… including Tychina, who was constantly rehearsing the sequence of events he’d need to accomplish to turn this approach into an attack. Hit the F-16 in front of him with guns, drop chaff and flares, hit the guy to the right with missiles or guns, then drop to the deck and run like hell until he flamed out over Iraq or Syria — go east and south instead of north and west. He wondered if the Americans or NATO would pull some kind of dirty trick, create a trap. He shook his head: in war anything was possible.
“Ukrainian MiG, Kayseri tower,” the heavily accented voice said on the radio in English, interrupting Tychina’s grim thoughts. “Winds zero-eight-five at ten knots, runway zero-niner, check wheels down, cleared to land.”
“Yes, Ukrayinan MiG, landing now, thank you,” Tychina replied in broken English on the international emergency frequency. Well, if this was a trap, he was too late — NATO had all the surviving attack planes on their base, including the last one. He was committed. If NATO screwed them now, the world could kiss off Ukrayina for good. He flipped the gear-extension lever down, relieving pressure on the hydraulic gear-retraction system which allowed the gear to free-fall, then reached down to the emergency pneumatic gear downlock pressurization handle on the bulkhead near his right leg and began pumping it, which provided backup pressurization for the gear safety downlocks. He continued to pump until all four green gear-down lights came on — the fourth green light signaled that the large ventral fin near the tail feathers had folded up into its landing position — then extended trailing- and leading-edge flaps and set up for the landing.
Turning final, he could see the pristine deserts and low hills of eastern Turkey spread out before him in an incredible panorama, unspoiled even by the extensive oil fields and refineries south and east of the base near the city. Dominating the landscape was Erciyes Dagi, a large volcanic mountain just ten miles south of the city, its sheer walls rising three thousand meters in just a few kilometers, forming almost a spire reaching over four thousand meters above sea level. Kayseri was an industrial megalopolis in the middle of the high desert, but unlike Russian or Ukrainian industrial centers, Kayseri was shiny, freshly painted, almost beautiful. Not a speck of smoke, only a few puffs of white steam or thin smoke. Where was the smog? he wondered. The area north of the volcano was surrounded by farms tended by circular irrigation systems hundreds of meters in diameter, which in the spring would allow crops to flourish in this very inhospitable region. Everything seemed so clean, so impossibly beautiful, that it put L’vov, Odessa, and even the polluted but beautiful Crimea to shame.
As soon as the dual nose gear wheels touched the grooved runway and Tychina extended the four petal speedbrakes and upper wing spoilers, several armored personnel carriers roared onto the runway. As Tychina coasted toward the end, he looked up in his rearview periscope and saw two huge fire trucks and several more APCs converging on him. “Ukrainian MiG, make the first right turn you can and remain on this frequency. Acknowledge.”
“I acknowledge, to turn right, yes I will,” Tychina repeated in his best English. The armored personnel carriers ahead of him had formed a corral that clearly outlined the proper taxiway. As soon as he was clear of the main runway, the armored vehicles closed in and he was ordered to stop and shut down engines.
A Turkish army officer stepped up beside his cockpit, signaling him to open the canopy. As he did so, several armed soldiers took up positions around his plane, but he was happy to see that all of them held their rifles at port arms with the actions open — nonthreatening. After Tychina swung open the heavy canopy, the officer made a hand signal to tell him to keep his hands on the canopy bow, in plain sight. Tychina stood on his ejection seat and did as he was told. Technicians put safety pins in his R-60 missiles, and he could hear them installing some sort of shield around the gun ports and a jack under the fuel tank, presumably as safety measures. Finally, a ladder was placed alongside his plane and he was asked to step down.
Tychina was met at the base of the boarding ladder by a tall, slender Turkish security officer, wearing high calf-length riding boots, his uniform blouse festooned with ribbons and badges, armed with a pearl-handled American .45-caliber automatic pistol in a black leather holster, and smoking a thin cigar — very dangerous around a MiG-23 with weapons aboard. He was flanked by two security guards, both carrying M-16 rifles with M-203 grenade launchers attached. It was very ostentatious firepower for one plane and one pilot, Tychina thought, and he wondered if General Panchenko and the rest of his surviving air force got the same display.
“The next time you disobey my orders and do not follow my escort planes as directed,” the officer said in pidgin Russian, without identifying himself or offering any sort of greeting, “I will shoot you and your Russian piece-of-shit aircraft from the sky. Is that clear?”
Tychina did not reply right away. He stood at attention just a half meter before the Turkish officer, who was several centimeters taller than the Ukrainian pilot, then removed his flying helmet and tucked it into the crook of his left arm. Tychina was wearing a white flameproof hood with cutouts for his eyes and mouth, which got him a few surprised glances at the unusual headgear. Then, with a flourish, Tychina stripped off the mask, transferred the mask to his left hand, and saluted the Turkish officer with his right hand. “Colonel of Aviation Pavlo Tychina, Fifth Air Army, Air Force of the Republic of Ukrayina, reporting as ordered, sir.”
Tychina remained completely impassive, eyes caged, but he could clearly see the Turkish officer’s face blanch, then turn green, and his Adam’s apple bobble as if he were fighting the urge to vomit. One of the guards dropped his M-16 clattering to the ground — Tychina prayed its safety was still on — and promptly vomited on the tarmac despite a hand held up to his mouth; the other stayed at port arms, but he began carefully examining something on the ground and never did raise his eyes again. Tychina held his salute until the Turkish officer could regain his composure and return a shaky hand salute. Tychina pulled a sterile plastic bag from a flight suit pocket, withdrew a fresh gauze mask, and slipped it on.
“I am sorry I do not speak the Turkish language,” Tychina said in English. “I am very happy to be here. Your people very kind. Please, we go to your commanding officer, no?”
“Yes,” the officer said a bit shakily, looking immensely relieved that Tychina had put the face mask on and covered his horrible wounds. “I … I, uh, will take you to meet the commander … Thank you.”
“No, it is I who thank you,” Tychina said. The Turkish officer tried a weak smile, failed at it, then motioned to his vehicle and led the way.
They headed directly for a driveway between the tower and the fire department, but Tychina noticed the rows of Ukrainian planes parked not far to their right. “Please, may we drive by the planes of Ukrayina, sir?” The Turkish officer gave an order to his driver, who made a radio call and turned toward the parking ramp. An armored vehicle parked every thirty meters or so marked the boundaries of the security area — one M113 light tank had to be rolled out of the way so their sedan could pass.