The MiG-3 was a thoroughbred designed for the thin air of high altitudes, but down here, close to the frozen earth, it fought like a trapped animal. Volkov flipped open the folder to the last page. A handwritten note in the margin read: At 7,000 meters, she does not fly. She screams.

The throttle moved forward, and the MiG-3 responded with a surge of raw power. The aircraft's tail lifted almost immediately as the massive propeller clawed at the thin, frozen air. Viktor fought the torque, his muscles straining against the rudder pedals to keep the nose pointed down the center of the icy strip. With a final, jarring bounce, the landing gear retracted, and the aircraft transitioned from a grounded machine to a creature of the sky.

Viktor banked the plane, the wings catching the brilliant, cold sunlight. He leveled out, positioned himself high above the unsuspecting targets, and prepared to put the experimental modifications to the ultimate test. The engine hummed a steady, powerful tune as he pushed the nose down into a dive.

Inside the cramped cockpit, Captain Viktor Volkov adjusted his heavy, sheepskin-lined flight goggles. The canopy was already fogging from his breath. Underneath his heavy gloves, his fingers traced the worn edges of a thick, weathered file resting on his lap. Stamped in fading red ink on the cover were the letters and numbers: БМ 323.

Viktor slammed the heavy canopy shut, cutting off the howl of the wind, replacing it with the deafening, mechanical roar of the supercharged engine. He gave the ground crew the thumbs up. The chocks were pulled.