Chapter 4 – The Path of Steel
---
Krasnodar Higher Military Aviation School of Pilots
Southern Russia — September 2016
The train from Yeisk arrived in the dead of night.
No fanfare. No welcoming banners. Just fog, the hiss of brakes, and the soft clunk of boots hitting the platform. The station was dim, half-lit by aging sodium lights, and smelled of diesel, wet concrete, and cigarettes. Beyond the gates, military trucks waited like silent hounds — cold steel beasts lined up in formation.
Leonid Vostrikov stepped down from the carriage with two bags — one standard-issue duffel and another smaller, worn satchel that carried his grandfather's patch and the leather-bound notebook filled with diagrams, failure reports, and observations. The duffel held his future. The satchel held his past.
He was no longer a cadet in preparatory school. He was now a first-year kursant — a trainee pilot at one of the most demanding flight academies in Russia.
Behind him, a dozen others disembarked, including Yuri, who grumbled while trying to carry both his gear and a half-crushed energy bar in one hand.
"Still think we're sane for doing this?" he muttered.
Leonid didn't answer. His gaze was already fixed on the outline of the campus beyond the fog — faint towers, the edge of a radar dome, the telltale blink of an airstrip beacon in the distance.
He didn't need to answer.
---
The first morning began with silence — then violence.
Their dorm lights flicked on at 0500 sharp. Not by switch, but by the explosive crack of a baton slammed against a metal locker by a senior kursant.
"Up, rats!"
Boots hit floors. Belts snapped tight. Blankets folded with frantic, jerking hands.
Leonid moved with calm precision. Folded his uniform shirt before anyone else was out of bed. When the squad leader checked his bunk, he paused.
"You Yeisk?"
"Yes."
"Figures. You bastards walk like you were born in the cockpit."
That wasn't a compliment.
---
Their first two weeks at Krasnodar were known unofficially as "the culling."
The official term was intensivnaya adapatsiya — intensive adaptation. It included 14-hour days of nonstop physical training, academic placement testing, flight systems qualification, weapons orientation, and Soviet-style indoctrination lectures on duty, sacrifice, and state loyalty.
Out of 320 admitted first-years, at least 40 would be dismissed before November.
Some wouldn't make the physical cut. Some would fail psych evaluations. Some would simply break.
By the end of the first week, one cadet had collapsed from dehydration during a morning field run. Another froze during a firearm qualification and had to be removed for mental evaluation.
Leonid didn't break.
His body ached. His knuckles split open during weapon disassembly drills. His right knee swelled after a forced march in full kit.
But he didn't break.
And he wasn't alone.
Yuri, surprisingly, kept pace. Despite his constant sarcastic remarks, he adapted fast. The two didn't speak often, but when they did, it was always short, clipped — efficient.
During a late-night equipment cleaning session, Yuri nudged Leonid and whispered, "You know what this feels like?"
Leonid glanced sideways.
"Like they're not training us to fly. They're training us to outlast the cockpit crash."
Leonid nodded once. "That's exactly what they're doing."
---
Week three introduced the Yak-130 simulators.
They weren't the pod-style units used in Yeisk. These were full hydraulic platforms with dome projection screens and 360-degree motion ranges. The interface mimicked the real cockpit in every detail — from oxygen switch sequencing to simulated HUD failures and radar ghosting.
The first exercise was simple: taxi, throttle up, take off, perform a basic pattern, and land.
Only it wasn't simple.
They were thrown into unpredictable crosswinds. Sudden engine surges. Faulty radio commands. False radar signals.
Out of twenty cadets, eleven failed to complete the run.
Leonid didn't.
His landing was rough, the nose a bit high, the touchdown long. But the aircraft stopped clean and intact.
Instructor Colonel Filatov stood behind the control terminal watching every move. A Su-35 test pilot with over 2,000 flight hours logged in combat zones, Filatov spoke little and judged everything.
When Leonid stepped down from the simulator, Filatov scribbled on the clipboard, then said, "Next time, use your feet more. That rudder won't trim itself."
