Nonstop to Moscow

The flight is the world's longest nonstop passenger run in the world's largest transport. Once a week, an immense Russian turboprop TU-114 transport lifts from the runway of Havana's Jose Marti airport and points north on the 6,800-mile run to Moscow. Among the passengers aboard last week's flight was TIME'S Correspondent Edmund Stevens, the first Westerner ever to make the trip. His report:

One struggles up a ramp that is like a staircase leading to the fourth floor of a building--the TU-114 is around 40 ft. high when standing on the ground. Inside the hatch, cabin follows cabin: a crew compartment; a large compartment empty of everything but a few suitcases, food hampers and cases of soft drinks; a serving pantry, with a galley down a flight of steps on a lower level. Then come the first-class compartments, four of them, each completely private. In contrast with the rest of the plane, where fittings are as spartan as those on a troop carrier, the first-class section has wood paneling and curtains.

The only other first-class passenger was an elderly Russian scientist of distinguished mien who was apparently so highly classified that he never exchanged a syllable with anyone during the trip. The first-class seat directly across from mine was partly filled with a bulky shape that I later learned--to my great discomfiture --was an extra fuel tank.

More spare fuel tanks were installed in the rear compartment, where the remaining 32 passengers sat. At peak capacity, a TU-114 can carry 220 passengers, although normal seating is 170. But on the Moscow-Havana run, the figure is about 50. which must make it the costliest per capita flight in the world.

Breakfast Caviar. Before takeoff, the pilot warmed up his four turboprops for a full half-hour. Then we lifted off, climbed gradually to 33,000 ft., leveled. A pink-cheeked'stewardess, her nose peeling after a day on a Cuban beach, brought breakfast--caviar, lettuce, salty smoked salmon to begin with; a small beefsteak with potatoes and green Cuban tomatoes to follow; a piece of cake and an orange for dessert, with coffee. As first-class passengers, we got vodka and wine; tourist passengers got nothing stronger than mineral water, and three civil engineers from Leningrad complained loudly. "It's regulations, comrades," said the stewardess stiffly. At last one engineer remembered the bottle of Cuban rum he had bought at the airport, and things got livelier.

The flight follows a great circle route, somewhat extended to keep over international waters. From Havana, the plane flies northeast over the Atlantic parallel to the U.S. coastline; roughly opposite Norfolk, Va., it zigs to a course between Greenland and Iceland to a point beyond the North Cape, then zags southward toward Murmansk--its first landfall after Havana. Flying time to Moscow: 13 hr. :55 min. Bucking headwinds in the other direction, the flight takes 18 hours, and even with a refueling stop at Murmansk the planes often reach Havana with a perilously low fuel reserve.

Think of the Loss. As the flight wore on, the conversation got around to Cuba. "One shouldn't trust Castro too far," remarked one passenger. "At some point he might double-cross us. After all we've done, what do we get? In his last speech, when he referred to countries that aided Cuba, he mentioned the Soviet Union last, with China way ahead. How do you like that?"

Said another: "Granted. Fidel says some odd things. But Raul has got his head screwed on right; he's a true friend, and there are others." "Speaking of heads," came the answer, "the other day Fidel said, 'It's time we started using our own heads.' What do you think he meant if not that we've been doing too much of his thinking for him?" A lady schoolteacher cut in: "Some years ago, I was sent to China to give lessons. At the time, we were pouring lots of aid into China, and see what happened. I shouldn't like to see Cuba go the same way. Think of the loss."

Just then the conversation was drowned out by a group of young Cubans, bound for school in Russia, who broke into a revolutionary song with a cha cha beat ending up ''Cuba, si! Yanqui, no!" Russian passengers joined in the chorus.

The conversation drifted on, and meal followed meal--each the same as breakfast, with slight variations. At last the stewardess came back with word that Moscow was closed in. We put down in Murmansk, but soon our stewardess jubilantly announced that our pilot had talked Vnukovo airport in Moscow into letting us come in. Less than two hours later, the slightly less than nonstop flight came to an end in a perfect landing amid a blinding Moscow snowstorm.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.