground. And the two of them ran to their winged cars.

A flight was again scheduled for Vishnyakov's group. Due to the great activity of American aviation and their bombing, Kozhedub had to drive his wards with frequent departures. He understood the stresses his fighters were experiencing, but he could do nothing. From the command, you could get a maximum of two weeks in a rest home. But it was of little use; maybe it was physically easier, but obviously not mentally. Someone was even injected alternately with arsenic, but it did not always help in the difficult work. And the sabres were already different, not the same as before. Increasingly, Kozhedub saw how pilots refused to take off, complaining about an engine malfunction, then, allegedly, a tormenting cold.

And so, a group consisting of eight MiGs was raised to repel the attack of Thunderjet stormtroopers.

Having reached his car, Kramarenko reluctantly climbed into the cab. Already on the machine, he pushes the flashlight forward, buckles himself in and turns on the engine. The plane hummed obediently and habitually. Neither fear nor excitement remained in the pilot, only a slight sadness.

"The business trip should end soon, and we will finally go home to our family… Who has it left after the war." The eyes close by themselves, and such a native, such a close image appears in the pilot's head…

"The second one. You take off. The second one?! Can you hear me?"

The second one is ready for takeoff. Kramarenko replied dryly and emotionlessly to the dispatcher. The image of his family disappeared, leaving only a slight tension before the upcoming battle. "Who knows, maybe I won't come back today, having died in the sky of Korea." the pilot reflected with obvious pessimism, thoughtlessly stroking the dashboard.

The planes roared, and in turn, all eight MiGs, shaking their steel wings like big birds, came out onto the runway.

Gas, speed, and so they all rose one by one into the sky. Having gained the necessary height, the MiGs began to follow Lieutenant Colonel Vishnyakov. Sergey Fedorovich was an experienced man, and most importantly, reliable. To go to death with such a man, he will never abandon his comrade.

"Says the first. I see an enemy group. Fifteen on the right, thirty below." Vishnyakov noticed the stormtroopers who were lower and slightly to the right. "Attack."

Having increased the speed, the Soviet "falcons" were preparing to release their "claws", and certainly not into a helpless victim. But the Americans, noticing the pursuit, went under thick clouds.

After a couple of minutes, it became clear that we had nothing to catch here.

"Group, turn around. Let's go to the base." without expressing any emotions about this, Vishnyakov laid to the right, and the rest of the group followed him.

At this time, having guessed the moment, the cover sabres jumped out from above. The Soviet pilots had no choice but to accept this unequal battle.

"Attention! Turn around for everyone!" Kramarenko understood that they were at a disadvantage, and now he was trying to take everyone to the vertical.

Maneuvering, the MiGs began to gain altitude. The heavier sabres, though slower, were not going to lag behind. At an altitude of nine thousand, the second group of sabres approached.

"Seryozha, they are chasing us to the second."

"Understood. Link, turn left!"

Directing the link towards the second group of Americans, the MiGs, maneuvering, slipped under the attacking sabres. The enemy fired several short bursts, but the tracers did not hit anyone. Repeating the maneuver once again, Kramarenko gave the command to attack. Divided into pairs, the Sabres tried to escape from the attack. MiGs did the same and began to pursue their own goals. Noticing a sabre coming in from the side, Kramarenko dodged a long queue and already started attacking the host himself. The American tried to leave by diving, but he was a little late: Kramarenko had already pointed at his flashlight. Like angry dogs, three guns of the Soviet fighter barked. Torn to shreds, the plane fell into an uncontrollable spin.

"Second, you have one on your tail. my wingman shouted."

After these words, a burst of machine guns was fired at Kramarenko, but he abruptly went vertical. The pilot felt several hits on the body immediately, — so far nothing critical.

"Seryozha, I'll take it off now."

My wingman went to the tail of the sabre and gave him two short bursts. The sabre immediately detached itself and went down like a wounded bird, probably to the coastal strip. But the wingman's MiG did not think to let him go, rushing after the smoking enemy fighter.

After watching the plane already falling, Kramarenko suddenly felt a strong blow. The plane was thoroughly shaken, and the pilot was pressed to the left side by overload. The sabre that had knocked him down slipped through from above.

Now he will go for a second run. Kramarenko thought angrily, simultaneously trying to level his moment. But everything turned out to be even: the control knob did not obey in any way.

"Says the second. I was hit." swallowing bitter saliva, Kramarenko said.

Leaving behind a black plume of smoke, the plane was rapidly rushing towards the gray and frozen ground. At this time, the fighter dived into a large cloud. Sabre, who came to the pilot, made a blindly short queue, which, fortunately, passed by. Barely reaching for the ejection handle, Kramarenko was finally able to leave the burning car.

Thrown out and not seeing anything in the white fog, he began to slowly descend. An air battle was raging somewhere nearby, but soon the sounds began to subside, leaving him completely alone in a natural shelter.

Finally, the white dome came out of the cloud, giving the pilot the opportunity to see the terrain for landing. But instead of the expected gray landscape of Korea, he saw golden fields, glistening in the young rays of the rising Sun. After a few seconds of stupor, the memories of last year came flooding back to the pilot.

Damn, it hasn't been more than a year since the day we flew over these fields. It is here, because I recognize this picture from hundreds of others. thought Kramarenko, looking at the earth and trying to reject the evil reality.

Touching the ground with his feet, the pilot fell into the soft, like a feather bed, wheat. And from above, like a blanket, he was covered by a white parachute that stood out here.

"Well, hello, the world of fairy tales and miracles." Kramarenko whispered softly, already feeling that he was not dressed for the weather. The pilot's heart was pounding a little harder, and there was a faint tremor in his voice.