In 1971, I was an adviser to the Arabs in Egypt. I was fresh from my first tour in Vietnam with the latest development of our beloved MiG-21, the model MF. It was a great improvement over the PFM model, having the new RP-22 radar with extended range and two more hardpoints on its wings, as well as the internal 23mm cannon. With the supersonic PTB-450 drop-tanks that could be carried on three of the five hardpoints, and its increased capacity otherwise, the new twenty-one was finally not facing a fuel emergency as soon as it rotated off the runway!
Flying from Egypt in the spring of 1971 required finesse. The Jews were spoiling for a fight and the Arabs we supported were still angry over the Six Day War back in ’67. Daily the two air forces traded blows over the Sinai, as Egypt considered it stolen territory and the Israelis rarely missed a chance to rub it in their faces that they were right across Suez now. The United Nations, of course, was powerless to intervene, and America’s attention was on getting out of Vietnam. President Nixon was preparing for his re-election campaign. And there we were.
One thing that was certain is that our presence among the Arabs was no secret. In fact, a nuclear war nearly began because of incidents involving our participation in the aptly-named War of Attrition over Sinai, but that is for another story. The Jews greatly wanted to capture one of us to exhibit like a trophy to the west and perhaps shame America into stepping up to assist them in their fight. My daughter calls Americans her friends now, but this was some years before I met her mother in Moscow and in 1971 America, once our closest friend against the Nazis, was our most bitter enemy. They supported Israel, so we supported first Nasser, then Sadat.
We patrolled regularly over Sinai, impudently challenging Jewish air defenses in our MiGs, painted in Egyptian colors. They knew who we were. We spoke Russian on the radios. But they could not prove it. On this day, however, the Jews tried something new.
Yuri, then my wingman, and I had the duty at the Cairo West airbase. This consisted then, as it does now, of sitting in our combat-ready aircraft at the end of the runway, waiting for the call.
“Cowboy one, snap 090 for bandits, 140 kilometers, low and approaching.”
The call from the Cairo air defense center got my attention, and I motioned for the ground crew to snap it up, get me started! I flipped switches as the humming power cart fed me the energy I needed to turn the Tumansky R-13-300 turbojet. It had over 6600 kg of thrust, more so than the PFM and PFMA, and would rocket my sleek arrow off the runway at nearly twice the speed of sound if I wished! Nothing before or since flies like the twenty-one, and the MF and -bis variants have always been my favorites! The Americans denigrate it as a “boy racer.” But it is a sure and handy flier. It has saved my life many times.
“Yuri, are you ready? I have already made holes in my tunic for the medals we are sure to receive!”
My radio crackled, my old friend Yuri had been with me since Vietnam in ’69 and ’70 and together we had already had many adventures. “Your ambition, Dmitri, will be the death of us both one day. As for me, it is sufficient that I may spread my wings and free myself of this dusty desert for a change. If the Jews wish to fight, it will serve to break the monotony, I admit.”
Good old Yuri. Ever stoic. Ever sensible. My mechanic slammed the hood down over my head and locked it, tapping on the Plexiglas to tell me I would be clear in a moment. As they scrambled away, I received tower clearance, and pushed the throttle against its stops. A pure thoroughbred, the MiG raced down the scarred tarmac and reached longingly for the cerulean expanse above.
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I pulled up my landing gear and looked over my shoulder as my comrade took the field for his takeoff run.“Comrade Yuri, what are you doing down there, eh? Come fly with me, lazybones! “
