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Tupolev's Tu-204 and Ilyushin's IL-96M head the list of legitimately modern designs, premiering in 1989 and 1993 respectively. Look at the performance specs and there's not a lot of difference between either of these and a comparably sized Boeing or Airbus. (You'll note the -204 looks strikingly like a 757.) Decent exports I'm sure, but in an industry where tiny percentages of efficiency tip the scales from profit to loss, "almost as good" isn't enough. And performance aside, Westerners are forever loath to take on a fleet of stigmatized Tu-'s, An-'s, and IL-'s.

The Aviaexpress jet from last Tuesday's bombing, if you're curious, was assembled in 1977. That's substantially younger than many of the DC-9s and DC-10s still in service -- perfectly safe service, I'm obliged to add -- with Northwest Airlines. Of course, age alone doesn't tell the whole story. Take a glance at the forward instrument panel of a relatively fresh Tu-154. Don't even ask me what that periscope-looking thing is.

On the outside at least, the -154 is a sexy plane, notable for its sharply tapered tail fairing and triple-bogey landing gear -- a style emulated by Boeing's 777. Rather than retracting into the belly, the gear swings backwards into teardrop nacelles protruding from the wing.

It also has a questionable safety record. According to Airsafe.com, the past 15 years have seen 10 fatal events involving the Tu-154, last week's mishap included. To be fair, this was and remains a fairly ubiquitous staple in many nations, much like our own 737, and several of the crashes were not the machine's doing (a missile attack, a midair collision, a skyjacking).

The common perception, really, is that all Russian planes are clunking death traps. Is this a bum rap? Yes and no. Mostly yes. It's essential to remember that the bulk of this tainted reputation owes to past accidents of the much maligned Aeroflot, and neglects to take into account that airline's tremendous size, which we'll get to in a minute. And if you're looking at statistics, be mindful to toss out wrecks involving jets like the IL-76, ostensibly airliners but more accurately cargo planes built chiefly for the military.

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The history of Russian aviation is a rich, exciting, arguably perilous one. And it's told mainly through the story of Aeroflot, the USSR's once gargantuan state carrier.

By 1967, Aeroflot was the world's largest airline, amassing a fleet equal to that of the largest American carriers combined. Granted there was only one Soviet air company, in the planet's most expansive nation, and many of its operations stretched the definition of things "airline." Sharing the tarmacs with passenger liners were thousands of paramilitary transports, agricultural spraying craft, polar research planes and helicopters, all sporting the Aeroflot name.

To give you an inkling of how vast the Aeroflot network became, the passenger-kilometer output (standard gauge of size: one passenger going one kilometer equals one passenger-kilometer) of the airline's Tu-154 fleet alone -- just a single type amid dozens -- matched or exceeded that of many large airlines in whole. In 1990 Aeroflot's passenger-mile totals approached 250 billion, slightly less than the aggregate of American, United and Delta.

Then something strange happened. As the Soviet Union fell to pieces, so did Aeroflot, slowly parsed into, quite literally, hundreds of smaller airlines. Former directorates -- regional, semi-autonomous branches of mother Aeroflot -- became full-fledged airlines of brand-new countries -- places like Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan and the Ukraine. In Russia itself, after the breakup of still the world's most massive nation, Aeroflot further splintered into a legion of independents. If, last week, you were struck dumb by the unfamiliar names of Volga-Aviaexpress and Sibir Airlines, they're just two of a long (and often unpronounceable) list of ex-Aeroflot fragments.

Aeroflot is still around, yes, flying on (with a garish new color scheme) as the more or less official flag carrier of Russia, employing a mixed fleet of Airbuses, Boeings and homemade holdovers. With 101 aircraft it's still the country's most important player, though a fraction of its former size. Aeroflot hopes to join the SkyTeam alliance, partnering with the likes of Delta and Air France, in 2005. Who, 20 years ago, would have imagined such a thing? (For further reading I recommend -- assuming you can find it -- "Aeroflot: An Airline and its Aircraft," from Paladwr Press. The book was compiled by R.E.G. Davies, curator of Air Transport at the Smithsonian, and exquisitely illustrated by artist Mike Machat.)

Airsafe.com, by the way, shows us 24 fatal air carrier losses in the former Soviet states since 1990. Examining data for North America during that identical span, we can count about 18 -- the number varying with the standards for "crash" (employee killed by malfunctioning door; air taxi operations, etc.)

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Only once in my travels did I manage a ride on a Russian plane. It was 1986, just before Chernobyl, and I was going from Moscow to Leningrad, as it was still known, with my mother. Though I was safely home by the time of the Ukrainian meltdown, for years afterward I'd embellish things by stretching the dates of my vacation to include the accident, which made for exciting made-up stories at parties.

It was snowing like crazy on the ramp at Sheremetyevo, and I'd been trying to guess which ship it would be. I'd crossed my fingers for an IL-62, though a Tupolev or a Yak would be fun. It ended up a Tu-154, its distinctive profile emerging from the snow as the workers marched us onto the apron. I could make out the Aeroflot livery, just as I'd seen it in those books in junior high, understated and vaguely military: the blue cheat line; the winged hammer and sickle; that iconic "CCCP" along the center nacelle. (Who can forget those letters from the sweatshirts of the old Olympic hockey teams, or from the ICBMs of the '60s and '70s -- the Cyrillic "SSSR.")

Aeroflot was never known for its in-flight pampering, and the babushkas served us a cup of tasteless, urine-colored apple juice and what appeared to be a hamburger bun stuffed with newspaper.

Next to me sat a Muscovite about my age -- a blond-haired kid with a jaw line like the villainous commie boxer from Rocky IV. This was 1986, remember, the arms race still raging (kind of), and my seatmate was aghast at the novelty of encountering an actual American. He'd never met one before, and was thrilled to shake my hand and try out his English. Like me he was on holiday, eager to take pictures of the frozen Neva and ice-covered Hermitage up in Leningrad (or drink himself silly on cheap champagne, like most of the tourists I encountered up there). He'd just gotten a new camera, and he took it from the overhead bin to show me proudly. At least I think it was a camera. Oversized and clunky, the device looked like a blender held sideways. He kept calling it "my apparatus."

Our high-altitude détente continued all the way to Leningrad. "I can show you of America," said my friend, and with that he took out a piece of paper. Beaming, he proceeded to draw me a picture of the World Trade Center, accurately placing the north tower's huge rooftop antenna. Pointing to the buildings he said, "One hundred and ten stories!"

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