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The frozen tundra of the Arctic airstrip was a canvas of pure, blinding white, broken only by the sharp, metallic silhouette of the MiG-3. Tail number 323—known to the ground crew simply as "The Beast"—sat idling. Its massive Mikulin V-12 engine coughed out thick plumes of grey smoke that were instantly whipped away by the biting northern wind.

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.

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 vast Arctic landscape began to shrink, transforming into a desolate mosaic of jagged peaks and frozen waterways. Viktor initiated a steep climb. Two thousand meters. Four thousand. The cockpit's meager heating system was no match for the outside temperatures; frost began to crystallize along the edges of the instrument panel.

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.