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We waited an hour and 35 minutes while Egorov made precise turns in the bright sky until finally somehow, some way, somebody down there mercifully did something to get us out of the jam. Landing orders crackled over the radio. Heaving at the controls—Soviet planes have no power boost—Egorov swung out of the holding pattern, popped his dive brakes, flattened out and bored straight for J.F.K. We flat-hatted over Long Island, made a sharp turn to a little-used runway and touched down at about 220 m.p.h.—much faster than the Boeing 707's 175-m.p.h. landing speed—and as smooth as butter.