Leonid nodded.
"Understood, Comrade Colonel."
Filatov studied him for a moment longer.
"You Yeisk?"
"Yes."
"Your people usually burn out fast."
Leonid locked eyes with him. "I won't, sir."
Filatov didn't smile, but his pen paused.
"We'll see."
---
By October, classroom instruction went from foundational to doctrinal. They were assigned textbooks with hundreds of pages of radar modeling equations, thermodynamics, weapons system matrices, and combat flight telemetry. Tests were weekly. Fail three, and you were gone.
Leonid spent nights huddled over his desk. He rarely left the study hall before midnight. His fingers were often stained with ink and graphite, margins of his textbooks filled with annotations, re-translations, calculations, and corrections.
The notebook grew — new sketches of the Yak's internal systems, its twin AI-222-25 engines, its electronic warfare suite, and throttle response curves under max climb.
One day during class, the instructor threw a curveball.
"Who can explain the real difference between a Western and Russian air combat doctrine in the first five minutes of engagement?"
Half the class froze.
Leonid stood.
"Western pilots are trained for information dominance — network-centered warfare, coordinated AWACS and satellite feeds. Russian doctrine prioritizes fast strike decisions under partial information. Independent thinking. Greater tolerance for chaos."
The instructor raised an eyebrow.
"Sources?"
"Field debriefings from Chechnya, Syria, and the 2008 Georgia conflict. Plus the 2014 Crimea air patrol changes. Doctrine adapted accordingly."
The room stayed quiet.
"Correct," the instructor said.
He didn't call on Leonid again for a week.
---
That month, the skies opened.
Literally.
Krasnodar's fog lifted for the first time in six days. A cold wind blew through the campus, and the flying schedule resumed.
This time, they weren't passengers.
They flew dual-seaters again, but with reduced instructor intervention. The Yak-130s were leaner than the L-39s — more reactive, more powerful, closer to the fighter jets they would eventually fly.
Leonid's first session was under cloud cover. Partial visibility. Light turbulence.
He handled the aircraft like he'd trained for it in dreams.
Throttle gentle. Roll crisp. Vertical climb smooth.
Even the instructor behind him — a man nicknamed "Iron Glare" — muttered a rare phrase:
"Decent."
After the landing, when Leonid removed his helmet, the man clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Your father fly?"
Leonid paused.
"Yes. Su-25 pilot. Killed in action."
The instructor nodded.
"You've got his instincts. But instincts need sharpening. Stay humble, Vostrikov. Pride crashes faster than any engine."
Leonid nodded once.
"I understand."
---
That evening, after mess, he sat under a floodlight outside the barracks.
The stars above Krasnodar weren't as clear as they were in Verkhnyaya Salda. But one still blinked overhead — maybe a satellite. Maybe a reminder.
Leonid opened his notebook.
He turned to a fresh page and wrote:
"The Yak breathes faster. The sky waits less. Thought must become reflex."
"Filatov watches like a hawk. Iron Glare speaks through his hands."
"I'm not flying to remember my father. I'm flying so I won't die like him."
He closed the book and stood.
Tomorrow, they were assigned their first simulated combat strike scenario.
And next month, rumor had it, a few of them would be pre-selected for future transition to Su-30 or Su-35 programs.
Leonid wasn't flying for selection.
He was flying because it was all he had left.
---
The first simulated combat sortie at Krasnodar began with a lie.
"Simple run," the instructor said. "You're flying an interdiction sweep over neutral airspace. Recon mission, low altitude. One in, one out."
Leonid sat in the mission briefing room beside Yuri and two dozen other kursants, staring at a glowing topographic map of a simulated valley. The briefing highlighted a pre-planned flight route along narrow terrain — tight elevation gradients and steep ridgelines — under radar coverage. Primary threat: simulated AA systems. No air-to-air contact expected.
It was standard. Predictable.
Leonid knew better.
