Ural yanks back on the throttle at just the right instant, and we slide into tight formation. It is a crafty Soviet device, for a long time unmatched in the West. To score a kill, Ural also has the benefit of a helmet-mounted target designator that allows him to aim simply by looking at his foe. We porpoise along, utterly content, suspended above the puffy white cloud deck in the brilliant blue sky, which deepens to black toward the edge of space. My hands have already been on the stick and the power levers, following Ural's every move, and now I gingerly feel out the controls.
Little force is required in roll, somewhat more in pitch.
The rudders need attention only in the more aggressive maneuvers. I turn the world upside down with the flick of a wrist. Gaining confidence I pull near vertical, and in less than a minute we are rolling in for the supersonic run. When the afterburners go to work, we slice through the sound barrier like a knife through butter. There is no change in handling, no epic late movie struggle with the controls.