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I am in a mobile missile launcher. We are driving through the Russian forest. The vehicle pulls into a clearing surrounded by huge pine trees. We stop, the pilot gets out and climbs into the cockpit of the missile. It launches into the air and executes three tight loops, never once rising above the treetops, before landing back on the launcher. We continue through the forest, out across the tundra and onto the ice. We stop again and the launcher is detached from the lorry. The driver sets off on the return journey. I am left in the missile awaiting instructions to launch or to remain, “until my lung gods give out”. All around the ice stretches into the distance.