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I faced an unfriendly welcome from the atmosphere. A space fighter is not designed to fly in a dense gas environment, especially if it has combat damage. Of course, fighters are quite capable of landing on planets in an emergency, but in doing so they exhibit the gracefulness of an ancient flatiron and overstress the engines by operating in extremely erratic modes, which leads to their rapid deterioration and sometimes failure.
I tried to pilot my flying machine as carefully as possible, but already at an altitude of 60 kilometers above sea level the fighter's computer started beeping angrily, reporting new damage caused by the abnormal use of the march and maneuvering engines. Holes in the thin armor, punctured by the strike elements of rebel missiles, prevented the oncoming airflow from flowing normally around the fighter, which, at my speed, severely overheated the hull and the technical compartments directly beneath it, where important communications ran. The fighter was losing control. The computer was giving a very disappointing prognosis. I could count on no more than a couple of minutes of more or less controlled flight, and then the fighter would just start to fall apart.
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As expected, Fyodorov's men did not make it to the road's bend. What could they, tired from the long march, do to compete with the BMW engines?
Two motorcycles with strollers jumped out from behind the woods almost simultaneously. Five seconds before Blokhin and Zhurkov heard the sound of their engines and rushed to the side of the road, simultaneously waving their hands at us. Instead of hiding behind some cover, the two NKVD fighters raised their rifles and opened fire on the Germans. It couldn't be helped – they've been taught that way, and they've learned their lesson well.
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