When they reached the simulator dome, the screens showed heavy cloud cover. Visibility set to low. Wind shear: moderate. He adjusted his gloves as he buckled into the left seat of the Yak-130 mockup. His instructor sat behind, silent as usual.
At the terminal, Colonel Filatov watched with arms crossed.
"Do not improvise," the instructor's voice rang in Leonid's headset. "Execute your plan. Don't be clever. Be clean."
Leonid keyed his mic. "Acknowledged."
The engines spooled. The aircraft leapt forward with synthetic thrust. Wheels up. Altitude increasing.
---
He flew low.
Barely 300 meters above ground level, following the edge of a simulated river snaking through a narrow valley. Sensors remained quiet. The cockpit buzzed with faint hums. Engine, airflow, radar pings. The heads-up display glowed green, casting dim light across his visor.
Leonid focused.
He remembered his grandfather's words, years ago: "The world below doesn't exist when you're flying. Only the machine. Only the threat."
Ten minutes into the run, the warning came.
LOCK DETECTED – SAM RADAR, FRONT RIGHT
Leonid didn't panic. He performed a soft roll left, deploying simulated chaff, followed by a rapid low dive into terrain cover. Missiles didn't fire — it was only a lock. A bluff, maybe. A test.
He recovered altitude and continued.
But the terrain changed. The route narrowed further. New threats appeared: small radar signatures hidden inside the ridgelines. Surprise AAA installations.
It was no longer a simple recon.
It was a trap.
Leonid clicked his comms. "Simulated enemy escalation. Adjusting course two degrees south for cover."
The instructor gave no response.
It was a silent greenlight.
He broke right into a ravine, rode the terrain's dips and rises, using the Yak's maneuverability to mask against detection. It was risky — one wrong move, one stall, one rock — and it was over.
But he made it through.
Target recon achieved. Camera toggle confirmed image lock.
On the return path, the simulated radar lock came again — this time from the rear.
AIR INTERCEPT — CONTACT AT 6 O'CLOCK — 25 KM CLOSING
Leonid's eyes narrowed.
He dove. Max throttle. Cut altitude to tree-line.
His fingers danced across the console: toggled ECM jammer, dumped simulated flares, began evasive maneuvers.
The attacker closed faster.
He couldn't outrun it.
He switched his HUD to secondary display.
Noted terrain. Winds. Heat signatures.
Then made a decision.
He cut throttle mid-turn — the attacker overshot by half a second — just enough for him to flip his angle and reengage the tail.
Simulated missile launched.
Kill Confirmed.
When he returned to base and shut down the sim, the instructor finally spoke.
"You disobeyed flight path."
Leonid stared ahead. "The flight path was compromised, sir."
"You used terrain without clearance."
"Yes, sir."
"You engaged instead of evading."
"I was locked, sir."
The instructor was silent for three seconds. Then:
"Well done."
---
That night, the full squad gathered in the debrief room. Their sorties were reviewed on the projector. Filatov didn't praise. He pointed. He circled mistakes. He tore apart weak decisions.
When Leonid's footage played, there was a moment of unusual quiet.
Yuri leaned over and whispered, "That was badass."
Leonid didn't answer.
He was watching his own hands on the playback. Calm. Fast. Each movement minimal. Like muscle memory had taken over. He hardly remembered feeling anything at all.
That scared him more than he expected.
---
After dinner, he didn't return to the barracks immediately.
He walked instead to the hangars.
In Hangar 7, two real Yak-130s sat on jacks under cold floodlights, half-disassembled by the tech crews for inspection. No one stopped him. He stood near the landing gear of one, staring up into the exposed engine intake.
"You get a taste of real thinking today?" a voice called from behind.
Leonid turned.
It was Major Arsenyev.
The Su-30SM pilot.
He was leaning against a stack of fuel drums, cigarette in hand.
Leonid saluted. Arsenyev waved it off.
"Relax. I'm not here to chew you out."
Leonid said nothing.
Arsenyev tilted his head. "Tell me. What were you thinking when that interceptor showed up?"
