The legendary Sudoplatov, having lived to a ripe old age, is transferred half a century ago, finding himself in his own body on the eve of the war. The German plane flew along the street, its machine guns opened with cruciferous lights. Fountains scored on a dusty street, and Saparov, crouching, expected - and now the fluff boarded up. The queue from the bomber stitched the body, splitting the boards, demolished the cabin, miraculously not hitting the driver. The truck settled on broken tires, but this is exactly what helped the gunner to better aim. A series of shells smashed the glazing of the cockpit and pierced the Dornier's belly. The plane did not flare up, did not let in smoke. He simply did not get out of the peak - he collapsed, demolishing the roofs of houses with planes, turned up young, stood on his nose and only then blazed with a huge torch.