The Bulgarian tried not to pay attention to the... [i]mercenaries[/i] as they bickered over whether or not they'd offended him, while still in his presence. Thankfully, everyone seemed to file-out before anyone could say something truly offensive. He also managed to skip right past the formality of checking out any flight-equipment, whatever he wasn't wearing was stilll wedged in the cockpit of his bird out on the dirt-strip or probably wouldn't need for this trip.

And so Mr Greggor took his time strolling past pampered western planes on their fancy concrete pads, a few of which were definately old enough to need some coddling to get back up and running. He vaugely recognized the Swedish plane from some old aircraft recognition pamplet, he could remember the still smell of those yellowed and mouldered files from training, yet could not place the name of the beast before him.

His drifting attention snapped back to the here and now as he heard the two Americans arguing about... something, then referancing some movie about some test-pilots flying some sort of twin-engined naval MiG-23WTFBBQ mod against the fascists in their black F-5M Tiger IIs.

Once he reached his plane in its dirty sandbagged revetment, pulled the chocks himself, clambered up an onion-crate to get inside, pulled the crate up on a rope and threw it clear before starting the turbine with a gunpowder-charge. With wings fulley swept back, Yuril effortlessly threaded his plane like a needle through a screen-door around the various obstables in his way up to the strip. The flight-leader's A-6F was already barrelling down the way on the pave as [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jK3HpAZxa4]he began worrying about preflighting as he spread his wings out to their full extension,[/url] his feet firmly planted on the wheel-brakes as he zipped up his leggings and fastened his waist belt, making himself comfortable as he then went to adjusting his comms-helmet, throat-mic check, ballsitic helmet and oxygen-mask came next. Visors down and canopy and shades pulled as he stared into the gleaming blue sunlight.

"Ranger five, all systems clem!" He said as he gave the stick a twirl to check for responsiveness, the positive feedback of the hydraulics against his hand and visual range of motion check of the control-surfaces just before taking his feet off the brakes and applying military-power to the R-35 turbojet. The MiG-23MLGD bounced out of its self-created rut and trundled forwards, just as the ride began to smooth-out Clem went to full afterburner to get the wheels to unstick from the uneven ground, before easing back to military-power and making a standard accelleration in ground effect, wheels-raised, up to 350 knots IAS before begining his climb up to the A-6.

He overtook Ranger One in 35 seconds, but then throttled-back to stall-speed to let the Navy-bomber return to the lead.

"Heard your bird would be serving refreshments. Got any for Clem?" He chided, both MiGs only had enough fuel for a single hour's worth of combat-endurance, whereas the A-6 easily held enough fuel to stay airborne for the better part of the morning. Although not nearly as bad as the F-16, which would run on fumes in half that time if it were ever forced into a fight.