Leonid hesitated.
"I wasn't thinking," he said honestly. "I just acted."
Arsenyev took a drag from the cigarette.
"Good."
Another pause.
"Bad too."
Leonid raised an eyebrow.
Arsenyev continued, "Instinct is good. But instinct without intention is gambling. You were lucky this time. What happens when your next decision gets your wingman killed?"
Leonid didn't flinch.
"I take the blame."
"No," Arsenyev said sharply. "You don't. You take responsibility. There's a difference."
He flicked the cigarette to the ground.
"Sooner or later, you'll lose someone up there. Your job is to make sure it's never because you got lazy or cocky."
Leonid absorbed every word.
Then: "Will I qualify for Su-30 stream?"
Arsenyev smirked. "You've already been noted."
Then he turned and walked into the dark.
---
Later that night, Leonid sat at his desk under the glow of a weak desk lamp.
The barracks were quiet. Most of the squad had turned in early.
He opened his notebook and wrote:
"Today I killed for the first time — virtually. I didn't hesitate. I didn't feel."
"Is that good?"
"Or is it the beginning of something I won't recognize in the mirror?"
Then, beneath that:
"Instinct is not enough. Intention must be trained."
"I will not gamble with other people's lives."
---
One week later, the instructors posted the names of the top 10% for preliminary fighter program assignment review.
Of the 320 kursants who entered Krasnodar that year, only twelve were on the list.
Leonid Vostrikov's name was third.
His stream?
Su-30SM/Su-35S dual-track recommendation.
Yuri's name was further down — still in the running, but pending re-evaluation.
When Yuri saw Leonid's placement, he gave a low whistle.
"Well, Ghost. Looks like you're headed for the big glass cockpit."
Leonid folded the paper without emotion.
He wasn't celebrating.
Not yet.
He had earned a stream.
But not a squadron.
Not a callsign.
Not a kill.
And not his wings.
Not yet.
---
Krasnodar Air Base – December 2016
The snow came early.
By mid-December, the academy's parade ground was a frozen expanse, the trees beyond the perimeter sagging under layers of powdery frost. Each morning began with cadets scraping ice from their dormitory windows, their breath condensing in thick clouds as they donned their flight suits. Training flights were delayed, not canceled. At Krasnodar, weather wasn't an excuse — it was part of the exam.
The cold didn't bother Leonid anymore.
He welcomed it.
It reminded him of home.
---
Their next phase of training was focused entirely on discipline under duress — flying under degraded conditions: failed instruments, lost navigation, reduced visibility, radio jamming. The instructors called it "Operating Blind."
It started in the simulators, as usual.
But on the second week of drills, the surprise came: a real Yak-130 flight under partial systems shutdown. No ILS. No GPS. Manual-only navigation using paper charts, terrain reference, and dead reckoning — like it was 1973.
Leonid read the assignment sheet without expression. His name sat at the top.
Instructor: Major Arsenyev.
---
The debriefing room was dim, heated only by an ancient radiator clanking in the corner. Arsenyev stood by the whiteboard, a map of Krasnodar Oblast spread across the surface with magnetic pins marking valleys, rivers, power lines, and forest ridgelines.
"You will launch at 06:45," he said. "Weather will be dense fog with visibility limited to 3 kilometers. Simulated GPS failure ten minutes into flight. Your mission is to navigate to grid C-14, simulate a low-altitude pass over a training convoy, and return without assistance."
He turned toward them.
"There will be no external help. No tower. No callsigns. If you screw up, we won't find your body. You'll be another crater in a line of names."
Leonid's jaw didn't tighten, but his chest felt heavier.
"You've all passed controlled environments," Arsenyev said. "Now let's see who can fly when the world breaks beneath you."
---
At 06:20, Leonid stood on the outer edge of Runway 3, frost clinging to the edge of his visor.
The Yak-130 was already prepped. The maintenance crew had logged it as flight-capable but with reduced instrumentation: no GPS, no digital HUD overlay, and a deliberate radio degradation system toggled on at random intervals.
Arsenyev sat in the rear seat.
"Takeoff will be normal," he said over the comms. "At ten minutes, I go silent. After that, you're on your own."
"Copy," Leonid replied.
He powered up.
The Yak's turbines spun with that familiar low whine before rising to a howl.
Clearance came from the tower — a single green light through the fog.
Leonid taxied, aligned, and throttled up.
Takeoff was clean.
---
The fog wrapped the world like gauze.
Altitude: 700 meters. Speed: 540 km/h.
Visibility: barely enough to see the outline of a nearby ridge.
He adjusted his heading, referencing his paper chart clipped to the console, using the angle of the river below and the slight shift in terrain elevation to recalibrate his position.
Ten minutes in, Arsenyev's voice cut.
Radio static.
Then silence.
The test had begun.
---
For the next twenty minutes, Leonid flew without hearing another voice.
His eyes scanned terrain below: roads, distant tree lines, a frozen pond he had noted on the satellite map before takeoff. He cross-referenced speed, adjusted his heading, watched his fuel levels tick downward. He skimmed 100 meters above the tree line, low enough to avoid hypothetical radar detection.
At 06:59, he reached the designated training convoy — a row of decommissioned APCs parked along a snow-covered road, guarded by a single UAZ. A dummy SAM system blinked from a nearby clearing.
He throttled back, dipped the nose, simulated a weapon lock-on, and marked the pass.
Then came the challenge.
On his return, cloud cover descended further.
The compass flickered erratically.
And a gust of crosswind shoved his port wing hard.
He caught it. Barely.
Trimmed roll. Reduced throttle. But the shift pushed him off-course.
No radio.
No GPS.
No visual beacon.
Just snow. White. Blinding. Infinite.
---
Leonid checked his chart. He remembered the backup plan: follow the M4 highway, look for the junction near Goryachiy Klyuch, then adjust heading due north.
He tilted the jet and searched — eyes sharp, muscles tense. Then he saw it.
Thin lines in the snow. A distant glint of metal — trucks, barely visible in the fog.
The highway.
He realigned.
Twenty minutes later, Krasnodar's airfield came into view.
He circled once — confirming wind direction by smoke from the heating plant — then landed hard but stable.
The Yak screeched across the icy runway, reverse thrusters biting into the tarmac.
When the canopy opened, Arsenyev remained silent.
They climbed down in the silence.
---
Back in the hangar, the major finally spoke.
"You missed the turn at Grid B-9."
Leonid nodded. "Crosswind pushed me off. Corrected by terrain."
Arsenyev crossed his arms. "Why didn't you call base?"
"No radio."
"You could have climbed to break the weather and call in."
"I trusted the route."
A long pause.
"You're either very good, or very lucky."
"I trained for this."
Arsenyev's eyes studied him.
"Maybe."
Then, softer: "I've flown missions over Damascus with less clarity than what you had. You handled it."
Leonid didn't respond.
But the instructor's next words came quieter.
"You'll do fine when it's real."
---
That night, after lights out, Leonid lay on his bunk and stared at the ceiling.
The day replayed in his head — the white fog, the silence, the blind climb, the tension in his neck as he scanned the terrain alone.
He didn't feel victorious.
He felt… aware.
Of how close everything had been.
One wrong angle. One false reference. One second too slow.
He could've vanished into a snowy ravine and never been found.
---
He reached for his notebook and flipped to a new page.
He wrote slowly:
"Flying blind is the true test."
"When the systems fail, the pilot remains."
"I was alone in the sky, and I didn't panic."
"I made mistakes. But I corrected."
"No voices. No instructions. Just instinct."
Then he paused.
Added:
"That's how my father must've felt."
He closed the book.
Outside, the frost thickened over the hangars.
Tomorrow, they would be assigned their combat doctrine orientation modules — mock threat recognition, squadron-level tactics, and eventually, Su-30 flight systems intro.
Leonid didn't feel ready.
But he would be.